I announced that there was something I needed to check out that may or may not have anything to do with the paintings, we’ll see, and made ready to depart. Both Mary Ann and Louise looked at me with alarm, like a couple of heavyweights who suddenly realized that there would be no referee available to guard against low blows. Perrin Stewart wasn’t happy about it, either. My departure made her the only neutral party in the room. Mitchell, on the other hand, thought watching Mary Ann and Louise snipe at each other was more fun than an HBO epic fantasy.
Twenty minutes later, I was at the Minneapolis City Hall and Hennepin County Courthouse. Apparently, when it was built in 1906, eleventh- and twelfth-century Romanesque architecture was a big thing. It had rose granite walls, a copper roof with green patina, two towers including one with a four-face clock, stained glass windows, and a five-story rotunda featuring a statue carved of marble from the same quarries used by Leonardo da Vinci and Michelangelo. It also contained Room 108, which was actually a suite of offices that served the Minneapolis Police Department’s assault, robbery, narcotics, forgery/fraud, sex crimes, and homicide units, among others.
I was held up in the reception area until a uniform escorted me down a long, white marble corridor to a dark brown wood door. Once past the door, the elegance of the building was replaced by the furnishings of civil employees hard at work—metal desks, rolling office chairs, and a hat rack that held no hats. I was led to the cramped office of Lieutenant Clayton Rask and was left alone at the open door. Rask was reading something and did not look up. I knocked tentatively on his door, yet he refused to acknowledge my presence for a good thirty seconds. We had that kind of relationship.
Finally, he said, “What?”
“Good afternoon, LT.”
“You want something, McKenzie?”
“Do I need to want something?”
“Yes, and it had better be important if you’re coming to my office and disturbing my work.”
“Here I thought we were pals.”
“You want to go out and get a beer, talk baseball? I can do that, especially if you’re buying. You didn’t come here for that, though, did you?”
“No.”
“You carry an ID that says you’re a retired St. Paul police officer, but as far as I’m concerned, McKenzie, you’re nothing but a buff. If you hadn’t been helpful to me in the past, I’d throw your ass out of here.”
“About that…”
The way I figured it, Rask owed me a favor for past courtesies. Either he agreed or he thought that I might be useful to him yet again, because he leaned back in his chair, laced his hands behind his head, and said, “All right, I’ll bite. What do you want?”
“Officer Peter Wurzer.”
Rask gave me another slow count, this time about ten seconds, before responding.
“Close the door,” he said.
I did.
He gestured at the chair on the other side of this desk.
I sat.
“You trying to be an asshole?” Rask asked.
“Who? Me?”
“Why are you asking questions about Wurzer?”
“You recognized the name so quickly.”
“What about him?”
“He’s working as a deputy up in Cook County.”
“That’s the North Shore, right? Grand Marais, Lutsen?”
“Yes.”
“So?”
“I’m trying to get some intel on him. The sheriff up there told me Wurzer did eight years with the MPD before he was retired. The sheriff was a little vague about why he was retired. That was four years ago, which is why I’m surprised his name was so top of mind.”
“This is important because…?”
“Things have gone missing in Grand Marais.”
“You’re not talking about those paintings, are you? You’re involved with that? Why am I surprised?”
“Paintings, yes. Other things as well. Burglaries are up about one hundred percent countywide. It started going up after Wurzer was hired.”
Rask sniffed like he was examining the contents of a long-forgotten Tupperware container.
“They said he was dirty,” he said. “I still don’t believe them.”
“Who’s they?”
“They, they, they—you were a cop. You know who they are. Why am I telling you this?”
“Because you like me?”
“No, that’s not it. I liked Wurzer, though. I met him not long after he took the oath. He wanted to know what it would take to get into plainclothes; what he needed to do to work his way up to homicide. He was serious about it, too. It wasn’t just because he wanted to be a TV cop. So I gave him some advice.”
“You were his rabbi?”
“No, no, nothing like that. I just kind of kept an eye on him.”
“What happened?”
“Remember that fence that works out of the Phillips neighborhood calls himself the Lord?”
“El Cid?”
“Aka Dave Wicker, yeah. He was involved in the Jade Lily heist if memory serves.”
“I remember.”
