With a Twist (9 page)

“What the hell
is this?”

Quinn threw the evening edition of the
Sent
down on Mason Clement’s desk. Following his failed conversation with Liam, he’d gone to the paper and busted his ass on a piece about yet another molesting priest. Cindy came out of the morning editorial meeting telling him it wasn’t going to be a half page long as originally thought. Instead, it was reduced to two columns. Why? To run a half-page article on Desiree Drake, the nineteen-year-old star of a show on Nickelodeon who’d crashed her Porsche into a utility pole after downing a few Valium and Vicodin cocktails.

Clement slowly lifted his head to look at Quinn. “Calm down.”

“Don’t tell me to calm down. You cut a major Manhattan story to make room for a piece about a talentless kid too stupid not to know not to drink and drive?”

“People care about this kid, O’Brien, even if you don’t.”

Quinn snatched the paper back up and, licking the thumb of his right hand, began combing the pages. “You couldn’t cut this goddamn half-page picture of the pope in his new hat?” he snapped, showing the picture to Clement. He continued flipping pages furiously. “Or how about this?” He threw the paper back down on Clement’s desk, poking a story with his finger. “ ‘Over Sixty Sex Parlor Raided in Brooklyn.’ Gimme a fuckin’ break! That could have been covered in one column, and you know it.”

“Smut sells.”

“Not smut about retirees,” Quinn scoffed. “I mean, c’mon. Seriously.”

“C’mon what?” Clement looked annoyed. “I told you Hewitt was taking this paper in another direction. Did you think I was kidding?”

“Do you not understand how important my story is?”

“The Drake story is breaking news. We had to bump you.”

“You didn’t freakin’ bump me, Clement—you cut me to shreds.”

“We’ve had this conversation already, remember?” Clement gave a bored sigh. “I don’t want you to stop being Mr. Run and Gun, okay? I know it’s what you do best. But you need to get it through your thick skull that entertainment is what sells papers.”

“Oh, that’s right, I forgot: No one bought the
Sent
during the last presidential election. Or in the weeks following 9/11. Thanks for reminding me.”

“Different kettle of fish entirely,” Clement said dismissively. “Those were stories of international importance. Stories that focus solely on the city? Less important.”

“You’re wrong.”

“No, you’re wrong,” Clement snapped. “The numbers don’t lie.”

“Do
not
edit my stories down to minor footnotes in the paper, you got that?”

Clement laughed curtly. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

“The best fuckin’ reporter in New York, that’s who.”

“And I’m your boss, which means I can fire your ass so fast your head will spin,” Clement replied angrily.

Quinn shrugged. “So fire me. The
Times
or the
Standard
will snap me up in a heartbeat.”

Clement just sighed. “Just do your job, and let me do mine, all right?”

“If you’re gonna keep cutting my stories to ribbons, can you at least indulge me where the Wild Hart is concerned?”

“Meaning—?”

“You should be at Barzini’s with the rest of editorial. What’s the problem?” Quinn sneered. “None of them want to hang with you?”

“You’re treading on thin ice here. As a matter of fact, I have gone to Barzini’s. The food is terrible, and so is the service. I prefer your mother’s cooking and the attentiveness of the Hart’s staff.”

Prick,
Quinn thought. Durham was right: the bastard
was
getting ready to make a move on Natalie. It was none of his business. So why was a slow blaze of anger building in his gut?

“You don’t have to worry, O’Brien,” Clement continued smoothly. “Let me get this straight, though. You’re willing to let me cut your stories if I don’t spend time at a certain pub? Something I’m doing there getting under your skin? Somebody you’re interested in that might be interested in me? Never mind. Rest assured: I’ll never try to sit with you and the reporters.”

“Good thing,” Quinn muttered, hoping Mason didn’t follow up on his shot about Natalie that had obviously been on target.

“We’re done,” Clement announced. “I have an evening edition of the paper to get out.”

“Yeah, we’re done,” Quinn replied contemptuously. At least where work was concerned.

9

Mason had asked
Natalie to meet her at the
Sentinel
, eager to show her where he worked. She agreed, though she was reluctant to admit part of the reason was she wanted to see where Quinn worked.

