Adam glanced at his fellow reporter. As always, he wore a pinstripe suit and broad-brimmed hat, which he'd tucked under his arm. His hair was short and slicked back. Joe smiled, revealing a row of perfect white teeth—too perfect, Adam had always thought.
Ginger was with him. As usual, she was dressed in a stylish suit at least one size too small. She also wore a snug-fitting felt hat over short blonde curls. Her lips were painted red. “Adam, you look bad. What's wrong?” She slid onto the barstool next to him.
“I thought you were still out of the country, Ginger,” Adam said unenthusiastically.
“I'm back.” She smiled seductively. “Can I help?”
“No.”
Joe took the seat beside Adam and signaled to the bartender. “Two more beers here.” He looked at Adam. “So, what's up? You look like your best friend just died. And I know that can't be true because I'm here.” He chuckled.
“Nothin's wrong. I'm fine.”
“Oh, sure. I can see that.” Ginger crossed one leg over the other, showing off shapely limbs. “Anything I can help with?”
Ignoring her question, Adam asked, “What kind of trouble you been up to?”
Ginger chuckled. “Trouble? Me?” She sipped her beer. “Is the paper sending you to the Olympics?”
“I doubt it,” Adam said glumly. “I'd like to go though.” He took a swig of beer. “It's predicted that Jesse Owens could bring home a fistful of gold medals.”
“Who is he?” Ginger asked.
“Isn't he that Negro runner?” Joe said.
“Yes.” Adam shook his head in disgust, wondering how a reporter, even if she were a woman, couldn't know about Jesse Owens. “Wish I were going to be there. Instead, I'm still dogging King Edward. The rumors about him and Mrs. Simpson are big news,” he said sarcastically. He downed the last of his beer and signaled the bartender for another.
“I'd rather be following around a handsome king than some sweaty athlete.” Ginger smiled; her lipstick glistened. She reached into her purse, took out a cigarette case, and opened the lid. After tapping out a cigarette, she snapped the case closed and tossed it on the bar.
“I thought you'd stopped smoking,” Joe said.
“I did.” She lit the cigarette, inhaled deeply, and blew smoke at Joe. “I enjoyed doing the write-up on the latest Paris fashions.”
“That crowd? I heard they're nothing more than a bunch of sniveling prestige-seekers,” Joe said.
“Maybe, but they dress nicely and smell good. I had a wonderful time.” She sipped her beer. “Joe, you're the one who gets the best assignments,” she said, flicking ashes on the floor.
The bartender pushed an ashtray toward Ginger. “My floor isn't an ashtray,” he said dryly.
“Oh, sorry.” She tapped the end of her cigarette against the tray as if to show him she was remorseful.
“I liked my last assignment.” Joe grinned. “Writing a story on the latest Rolls Royces and Bentleys isn't work.” He took another swig of beer. “One day I plan on having my own Rolls Royce, and I'll have a driver too.”
“How do you plan on making that kind of money? You think you're gonna get rich in this business?” Adam asked derisively. He gulped down more beer.
“What's eating you?” Joe asked.
“Nothin'.”
Ginger raised a well-defined eyebrow and snuggled up to Adam. “We were thinking about going out and having some fun. You want to come?”
Adam studied Ginger. He knew all he had to do was nod her way and she was his. He'd considered it. She was a real looker. The trouble was, since Laurel, he hadn't been interested in women. He chugged his drink. “Tell me, Joe, is any woman worth a man's job?”
Joe grinned. “I guess that would depend on the job and the woman.”
“No, I mean it. I'm serious.”
Joe leaned on the bar. “I wouldn't give up my job for any woman. It's me and the job, or nothing. She'd have to accept me just the way I am, and that includes my work.” He stared at Adam. “Who's got your eye? Someone I know?”
“It's no one.”
“I don't believe you,” Ginger said. “Why don't you just spill it?” She smiled. “You'll feel better.”
“I've seen that look before. You're in trouble, Adam.” Joe placed his hat on his head, snatched Ginger's cigarette, stubbed it out, then took her hand. “Come on. A band's playing down the street. We can dance the night away. What about it, Adam?”
“Nah. I don't feel like it.” He finished off his beer and ordered another.
“If you're not careful, someone will have to carry you home,” Joe said.
“That's all right with me.”
“Come with us.” Joe eyed Ginger. “You think I can handle this broad all by myself?”
“You'll have to.” Adam leaned on the bar and grinned. “You'll manage. Go on. Have a good time. I'm going back to my flat and hitting the sack.”
“All right. We'll see you around.” Joe tossed several coins onto the bar. “That ought to cover the drinks.” He turned to Ginger. “Come on; my feet are already tapping.”
Ginger leaned over and kissed Adam's cheek. It was a long, soft kiss. “Hmm. I like your aftershave.” She smiled and straightened. “I'm pretty good at healing broken hearts.”