“A joint task force tried to build a case against him back in the day, take him down for receiving stolen property, flip him, see who else they could gather up. Someone tipped Wicker, though, and he skated. The brassholes were very unhappy about it. Apparently, there were a lot of man-hours invested in the case. They looked for someone to blame. Eventually, IAD fingered Wurzer, busted him for selective enforcement, if you believe that shit, and sent him on his way. I didn’t believe it, that he was taking from El Cid. Besides, the man was driving a unit out of the Third District at the time; he wasn’t even on the task force.”
“What do you believe?”
“Between you, me, and the closed door? I think Wicker was someone’s CI, probably still is, and that someone wanted to cover his asset without telling anyone he was covering his asset.”
“Who? You said it was a joint task force. MPD? County? State? Feds?”
“I don’t know. Could be anybody. I tried to look into it. Made some noise. I was told to keep quiet, that the MPD didn’t need the black eye. Keep it in-house, they said. Anyone ever tells you to keep the truth in-house, McKenzie, it’s because they’re more worried about the house than the truth. You know what I’m saying.”
“You’re saying someone on the task force gave Wicker the heads-up, leaving Wurzer to hold the bag.”
“Did I say that?”
“Not in so many words.”
“Then don’t go around telling anyone that I did. What’s your interest in Wurzer again?”
“There’s an ongoing criminal investigation in Grand Marais that I got sucked into. Deputy Wurzer is adamant that I stay out of it.”
“Why should he be different than the rest of us?”
“I was wondering if he had a reason besides a dislike of kibitzers. Now I feel bad.”
“Why? Because you thought he was bent? Hell, McKenzie, maybe he is. Maybe they were right. I’d like to think, though…”
“Yes?”
“You’d at least give him the benefit of a doubt.”
“Wurzer, yeah. Not Wicker.”
“I don’t need this to become a thing, McKenzie.”
“If it does, LT, I was never here.”
The Phillips neighborhood, located more or less in the center of Minneapolis, wasn’t ethnically anything in that it was ethnically everything. African, Asian, Native American, Hispanic—you name it, Phillips had it. Forty percent of its population was born outside the United States, twenty percent spoke a language other than English; twenty-five percent lived below the poverty line. Unfortunately, wherever immigrants and the very poor congregate, you also have gangs, drugs, and a soaring crime rate. ’Course, if could have been worse. It could have been the north side.
I parked across the street from a low-slung building with brown brick, closed drapes, and iron bars on the windows. I knew it was a bar because I had been there before, yet no one else would have. There was no name above the door, no neon lights flashing the logos of pasteurized beers from St. Louis or Milwaukee, no sign saying it was open. Only a black-and-white notification taped to the window that read NO FIREARMS ARE ALLOWED ON THESE PREMISES. I once ran the address through the Hennepin County property tax website to find out the name of the owner or at least who was paying the taxes on the property. It told me “no records found” and provided a list of tips to improve my search. None of them worked.
I stepped inside. The lights were low. A young man was sitting at a table near the center of the room with an unobstructed view of the front door. The light from the tablet he was reading gave his pale skin an eerie sheen. I held my breath while his eyes locked on mine for a few beats. He grinned. I gave him a nod. I didn’t know his name but he knew mine and guessed why I was there. Just in case, though, he turned his head slightly and rested his eyes on the opened pages of the Minneapolis StarTribune that was lying on the table within easy reach, making sure I saw him do it. There was a sawed-off shotgun beneath the newspaper. I gave him another nod.
There were a few other patrons in the bar, yet none of them noticed our little drama. Most were sitting in old-fashioned wooden booths, the kind with high backs that you can’t see over; working men and two women enjoying happy hour shots with beer chasers and free salted-in-the shell peanuts. A couple of shells crunched under my feet as I made my way to the booth just to the right of the table where the sentry sat.
Dave Wicker was leaning against the wall of the booth and typing on a smartphone with one finger. I watched him do it. Like Lieutenant Rask, he ignored my presence for a good thirty seconds. At least this time I could hear Tony Bennett singing softly from invisible speakers.
Finally, Wicker set the smartphone on the table next to the other three phones he was using. There was also a white mug filled with coffee. He picked up the mug, took a sip, set the mug down.
“The fuck, McKenzie,” he said.
“El Cid.”
I used the name because Wicker liked it, the Lord; a nickname that he had given himself, pilfering it from Rodrigo Díaz de Vivar, the Spanish knight and mercenary credited with driving the Moors out of Spain in the eleventh century.
