Do You Promise Not to Tell? Read Free

go?”
    “Great. Can I talk to Range?”
    “He’s on another line.”
    “I’ll hold.”
    Farrell held on, her eyes scanning the auction gallery. She saw a tall, pretty woman gathering up her things and rising from her seat. An even taller teenaged boy got up along with her. There was something familiar about her.
    Pat! She looked almost the same as she had the lasttime Farrell had seen her. How long ago was that? Farrell’s mind searched. Could it be almost twenty years? And that must be Peter—he had been just a baby when last she’d seen him!
My God
.
    “Bullock here,” snapped the voice in the earpiece. Bullock’s abrupt, clipped manner always caught Farrell off guard.
    “Range, it’s Farrell.”
    “I know who it is.”
    Of course he knew who it was. How stupid of her to identify herself again. When would she learn that, with Bullock, she should dispense with the niceties? He just wanted her to get to the point.
    Farrell hated herself as she heard herself stammer, “Well, the Moon Egg just went for six million.”
    “And?”
    “Well, I think we could do a good story on it.”
    “Why?”
    “The whole history of the thing is fascinating.”
    “Who bought it?”
    “A telephone bidder who wants to remain anonymous.”
    There was a short pause on the line. Farrell pictured Bullock checking his computer screen.
    “We’re heavy tonight. Best we can do is give it a twenty-second v/o.”
    The connection was broken.

Chapter 5
    “The Bowl doesn’t want it,” Farrell announced, shrugging. “Do you mind, Beej? I’m going to take a cab back to the Broadcast Center now.”
    “Damn, I love the shot I got of that doorman in the Russian cossack getup out front. Cool costume. Oh well, you go ahead, Farrell. I’ll see you back there.”
    B. J. D’Elia continued to pack up his video gear as he watched Farrell walk away, her shoulders slumped. It would only take about ten minutes to break down and stow away the tripod, lights, and wires and load them into the crew car parked outside Churchill’s on Madison Avenue. Farrell knew that. And with no story to produce for tonight’s broadcast, there was certainly no big rush to get back to KEY. She must want to be on her own, not in the mood for company or conversation. Who could blame her? Farrell couldn’t get herself arrested on
Evening Headlines
.
    Twenty-eight years old, Bartolomeo Joseph D’Elia loved working in television news. Forty hours a week, plus all the overtime he could get, he was paid for his passion. Going out to cover whatever assignment blew his way, B. J. lived by his wits, his skills, and the seat of his pants.
    Was he lucky, or what! He thought of that all the time. Most poor stiffs hated to get up in the morning, dragged themselves to their boring jobs, counting thehours until it was time to go home. Then they ate some dinner, watched a lot of television, and went to bed, only to get up and do it all over again. When he thought about what life must be like for those guys, he shuddered. B. J. knew he was one of the fortunate few who actually looked forward to work each day.
    Farrell, on the other hand, was struggling, and everyone at KEY knew it. Gossip was elevated to an art form. Who was in favor, who was screwing up, who was on the rise, who had already seen his or her best days. Career bumps and rough patches sustained the voracious appetites of the newshounds. They watched with the same fascination of rubberneckers on the highway who slow down to see if the passengers in a car wreck are going to come out alive—mesmerized and grateful (perhaps “happy” would be the right word) that they were safe, at least for today.
    KEY News was no longer the cradle-to-grave operation it had once proudly been in years gone by. In the past, when a longtime employee had served the company well, the news division would keep him on staff when his most productive days were behind him.
You took care of us, now we’ll take care of you
. Not