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Crusty's phone rang for the twelfth time in an hour.
"Alpine Avalanche. Editor speaking...Oh, hello Rhoda! How the hell are you?"
It was Rhoda Williams, wife of the owner of the Bar-S ranch.
“How is that white hunter, mega-lawyer husband of yours?"
“Aww, hell, Crusty, Dwayne's in Alaska. He's been gone two weeks. He's trying to buy antelopes or some damn thing, and then he's headed to a Washington meeting with the muckamucks. This might be your big chance, fancy pants!"
"God knows I've tried, Rhoda, and it didn't work. You aim higher than newspaper editors, anyway. What's on your mind?"
"Speaking of aiming higher! Hey, Crusty, there's a chance that John Travolta might be landing here later this afternoon to spend the night. He's going to be flying over in one of his smaller planes, not the 707, and I invited him to drop in for dinner. I'm gonna put the arm on him to kick in to the university's development fund. Why don't you send that Matt Méndez fellow out and maybe he could get some pictures and do a story?"
"Hot damn! That would be excellent, Rhoda! Let me find Matt and get him over there soon as I can! If you're not careful, I'll come along just to pinch your rear!"
"Aww, Crusty, don't get your hopes up. I'm not even sure John'll stop by. Don't waste your time. I know Matt, and we can have a nice visit even if John doesn't make it."