“I thought I made it clear the last time, I don’t like you,” he said.
“How long are you going to hold a grudge, anyway?”
“To the end of fucking time.”
“All I did was present you with the opportunity to return some stolen property to its rightful owners. You didn’t spend five minutes in jail.”
“That’s because I made a couple of deals.”
“Isn’t that your life? Making deals?”
“It’s not the cops or the deals, McKenzie. It’s the principle of the thing. You gave me up.”
“I didn’t give you up. Lieutenant Rask yanked your name out of me.”
“You could have lied.”
“Have you met Lieutenant Rask?”
“You owe me, McKenzie.”
“Yeah, okay,” I said, although I didn’t mean it.
“Fuck you want, anyway?” Wicker asked.
I slid onto the bench across the table from him.
“Scenes from an Inland Sea,” I said.
“You too, huh? I’ve had a dozen calls from all over the country since the story of the lost paintings went viral, calls from people who wouldn’t have given me the time of day a week ago. They all want the paintings.”
“You are the most highly regarded facilitator between Chicago and the West Coast.”
I said “facilitator” because I knew Wicker liked the word better than “fence.”
“I take it you also want them, the McInnis paintings,” Wicker said. “What I would like to know—what makes you think I have them?”
“Peter Wurzer.”
“Who?”
Wicker’s reaction to the name told me nothing. There are certain tells—facial tics, and eye movements—that reveal when someone is lying the same way they reveal when a poker player is bluffing. Wicker had none of them. Which didn’t mean he wasn’t lying, only that he was good at it.
“Officer Peter Wurzer,” I said.
“I don’t know who that is.”
“That surprises me considering the man took a fall for you.”
“What are you talking about, McKenzie?”
“I’ve been reliably informed that if it wasn’t for Wurzer, a joint task force would have punched your ticket to the Minnesota Correctional Facility in Oak Park Heights.”
“When?”
“About four years ago.”
“I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Maybe he doesn’t.
“Wurzer is working as a deputy for the Cook County Sheriff’s Department based in Grand Marais. Rumor has it that he might have been involved in the theft of the Scenes from an Inland Sea. If that’s true, where would he take them if not his old friend?”
Wicker found a spot on the table to stare at for a few beats while he came to a decision.
“Should I tell you a secret, McKenzie? This Deputy Wurzer—I don’t know who he is. We have no relationship, professional or otherwise.”
“He isn’t dirty?”
“I don’t know what he is, only that I had nothing to do with him.”
“So, you’re saying he was an innocent cop that someone tossed in the jackpot to protect you.”
“Ain’t none of us innocent, McKenzie.”
“Tomorrow morning the Randolph McInnis estate will publicly offer a reward for information leading to the recovery of the paintings no questions asked, $250,000. You’re welcome to try and collect.”
Wicker thought that was funny.
“Sure,” he said. “I’ll also let you have the Oppenheimer Blue for fifty bucks.”
“Clean money. Easy profit.”
“Tell it to the IRS.”
I slid off the bench and stood next to the booth.
“That it?” Wicker asked.
“If you hear anything about the paintings, you’re going to call me.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because I’m really pissed off about what happened to Wurzer.”
“Don’t know why I should care if some mook…”
“He was a cop.”
Standing up for Deputy Wurzer? my inner voice said. Where the hell did that come from?
“What do I care?” Wicker said.
“Word on the street is that you’re a snitch.” I said it loud enough that more than one of our fellow patrons turned to look. Wicker noticed it, too. “The only question is, are you informing to the FBI or the BCA?”
“You sonuvabitch.”
“People are saying, your colleagues, your customers—they’re saying that’s why the joint task force failed to indict four years ago. That’s why you didn’t pay the price when the Jade Lily went missing two years ago. They’re saying you can’t be trusted.”
“Who’s saying that?”
“No one, yet.”
To survive much less flourish in his chosen profession, Cid needed to negotiate with the most dangerous thieves as well as the least scrupulous customers. The fear of betrayal, of being ripped off, of being arrested, was always present so it was important to demonstrate a certain amount of fearlessness. The name “El Cid,” the barroom office, the barely concealed bodyguard pretending to read his tablet while carefully watching me, was meant to convince associates that Wicker was not someone to trifle with. Yet there I was—trifling with him.
“You’re making a serious mistake, McKenzie,” he said.
