The music was so loud it was practically deafening. Camarin covered her ears as Fanfare for the Common Man blared from the speakers only twenty feet to the right of her seat. The audience leaped to its feet, cheering and applauding, waving banners, creating a discord that could have woken Benjamin Franklin from his nearby grave. She shook her head. How did mere men grow to such power and reverence?
A spotlight split the darkness, and a short, thin milquetoast of a man, dressed in long, white robes emerged from the back of the tent and took his place at the podium. About forty, with a receding hairline and a small, black mustache, he resembled a shoe salesman who used to wait on her as a child back in LA. But she instantly recognized him from the tête-à-tête she’d witnessed only minutes earlier, where he had kissed his crying companion out of her despair. No surprise there.
The crowd grew even louder. Two enormous women screaming, “Terry, Terry!” stormed the stage, but security tackled them and led them out the side entrance.
He stood an extended period, reveling in the crowd’s veneration, before he held his hands out, willing the assembly to settle down and retake their seats. The room grew silent for a long moment, waiting for their idol to address them.
“You’re fat!” he yelled out at the crowd.
“Thank you. We’re big, and we’re proud of it!”
Camarin sat open-jawed, stunned first by his opening greeting and then by the hordes who screamed back in unison. She looked behind her and saw each person standing back up, fists held high in the air. Reading about Mangel from the safety of her office had been one thing. She could remain detached, like a researcher. But seeing the audience rise in solidarity, screaming for acceptance, for their—and for Monaeka’s—deserved place in the world, set her nerve ends tingling. She fought back tears.
“You’re pigs. You make me sick,” he called out.
“Oink, oink,” they yelled back.
“You need to lose fifty pounds!”
“You need to lose the fucking attitude!”
“Society is thin, so they’re better than you!”
“Society is filled with fat haters. Shamers. Bigots. They’re better than no one!”
The crowd erupted into applause and high-fived each other. Camarin was left shaking from the revelation that the surrounding audience spoke her language. It was as if the voices had left her head and taken residence behind and around her, that each cheering person was the embodiment of Monaeka. The flush of revelation overwhelmed her with its power.
Then she wondered, what if April Lowery noticed her reaction? Fighting to return to some semblance of an impartial reporter, she forced herself to type notes furiously into her phone’s notepad.
“It’s on the tapes that Terry sells!” April shouted into her ear, trying to be heard over the clamor. “He prepares them for lots of insults and feeds them tons of comebacks, forgive the pun. I’ll get you a set of the recordings before you head back to New York, if you like.”
“That would be great, thank you,” she yelled back.
“I need to tell you a story,” Mangel announced through his microphone.
The crowd instantly hushed, hanging on his every syllable.
“Who wants to hear a story?”
“We do!” they exclaimed as one.
She felt herself as captivated as the rest of the audience. Despite his commonplace appearance, his stage presence was magnetic, his charisma undeniable.
“It’s a story about a young girl named Christina Corrigan. I never knew Christina, and I’m sure most of you didn’t know her either. According to a lawyer named Sondra Solovay, who wrote a book called Tipping the Scales of Justice, Christina was a smart girl, a pretty girl, a girl with hopes and dreams like so many of your daughters. She had big ambitions, like working as a marine biologist and visiting Australia and its Great Barrier Reef. Instead, she died at thirteen, alone in her living room.”
A collective gasp arose.
“The papers didn’t seem to care about anything except her weight, which at the time of her death was 680 pounds. It was that weight that made her a pariah among other girls in the neighborhood, and a high school dropout. Why, you ask? Because her school wouldn’t accommodate her inability to climb the hill to their entrance or install an elevator to help her—or any of the other students with mobility issues—attend classes on the second and third floors.”
Camarin’s ears pricked up, and she halted her typing, suddenly remembering her original reason for attending. No way to get to the school’s entrance? She remembered the murder of the school principal outside Santa Fe, left to die in a ditch for the same reason. She had definitely stumbled onto something here. The question was, did Mangel inspire violence in each city he visited, or did he have homicidal groupies who followed him from state to state?
“Marlene Corrigan, her mom, did everything in her power to help her daughter. Everything the so-called experts told her to do. The doctors advised her not to feed Christina whole milk as a baby. That probably threw off her metabolism. She gained weight, more weight than the society around her felt comfortable with. Who here has felt the scorn of society?”
“We have, Terry!”