Natalie had imagined the newsroom would be a frenzy of activity, and she was right. Her first instinct, which she successfully squelched, was to scan the newsroom for Quinn, but she couldn’t. First of all, it was far too big. Secondly, the newsroom was broken down into aisle after aisle of individual cubicles. For all she knew, he was hunched over his keyboard somewhere, tucked firmly out of sight. If so, she hoped he stayed there.

Mason was waiting for her by the elevators, ushering her first to his pristine office, where the walls were lined with awards and blowups of some of the newspaper’s most famous covers.

“You look beautiful,” he murmured appreciatively.

Natalie blushed. Like every self-respecting French-woman, she always dressed well. Today she was wearing pencil-thin black jeans with a wide black patent leather belt, a black-and-white-checked shirt, and a bright pink blazer with black buttons. Perhaps she should have dressed more casually for a day at the museum, but this is what she felt comfortable wearing, and that was the most important thing.

Mason looked handsome, but then, he was a handsome man. Even so, Quinn stole into her thoughts, like a bothersome fly that wouldn’t stop buzzing around her head. When it came to personal style, Mason was leagues ahead of Quinn. In fact, Natalie sometimes wondered if Quinn owned a mirror. She knew he worked all hours of the day and night and spent most of them running around the city, but still.

There was pride in Mason’s voice as he explained his duties as editor in chief to her. The job sounded pressure-filled, nearly as intense as Quinn’s seemed to be, but in a different way. Quinn again. She had to stop this.

“Want a quick tour of the newsroom?”

Natalie smiled nervously. “Sure.”

Continuing his narration of what life was like at a daily tabloid, Mason led her up and down the rows of cubicles. Natalie couldn’t understand how any of these reporters were able to find anything on their desks: to a person, their small cubbyholes were littered with towers of leaning folders, papers, photos, phone numbers, and old newspapers. She was about to comment on it to Mason when they ran into Quinn’s cohort, Kenny Durham.

“Natalie,” he drawled, his gaze ping-ponging back and forth between her and Mason. “This is a surprise.”

Mason’s gaze was cool. “Natalie and I are going to MoMA.”

“I see.” Kenny raised an eyebrow in surprise, prompting Natalie to glance away somewhat guiltily. This was not the way she should be reacting. Who cared what Quinn’s crony thought? She knew Kenny disliked Mason, but she suspected it was on principle more than anything else.

By now, Pete Rodriguez had sauntered over. “Natalie. Good to see you.”

She ignored the subtle, sideways glance he shot Kenny Durham. “Nice to see you, too.”

“Quinn’s out on assignment,” said Pete.

Natalie cocked her head, mystified. “So?”

“Just thought you might want to know,” he murmured casually. “I’ll tell him you popped by.”

“I’m on my way out with Mason.” Busybodies. She turned to her date. “Shall we?”

“With pleasure.” Mason nodded curtly at the two reporters and, putting his hand on the small of Natalie’s back, gently guided her out of the office. Out on the street, standing next to Mason while he hailed a cab, Natalie couldn’t believe how annoyed she was with Quinn’s coworkers. They would tell him she was going out with Mason. She knew they would. She told herself it didn’t matter.
But it did.

“Yo, Jimmy Breslin,
you’re late.”

Quinn rolled his eyes at Durham’s greeting as he slid into a booth at the Wild Hart.

“Yeah, whatever.”

He’d been at the local tailor shop, Franco’s, to get a pair of pants taken in. He wasn’t surprised he’d lost weight: he’d been running around the city like a madman lately, fueled on nothing but coffee and junk food. He made a mental note to try to eat better.

One of the things that was great about Franco’s was that it was open late, even on Saturday nights. Like Longo’s and the Wild Hart, it was a longtime fixture of the neighborhood, which was why Quinn was shocked when Franco told him he was closing up shop in two months. When Quinn asked him why he was retiring after thirty-five years, all Franco would offer up was a cryptic “I got an offer for the store that was too good to pass up.” Christ, it sounded like something straight out of
The Godfather
, immediately making Quinn sit up and take notice. As subtly as he could, he tried to press Franco for more details, but the man wouldn’t budge. By the time Quinn left, he had a pretty good idea of what might be behind Franco’s departure, even though he couldn’t prove it.