As if to prove it, Wicker’s bodyguard carefully set down his tablet and rested his hands palm down on the table next to the newspaper.
“You say I owe you,” I said. “Well, Cid, you owe for what happened to Wurzer. You owe big-time and I’m not the only one who thinks so.” I didn’t use the name Lieutenant Rask, yet I was sure Wicker heard it just the same. “You tell me something valuable about those fucking paintings, we’ll call it even.”
I stepped over to the table and stood in front of the bodyguard like I was made of highly polished bulletproof glass. To this day I can’t tell you what I was thinking.
“You got something you want to say to me?” I asked.
The bodyguard glanced at Wicker sitting in the booth and back at me. He slowly shook his head.
I turned and walked from the bar. I didn’t realize that I was holding my breath until I hit the street.
Nina had not been pleased to see me in my battered and bruised state. She added plenty of insults to my injuries, mostly along the lines of my inability to behave like a normal human being. It was a conversation we’ve had many times in the past. Most men probably would have become bored if not infuriated with it by now. I took it as an indication of how much she cared.
“I love you,” I said.
“Don’t change the subject,” she told me. “I’m angry.”
I gave her fresh bakery from World’s Best Donuts.
“This helps,” she said. “But only a little bit.”
That was this morning, though, when I first arrived home from GM. Now it was early Monday evening and we were walking hand in hand from our condominium in downtown Minneapolis to the Stone Arch Bridge with the intention of crossing the Mississippi River and going to Pracna on Main, which billed itself as the “the oldest restaurant on the oldest street in Minneapolis.” More and more I’d noticed that Nina had been gravitating toward what’s old—antiques, vintage clothing, retro-style furniture. When we traveled, we rarely stayed at the best hotels unless the best hotels were built a hundred years ago. Not that I was complaining. If life expectancy for a male in the United States is seventy-nine, I’ve been on the downward slide for nearly half a decade now so, yeah, I hope she embraces what’s old and getting older like crazy.
We were just about to enter Gold Medal Park off of South Second Street when a black Lincoln Town Car pulled to a stop directly in front of us. My first thought, El Cid.
I grabbed Nina’s arm and pulled her behind me.
A man got out of the driver’s side of the Lincoln and quickly circled it until he reached the back passenger door. He was dressed more like an accountant than a limo driver and looked young, a college graduate but just barely. He pulled open the door and said, “Get in.”
I made sure I was standing between the car and Nina.
“No,” I said.
“Aren’t you McKenzie? Get in.”
I moved Nina cautiously to my right and forced her down the sidewalk while continuing to keep myself between her and the Lincoln.
“You never get into the car no matter how much candy the stranger offers,” I told the driver. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you that? That’s what mine told me.”
The driver looked as if that was the most ridiculous advice he had ever heard.
We kept walking. My hand on Nina’s forearm was so tight that she forced me to release her.
We were a good car length past the Lincoln when I heard a voice.
“Mr. McKenzie, are you really going to make me chase you down the street?”
An old man, dressed to impress, had emerged from the back of the Town Car. He used a cane to help propel himself forward. The driver attempted to steady him; the old man shrugged his hands away. For a moment I felt relief—Okay, not El Cid. Yet that lasted only for a moment.
“McKenzie,” the old man repeated.
I stopped while still making sure Nina remained behind me. The old man smiled as if he had won something and moved a few steps forward. Despite his age, he projected the confidence of a guy who didn’t feel the need to explain who he was or what he did to a single soul on the planet.
“Do you know who I am?” he said.
“I’m going to guess—Bruce Flonta.”
“Very good. Now guess how I know who you are?”
“Jeffery Mehren.”
“I’m sure you now know why I’m here.”
“You want me to audition for Jeopardy! I love that show.”
“I’m a serious man, Mr. McKenzie.”
“Of course you are. Why else would you accost me on the street instead of picking up a phone?”
“I did. My calls went unanswered.”
I glanced at Nina. Her shrug told me everything—in this age of caller ID, no one answers an unrecognized number.
“You have my attention, Mr. Flonta,” I said.
“Step into the car and I’ll tell you what I have in mind.”
I gestured toward a bench in Gold Medal Park.
Flonta spoke to me the way an exasperated parent might speak to a child while explaining yet again that there are no monsters in the closet or under the bed.