“Well, Christina felt it too. Her mother dragged her from doctor to doctor, who prescribed diet upon diet, but nothing worked. Sound familiar?”
“Too familiar!”
“Do diets work, my friends?”
“No! Diets don’t work! Diets are the punishment society levels on those who dare to be different!”
Not to mention that diets are the tool that our mother—the one person we trusted to provide protection and support—used to manipulate us and impose her will. A constant reminder that we’re nothing to any man except a face and a body, a present to keep tied up with a pretty bow for him to unwrap when the time is right.
“Another of Terry’s mottos,” April explained in Camarin’s ear.
“So I gathered.”
“She exercised. She tried Deal-a-Meal and diet pills. She did what she was asked to do,” Terry continued. “And at seven years of age, that poor, beleaguered girl weighed 180 pounds. And do you think people offered her any sympathy?”
“No, Terry!”
“Did they show her compassion?”
“No, Terry!”
“Did they teach her to hate herself?”
“Yes, Terry, they did!”
“Well, life went on like that—with Christina alone at home, shunned by her classmates, hating every moment of her life. She was clearly suffering from a glandular condition that caused her to gain weight at an alarming rate, no matter what she ate. But did the doctors ever send her to an endocrinologist? No. To them, fat meant laziness, lack of self-control. Hand her a diet and send her home. Who were the lazy people there, my friends? Christina or the doctors who believed if you starved someone, it would solve everything?”
“The doctors, the doctors!”
She’s lucky they didn’t try to exorcise the devil from her.
“Meanwhile, Marlene, Christina’s harried mother, who was recovering from the death of both of her parents, spent her days shuttling between homeschooling her daughter and working two jobs to make ends meet. She came home from running an errand one day to find lonely, overweight Christina lying stone-cold dead on the living room floor!”
The audience exploded into chaos. Through the pandemonium, Camarin pictured her own version of the Corrigan tragedy on the morning her mother and aunt discovered Monaeka’s lifeless body, the blood-splattered room heavy with the scent of sulfur.
It took another five minutes before Mangel could continue his rabble-rousing.
“That’s not the worst part, my friends.” He banged his fist on the podium for effect. Camarin braced herself, waiting for what could possibly be worse.
“No?”
“No. The police accused poor Marlene of felony child endangerment, of being responsible for her own daughter’s death. The newspapers convicted that poor, grieving mother in the court of public opinion before she could even get a fair trial. Six years! If convicted, that’s how long they wanted Marlene to rot away in prison for doing nothing more than trying to help her daughter gain acceptance from the fat-hating world.”
Again, the agitation of the crowd forced Mangel to pause before continuing. Cam herself was shaking with upset over Christina, Marlene, and the closemindedness of the people in their world. For the moment, she was Monaeka, overcome by a need for justice. It was comforting that the entire room felt the same.
As she looked around to watch others commiserating, she noticed April looking at her strangely. She realized how her response to the revival could give her away. She forced Monaeka back into the narrow constraints of her memory, straightened up, and willed herself to remain still.
April, misinterpreting her reaction, smiled and gave her a sympathetic squeeze on the forearm. “It’s okay. He has that effect on everyone.”
“There’s more,” Mangel continued. “We will never know what killed poor, sweet, young Christina Corrigan. Marlene begged for a full autopsy, because she suspected heart issues. But what did the medical examiner do?”
“What, Terry?”
“A visual autopsy. Do you want to know why?”
“Why?”
“Because she was heavy. And because of those extra pounds, the investigation might have run overtime, and the examiner might have missed lunch. Or his golf game. So, they just gave Christina’s cold, dead body a quick glance and forgot about her. Think that was fair?”
“It was not fair!”
“Think people are ever fair to fat people?”
“Everyone hates us! No one understands us!” the crowd yelled. Mangel again waited as the audience chanted, “Fairness for the fat! Equality for the enormous! Objectivity for the obese!”
Fairness for me. Camarin heard her sister begging for help from the depths of her consciousness and felt the familiar pain jab at her heart. I killed off my own sister, she admitted to herself. Whatever terrible things might befall her in the future, she deserved them all.
Her eyes started tearing, but she couldn’t let April see. Instead, she stood again, did a 360-degree turn, and marveled at the froth that practically oozed from people’s mouths. Mangel had clearly hit a collective nerve with these forgotten masses. And at five hundred dollars a pop, he was being well-rewarded for his efforts. But to these people, could you put any price tag on the value of finally having their raised voices be heard? Their psychic pain acknowledged? She sat back down as the oration continued.