Yet.

Settling in with his cronies, Quinn took a sip of his beer, glancing at the bar. Liam seemed deep in conversation with some petite blonde. The place was hopping, and as a result, Natalie was running her ass off, greeting him and his pals perfunctorily as she took their orders. He hadn’t sparred with her for a while and didn’t want to get rusty. Maybe he could think of some way to get under her skin after closing time.

“Where’s Shep?” Quinn asked. The Hart without Shep was like the city on Saint Patrick’s Day without cops and firefighters: incomplete and unimaginable.

“You’re never gonna believe this,” said Rogan. “Clement actually made him go out on a story.” He handed Quinn the evening edition of the paper. “Read it and weep, my friend.”

Quinn took the open paper from his friend, scanning the page Rogan tapped with his finger. There, on the lower half of the right-hand page, was a headline reading, “Pied Piper of Lower East Side Lures Rats to River with Flute.” And there was Shep’s byline.

Quinn skimmed the article, a fluff piece about some lunatic who claimed he’d been able to purge his building of rats by entrancing them with his flute and leading them to jump into the East River.

“Il Duce must have threatened him and told him he was fired unless he filed something,” said Durham.

Disgusted, Quinn handed the paper back to his friend. “I hate these kinds of stories.”

“We’ve always had them,” Durham pointed out. “Readers love all that ‘colorful character’ horseshit.”

“Yeah, I know. Couple then them with all the celebrity crap, and pretty soon we’ll be no better than the
Globe
.”

“Welcome to Hewitt World,” said Durham dryly. “Guess what story Shep’s out on right now?”

“What?” Quinn wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer.

“Something about a secret army of cats who live in the city’s sewers and keep the rat population in check,” said Rogan.

Quinn scowled. “I’m not surprised Clement wants a fuckin’ story on rats.”

“Maybe our fearless leader relates to them because he is one?” Durham offered. “Or maybe he’s not,” he added, wiggling his eyebrows significantly.

Quinn perked up. “What? You got some dirt?”

“Oh, yeah, we’ve got dirt, all right,” said Rodriguez with a smirk. “Guess who we saw at the
Sent
this afternoon?”

“The ghost of Jimmy Hoffa?” Quinn was starting to get irritated.

“Natalie,” Durham murmured mischievously. “With Clement. They were going to MoMA.”

Quinn struggled to look unaffected, even though something akin to hatred began clawing at his guts. “Oh, really?”

“Cut the act,” said Durham. “We see the way you look at Natalie and the way she looks at you. There’s sparks there, buddy. You’re an idiot if you don’t make a major move now before Mr. Down Under does.”

Quinn’s eyes tracked Natalie. Oh, he could picture her at MoMA with Clement, all right, Clement spouting shit like, “I prefer Picasso’s earlier works, don’t you?” in French. And there Natalie would be, thinking the pretentious ass was such an intellectual. The thought made him want to heave.

“You gonna make a move or what?” prodded Durham with a chuckle. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“What are you talking about?”

“How come you’re a ruthless bastard when it comes to getting the story, but when a gorgeous woman you have chemistry with is right under your nose, you’re a total pussy?”

“It has nothing to do with being a pussy. I don’t have time for a relationship. You guys know that.”

“Fine,” said Durham with a dubious expression. “Then don’t sit here stewing and bitching when she starts going out with your archenemy.”

Quinn flashed his friend a dirty look, mostly because he was right. The clawing feeling in his gut was getting worse. “Let’s change the subject,” he said tersely.

His buddies were right on the money. If he wanted Natalie, he had to make a move. But the thought scared the shit out of him. For one thing, he knew she’d want a relationship, and if his past history was any indication, it wasn’t something he was cut out to do. Either he’d wind up ending things because the woman was interfering with his work and making demands on him he couldn’t fulfill, or else she’d dump him because she couldn’t stand coming in second to his job. Still, the thought of her with Clement rattled him. Mere dating was out of the question; that left open the possibility for her to see him and Clement, which would drive him nuts. No, it was time to try to balance a relationship with work, assuming he could get her to go out on a first date with him.

And he had an idea to help ensure that she said yes.