“You are being unnecessarily dramatic,” he said. “I mean you no harm.”
Yet—I heard the word even though he didn’t speak it.
“If I knew something more about you besides your name I might believe you,” I said. “But I doubt it.”
“Then I shall be blunt. The Scenes from an Inland Sea that were stolen from the Wykoff woman rightfully belong to me. I want them.”
“How do they belong to you?”
“I bought the entire collection from Mary Ann McInnis in 1983 except for those few pieces that were specifically identified in our contract. These three paintings are part of the collection. They’re mine.”
“I’m sure a long, drawn-out, and obscenely expensive civil court case involving you, Louise Wykoff, and Mary Ann McInnis will decide the issue.”
“Not if I control the paintings first. Possession is nine-tenths of the law.”
“So it’s been explained to me.”
“I have been made aware through Mr. Mehren that you have been retained to recover the paintings for the Wykoff woman. I will pay you handsomely to deliver them to me instead.”
Flonta was smiling. It occurred to me that he hadn’t stopped smiling since he emerged from the Lincoln. I found it extremely disconcerting. In my mind, the only people who smile that much are either professional liars—think politicians on the campaign trail—or insane.
“Let me guess again,” I said. “This is where you tell me that everyone has a price.”
“Are you telling me that it’s not true?”
“No. It is true. Everyone does have a price. It isn’t always money, though.”
“What’s your price, McKenzie?”
“I’m not sure. What can you offer that will make it all right for me to betray the people I promised to help?”
“I am merely providing you with a potentially lucrative business proposition.”
“I respectfully decline.”
“Just so you understand—we are enemies now.”
“Why? Why are we enemies?”
“You’ve insulted me to my face.”
“Because I declined your so-called business proposition? That’s a reason to go to war? What are you going to do if the grocery store runs out of brats, invade Germany?”
“Watch your back, McKenzie.”
“Oh, for God’s sake.”
With the assistance of his driver, Flonta climbed back inside the Lincoln Town Car. The driver shut the rear door and circled the car to the driver’s side door. He opened the door, yet before sliding behind the wheel he gave me a playful smile, one that I translated to mean, “Do you believe this shit?”
A moment later, the Lincoln pulled away from the curb and headed down the street. Nina tapped me on the shoulder and spoke her first words since Flonta stopped us, “Can we go to dinner now? I’m really hungry.”
At nine o’clock the next morning, Perrin Stewart conducted a press conference in a meeting room at the City of Lakes Art Museum during which she revealed that the estate of Randolph McInnis, in order to recover and protect what is clearly an American art treasure, was now offering a reward of $250,000 for information leading to the safe return of the three Scenes from an Inland Sea that had been taken from the home of Louise Wykoff in Grand Marais, Minnesota. None of the twenty-four-hour cable news networks carried the conference live, yet by ten all of them were broadcasting recordings of the announcement. My TV remote allowed me to rewind and replay programs and I did several times, mostly to make sure that it was Jennica I had glimpsed briefly off to the side and yes, it was Jeffery Mehren kneeling in front of the podium and aiming a camera upward at Perrin. Well, well, well …
After the initial report, the networks began adding film of the McInnis exhibit on the third floor of the museum as well as a shot of Louise’s own painting. Still later, the segment was expanded to include a summary of the now decades-old controversy surrounding the Wykoff paintings and the relationship of artist and model as well as in-studio debates by a panel of experts over the wisdom, legality, and ethics of negotiating with criminals or terrorists depending if you were watching CNN or Fox. Eventually, the story would take up ten to twelve minutes of every hour of programming for the remainder of the day.
My burn phone began ringing almost immediately. The callers fell into three categories.
The first was comprised of TV and print journalists, talk radio hosts, podcasters, and, to my surprise, online bloggers—I had never read one so I didn’t know they were that big of a thing. I declined to identify myself or answer any of the questions they asked. I also insisted that they not call again and blocked their numbers in case they tried.
The second group consisted of ordinary citizens, if I could use that term, who felt the need to voice their opinion on the McInnis estate’s wholehearted endorsement and reward of criminal activities whether I cared to hear it or not. I was particularly impressed by the number who wanted to see me dead and or in hell. I mean—really?
The third and decidedly much smaller group was looking for a quick payday. Usually the conversations went along these lines:
“Yes,” I’d say when I answered the cell.
“Who’s this?” they’d ask.