“In the end, my friends, I’m happy to say that fairness did prevail. Marlene was convicted, but only of a misdemeanor. She was put on probation and ordered to undergo counseling and perform community service.”
“She was put on fucking probation for trying to help her daughter?” yelled one particularly outraged man in the third row.
“How about a conviction and community service for the people who turned their backs on Christina Corrigan?” a distraught woman screamed from the depths of the tent.
“I know you’re angry,” consoled the evangelist.
Of course they’re angry. You’ve riled them up into a rabid mob. Camarin made a note to read up on the newspaper accounts of the Corrigan case. Despite Mangel’s fire-and-brimstone condemnation, she was sure the truth lay somewhere between innocence and hyperbole.
“I can feel your fury. I join you in your outrage. They hate us!”
Us? All 140 pounds of you? You’re part of ‘us’? I think not.
“And do you know how we deal with their hatred, my friends? Do you know what they deserve, all those people out there who live to mock those of us who have the nerve to weigh more than their capricious charts allow?”
Here it comes. Camarin’s heart pounded wildly. He’s going to incite them to go out and kill. This is what I’ve been waiting for.
“We repay them with love. The more they hate us, the more we forgive them. The more they mock us, the more we embrace them. Because only with love can we get them to know us, to understand us, to realize that weight is about size, not character. Make them see that fat is not a pejorative. Fat is not a state of mind. It’s an excess of intake over output, nothing more and nothing less. Only by inviting the haters into our world, urging them to spend time with us, allowing them to witness our daily struggles, will we neutralize their bias against us. Because what are we?”
Shocked, Camarin listened to the repartee between Mangel and his Mangelites. They seemed utterly, totally sincere in their outpouring of affection.
“We are more than just our bodies!”
“And how will we silence our enemies?”
“Through love!”
“I didn’t hear you. How?”
“Through love!”
Mangel paused yet again until the racket his words inspired faded to a low hum. With the crowd simmering and the evangelist fanning down his inflammatory rhetoric, Camarin felt herself returning to her old, impartial self.
“That’s right, my friends,” he said, reaching for a cup of water. “I want to thank you for your faith. I want to thank you for your allegiance. And most of all, I want to thank you for your struggle. Every one of you inspires me every day. And that’s why I want to invite someone up here to inspire everyone else with her story and her success. Is Maria here?”
“I’m here, Terry! I’m coming!”
As the roly-poly woman lumbered her way to the stage, April tapped Camarin on the shoulder. “Are you okay? You look a little out of it.”
“I’m fine. I’m just a little surprised. That whole speech about love—it’s not what I thought he was going to say.”
“You’re not the first to admit that. It’s easy to get swept up in the message. That was me, once upon a time,” she said, pointing out at the crowd. “Terry turned it all around for me. Once I lost the chip on my shoulder, I was able to shed the weight from my body. He’s amazing. I owe him everything!”
Her words made Camarin realize there was an entire category of suspects she’d previously overlooked. His staff!
“That’s fascinating. Tell me, would you consider allowing me to interview you for my story? I think the reasons that you and others like you work for Terry and follow him from city to city could make for a great sidebar.”
April’s entire face became bright and animated. “No one has ever asked for my story before. I’d…I’d be honored. Terry has been so wonderful to me, so much more than just a boss.”
There was excitement in April’s eyes, but also something more. Gratitude? Pride? Camarin couldn’t put her finger on it, but given time…
“And the others? Are there others in Mangel’s circle who might be willing to speak to me?”
“I’m not sure, but I can’t see why not. We give our hearts and souls to this cause. When would you want to do this?”
She did some quick schedule calculations. “Maybe tomorrow, about five PM? That would still give people plenty of time to prepare for the evening’s event.”
“That sounds good. I’ll put some thoughts down and see who else might be free.”
Maria cleared her throat, ready to address the crowd, and Mangel faded back into the shadows. She looked so familiar, and it took a few minutes before Camarin realized where she had seen her before—the woman whose tears Mangel had wiped away prior to the event’s commencement. Had they been merely an expression of fear over addressing the audience? And hadn’t Mangel’s kiss been a bit of an exaggerated way to calm a speaker’s nerves?
“Hey, y’all. My name is Maria Whalen. I’d been out of work for over a year when I came to Terry.” Maria’s Southern drawl quaked slightly, as if the sound of her words over the loudspeaker unnerved her. “I had been working as a programmer for a cosmetics company, not even a position where I was seen very often by clients. But after talking to some of my thinner coworkers, I realized that I was being paid a much smaller salary than they were. There was absolutely no difference between my skills and theirs. If anything, I had even more experience and worked longer hours.”
The room remained silent, eating up Maria’s every word.
“I went to my boss and asked for an explanation. Why were they earning more than I was for doing less of a job? He didn’t deny the fact that I had been discriminated against. He said if I didn’t like it, I could quit. I told him I imagined several overweight employees in other departments might be curious how their salaries stacked up against those of their thinner counterparts. He fired me on the spot.”
Camarin could see Maria’s eyes tearing up. A familiar pang of nausea reminded her that it could have easily been her sister up there. How often had Monaeka complained about the inequities in life, like how it was hard to get hired when you’re overweight, and how tiresome it was to have every bite at every meal judged?
By choosing a college across the country, Cam had put some distance between herself and all that noise. She’d used her heavy coursework as another excuse to ignore her sister’s ramblings. She felt her own tears well up as she recalled how the calls had come less and less frequently until one day they’d stopped entirely.
“I went to see a lawyer about suing the company to get my job back, but of course, he explained that I had no recourse,” Maria continued. “He told me that anyone can discriminate against fat people in any way they choose. Which is ridiculous. I mean, no offense to anyone here, but I worked with smokers and their clothes reeked of tobacco. It made me sick, but as long as they smoked off-premises, they couldn’t get fired for it. I worked with another guy, again no offense, who suffered from Tourette’s. His work was top-notch, but every so often, he’d scream out a string of swear words, and frankly, it was disruptive as hell. But again, his job was protected. Me? My weight didn’t disturb my coworkers or break anyone’s concentration. But I was the one let go.”
She stopped to wipe a tear from her cheek.
“I went to the papers, figuring it would make a mighty good story, one that might interest other people my size, get them to boycott the company. But the reporter said my story had no merit, wouldn’t even speak to me. Turns out they got major cosmetics advertising dollars from my former employer. I was despondent. No job, no justice. But the day Terry’s caravan rolled into Atlanta, everything changed.”
Seated in the front row, Camarin could still see Mangel, standing several feet behind the podium, far from the glare of the spotlight. He seemed to be in deep conversation with yet another woman, this one quite shapely. He whispered into her ear, and she tilted her head back, laughing. Cozy. To the uninitiated, it looked as if Terry Mangel wasn’t just staging a revival tour—he was auditioning his own personal harem.
“I listened to his insights, just like you’re doing now. He was the first person who really understood what an overweight person like me goes through every day.”
“You’re not overweight! You’re your weight!” cried out several persons from the audience. Others joined in, and for five minutes, the chant reverberated throughout the tent. Maria stood at the podium, basking in the group’s support.
“Thank you, friends. You are right. Anyway, it was Terry who listened to my plight, Terry who offered me his shoulder to cry on.”
I bet it wasn’t the only body part he offered you.
“And it was Terry who offered me a job. For the last two years, I’ve worked with the Feel Good About Yourself revival, and I’ve never been happier!”
Terry retook his place along Maria at the lectern, kissing her paternally on the cheek and holding up her hand high above her head, joining in her triumph as the crowds went wild. For a minute or two, Camarin allowed herself to get caught up in the excitement, and then cynicism took hold again. Check deaths in Atlanta two years ago, she typed into her smartphone.
Mangel again addressed his devotees over the din as an army of hawkers entered the tent, peddling CDs, DVDs, books, t-shirt and mugs. “Thank you, Maria. Your story has moved us all. The important lesson is to remember that, in the end, what helped this lovely lady?”
“Love!” screamed the spectators in unison.
“Correct. Love cures prejudice. Love cures hate. Love cures all!”
He paused for another rabid ovation.
“My friends, your turn is coming. We want to hear your stories. We want to help you where it hurts. Come back tomorrow night for our Saturday night Feel Good About Yourself finale, where you’ll do the speaking, and we’ll do the healing!”
Mangel wallowed in the admiration of his fans until their attention was diverted by the peddlers. Then he and Maria disappeared from the dais, no doubt to count the evening’s take.