“Who’s this?” I’d repeat.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“Why are you calling?”
“I have your precious paintings and if you ever want to see them again you’ll pay the money you promised. No tricks.”
“That’s the deal.”
“If I even think I see a cop I’ll burn them.”
“Fair enough, but I want to see the paintings.”
“You’ll see them after I get the money.”
“There are three paintings.”
“I know how many there are.”
“How big are they?”
“What?”
“What are the dimensions?”
“I don’t know.”
“Go and measure them. I’ll wait.”
“I’m not going to measure them.”
“I’m going to hang up now. If you really do have the paintings, go get a tape measure and figure out their dimensions. When you have the sizes call me back. If they’re accurate we’ll talk.”
As I said, this went on for most of the day. Despite my up close and personal experience with the dark side as a police officer and what I do now, I have a more or less optimistic view of the world. Only I was becoming increasingly angry and frustrated by what I decided was a telling exemplar of the greed and stupidity of my fellow man. I loved the condo Nina and I shared yet after a few hours I felt it closing in around me. I came thisclose to tossing the burn phone off the balcony. After a few hours more, I came thisclose to tossing myself off the balcony.
Around four P.M. though, the calls slowed and then ceased. My first thought—there was something wrong with the cell phone. I paid only $19.99 for the damned thing, after all. I soon received calls from Perrin Stewart, Louise Wykoff, and Mary Ann McInnis in quick succession on my regular cell phone. Perrin was first.
“Turn on CNN,” she said.
I did and discovered Bruce Flonta conducting a press conference of his own. The background suggested a hotel in Minneapolis that I could see from my balcony. He was telling the same reporters that had gathered around Perrin Stewart that the missing Scenes from an Inland Sea rightfully belonged to him, a fact that he would prove in court should that be required. In the meantime, Flonta said, “I will pay $500,000 for the safe return of the paintings to me.”
This time I didn’t need to rewind the program to see both Jeffery and Jennica Mehren and their cameras. Father and daughter seemed to be having a wonderful time.
I had to laugh. Perrin didn’t think it was funny. Neither did Louise when I spoke to her. Mary Ann, on the other hand, thought it was hysterical.
“We’ll run an auction on national TV,” she said. “Wolf Blitzer can act as auctioneer. What are my bids, what are my bids, twenty-five, twenty-five, thirty, thirty-five over here. No, no, not Wolf. We’ll get Anderson Cooper. I know his mother, Gloria Vanderbilt. It’ll be great fun.”
“I’m glad to see that you haven’t lost your sense of humor. Perrin and Louise are beside themselves.”
“I always had a feeling this would end up in court. I’d really like to avoid that if at all possible, though. Tell me, McKenzie, what are we going to do? I’ve spoken to my attorneys and they say there’s nothing they can do about Flonta trying to outbid my reward offer. They say nothing can be done period until someone actually takes possession of the paintings in which case the police might or might not get involved and the lawsuits can commence. You’re not a policeman, however, and you’re not a lawyer so, I ask again, McKenzie, what are we going to do?”
“We could make a deal with Flonta.”
“Why would I want to do that? The man’s a schmuck.”
“He also has more money than we do. Or am I mistaken about that?”
“I have no idea. I would guess, though, based on my past dealings with the man, Flonta would be willing to pay a lot more for the paintings that I would. I mean, look what he paid the first time. What a nitwit.”
“So, a three-way split? You each take one painting?”
“Won’t Perrin be happy to hear that? Why would Flonta want to partner with us, though?”
“We have something he doesn’t.”
“Louise.”
“We also have the exact dimensions of the paintings.”
“If we have the dimensions, why do we need Louise?”
“We just do.”
“You’re a romantic, you know that, McKenzie?”
“She called me first. Besides, if Louise is compelled to make a separate deal with Flonta…”
“All right, all right. Should I give Flonta a call or will you?”
“He already told me that he was my enemy, so…”
“Why would he do that?”
“Because I said no when he asked me to betray you guys and join his side.”
“McKenzie. You are a romantic. Okay, I’ll call him tomorrow morning; let him get a taste of what it’s like to be on cable news first. I don’t expect the conversation to go well, though. In the meantime, seriously, what are we going to do if he turns us down?”
“I’ll think of something.”
“I have a great deal of faith in you.”
“I wish people would stop saying that.”