April stood up and smoothed her skirt. “If you’ll come with me back to the other tent, I’ll introduce you around and get you some background material and a set of DVDs.”
“That would be terrific.”
But would it? In one sense, she was a bit in awe of the great, mighty Terry Mangel, especially up close. If he was anything in person like he was on stage, perhaps he’d see right through her to her core. But on the other hand, like Trend, he represented everything that she railed against, taking advantage of people’s low self-image for his own financial gain. Would she be able to mask her scorn?
The two women walked out of the tent and into the cool evening air. Camarin breathed deeply. She hadn’t realized how stuffy it had become inside, with all that outpouring of righteousness and angst. They made their way past a second outdoor legion of salespeople flogging their Mangel wares and back into the administration tent where they had dined earlier.
A celebratory vibe permeated the atmosphere inside. Corks popping, champagne flowing, the slap of high fives everywhere. Mangel was standing in the corner, with Maria lingering by his side. Camarin noted how many of the female admins in the tent were scowling and throwing an evil eye in the couple’s direction. Where’s the love there? thought Camarin. I bet they have a story to tell.
“Just help yourself to something to eat,” said April, pointing at the buffet table and a newly added carving station where a waiter was serving up copious portions of turkey and roast beef. “I’ll let him know you’re here.”
She started over toward the food but then, as if drawn by an invisible magnet, veered over to a group of women who appeared to be engaged in an impassioned discussion. They grew suddenly silent as Camarin infiltrated their ranks.
“Ladies, good evening. I’m Camarin Torres, and I’m a features editor with Trend magazine. I was wondering if I could—”
A heavyset African American woman shot her an acidic glare. “Trend? The magazine with all the skinny models and the articles that constantly remind us of how imperfect and damaged we are?”
“Unless, of course, we buy the products you advertise,” added a little person, standing by her side. “Then we’ll all be magically saved.” She spat in disgust at the ground in front of Camarin’s feet.
Stunned by their revulsion, Camarin realized that these spontaneous interviews were not going to be as easy as she’d previously thought. In this audience, she was the enemy, and no one was going to give a rat’s ass about her magazine’s proposed change of focus. She took two steps back, reeling from the vitriolic assault, and naturally, in true Camarin style, backed right into the person behind her.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. Excuse me,” she said, spinning around and finding herself standing face-to-face with Terry Mangel himself. Up close, the facial lines looked more prominent, perhaps the price he paid for months spent on the road, galvanizing his followers.
“Ms. Torres, what a pleasure,” he said, firmly shaking her outstretched hand. She heard a snort from the women she’d just turned away from. “Ladies, have we forgotten our manners and our motto? We treat everyone with love. Especially those who have taken time out of their busy schedules to cover us in national magazines.”
The ladies blushed, murmured apologies, and backed away.
Much to her surprise, Camarin felt a jolt of electricity flow from his arm through hers. There was something undeniably mesmeric about this man, something that prompted people to want to follow his lead. She stood transfixed as his gaze danced playfully with hers, and she felt herself drawn to him.
This is ridiculous. He’s a con man, a huckster, a false prophet. Walk away. Walk away now.
“Can I offer you a drink, Ms. Torres? Or some dinner? It was a long event. Surely you’re hungry?”
“No, I’m good,” she sputtered, aware of the heat blazing in her cheeks. “But if you have a moment, I’d love to ask you some questions.”
“I know our meeting is set for…” He looked over at April. “Eleven AM on Sunday, is it?”
April nodded affirmatively.
“But for someone as lovely as you, I always have time for a chat.”
He led her to a quieter corner of the venue, away from April, Maria, and the cackling trio of women who’d nearly attacked her earlier.
“You have my full attention, Ms. Torres. What do you think your readers would be most interested in knowing about our small—but growing—movement?” He flashed her his warmest smile, and while Camarin searched for even a smidgen of smarminess, she came up short. He seemed authentically interested, as if she were the only person in this congested, bustling space.
“I’d hardly consider this small. It’s quite impressive. I wish something like this had been around when my sister was alive. I think she wouldn’t have felt so…alone.”
Where did that come from? She’d had no intention of sharing anything so personal with this charlatan. And yet, he made you feel so comfortable. Maybe she’d leaped to conclusions too early. Maybe he was legit, and all these women felt what she felt—a longing to remain in his circle. Maybe there was no hanky-panky involved. Maybe.
“It sounds like losing her…it must have been devastating.”
“It was…I…well, listening to you, to Maria earlier, it all came flooding back.”
“She was heavy, your sister?”
“Yes. She was on meds as a kid, and they messed up her metabolism. She struggled to lose the weight, but she’d go up and down. She never really felt comfortable in her own skin. If she could have only known someone like you…or like Maria…”
“Did I just hear my name being bandied about?” Maria sidled up beside Mangel and insinuated herself into the conversation.
“Yes, darling. Maria, meet Camarin Torres, a reporter from Trend magazine. She’s come to do a story about us. Camarin, meet Maria Whalen, my fiancée.”
Camarin’s head drew back in surprise. “Fiancée? Wow, I had no idea. Congratulations!”
“He just popped the question tonight. I accepted, of course!” She bubbled over with excitement. “We haven’t formally announced it, so please, it’s off the record.” Maria put up her hand and showed off her ring. It was a silver ring from a pop-top soda can. “It’s a placeholder until we can pick out the real thing. But it will be something equally low-key,” she said in a lowered voice. “Nothing that could draw attention away from our message.”
“We trust you will keep our confidence. No one else knows, and we’d like to keep it that way, for now,” added Mangel.
I bet you do. Wouldn’t do for any of the other girls to find out, would it? No matter how she tried to trust Mangel, that cynical, distrustful, little voice kept popping into her brain. Well, Mr. Mangel, your ‘prey-dar’ is off the mark this time. I’m immune to your charms.
“Of course I will. Thank you for trusting me.”
April came over and whispered into Mangel’s ear.
“Ms. Torres, I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me. Pressing business. But I do so look forward to our chat on Sunday.” He reached out to shake her hand again, but this time, he squeezed it tightly, and for a moment longer than necessary.
Then April led him away, leaving her with Maria. Perfect.
“Maria, I’m so happy for your engagement! How wonderful, and how romantic, traveling together from city to city.” If she was the one killing off fat shamers around the country, it would be good to know now.
“I wish. That would be wonderful. But I have a sick mother back in Atlanta on dialysis. I fly in occasionally to address the crowds, but it depends on whenever I can arrange for my sister to take over for me at home.”
“So…I’m confused. I thought you worked for Terry.”
“Oh, I do. I work on the website. I can do that remotely. I expect that once we get married, I’ll join the caravan. Though what I really hope is that he’ll settle down, give up the tour. I’ve been trying to convince him that he can reach more people with webinars. I don’t know why he’s so opposed to preaching on YouTube. He’d reach so many more people.”
And sell far less merchandise.
“How often do you join the tour and address the audience?”
“Oh, only occasionally. Though—” She lowered her voice again and pointed to her stomach. “I’m incubating a little Mangel, if you know what I mean. I don’t think I’ll be doing any more flying after another few months.”
Ah, so Terry had to say he’d marry you. Interesting. Was that what precipitated the earlier show of tears?
Disappointed that her sporadic revival attendance meant that Cam had to cross Maria off her list of potential suspects, she decided to press her luck, gain more insight into the personal side of Mangel.
“It must be very difficult for you, with Terry on the road, surrounded by all these women, throwing themselves at him.”
“I know what you’re thinking—men will be men. But Terry’s different. They might flirt with him during the revival, but at night, I’m the one he calls and pours his heart out to. I’m the one who will be standing next to him at the chapel—Mrs. Terry Mangel.” She lifted her hand and pointed around the room. “Let them all eat their hearts out. He’s mine.”
Camarin snuck a glance across the tent at the evangelist, charming his minions, including a portly couple, their arms laden down with ‘Mangelphenalia.’ April was standing by his side, about two inches too close to make a convincing case for a purely professional relationship. Exactly what magical blinders was Maria wearing?
April caught her eye and raised a finger. She walked over to the side of the tent and returned carrying a Feel Good About Yourself tote bag, teeming with lovely parting gifts. “I’ve got some background information about Terry in here, along with his entire inventory of our goodies, including a price list. I’m sure you’d want to include a review of these items with your story, right?”
Subtle. Camarin flashed her best attempt at a genuine smile as April led her to the tent’s exit flap.
“I’ve set some time aside at five PM tomorrow, as we discussed, and I’m still checking around for anyone else who’s interested in being interviewed for your story.”
“I’ll be here. I think this is going to be an article that every one of our readers will be thrilled to read.” And as she walked away, she added under her breath, “Especially the officers dressed in blue.”