Flight Dreams Read Free

make his wishes all the more compelling, he threatened that you’d never find work at another paper. As you’re well aware, he has the power to make good on that promise.”
    “But why?” asks Manning. “What’s behind his sudden interest in this story? Nathan Cain doesn’t strike me as the sort of man who’ll lose sleep over a bit of razzing from his colleagues.”
    “I don’t have any answers,” Smith tells him with a frustrated shrug. “Yes, Nathan’s orders seem groundless, and I tried to dissuade him, but my opinions don’t count—not this time. I’m just an overpaid messenger. And the message is: He calls the shots.”
    Stunned, Manning mumbles, “My entire adult life, I’ve struggled to build a reputation based on reason and integrity …”
    Smith doesn’t mince words. “Integrity isn’t worth shit if you wind up losing your job—a job you’re supposedly good at.”
    Manning thinks for a moment, but only a moment, before asking, “He doesn’t leave me much choice, does he?”
    “No, he doesn’t.”
    “Then I’d better get to work and find Helena Carter.”
    Manning rises to leave, but pauses. With a feeble smile, he turns to ask his editor, “Did you think I’d knuckle under?”
    “I hoped not, but I didn’t know. Cain was sure you’d give in, but the ultimatum is no bluff. Having taken up the gauntlet, you’ve got to deliver.”
    “I know that, Gordon. I’ll try not to disappoint you.”
    “Good luck, Mark.”

Friday, October 2
    M ANNING GLANCES AT THE Roman numerals on his watch. It’s nearly noon. Twenty-four hours have passed since Gordon Smith delivered their publisher’s ultimatum, and Manning has wasted no time setting up a lunch date with Roxanne Exner, a lawyer—one of many—who deals with the Carter estate. He needs her help.
    Michigan Avenue is already swamped with office workers who have sneaked out to enjoy the weather. Manning jostles through the crowd along the fashionable boulevard, then turns onto the shadowed side street that leads to his favorite Armenian restaurant, quickening his pace against a chilly east wind that blows from the lake.
    He ducks under the tentlike awning and in through the door, his nostrils drinking in the warm smells of garlic, grape leaves, and sesame. Pausing a moment while his eyes adjust to the near-darkness of the cramped dining room, he notices Roxanne waving her fingers at him from one of the deeply coved booths.
    “I’m surprised you’re here already,” he says while sliding in next to her.
    She leans toward him, offering her cheek for a kiss, which Manning delivers. She tells him, “I don’t normally lunch this early, if at all. But your call sounded rather desperate, and—as you know—I enjoy your company. I had to reschedule a few meetings, so it seems that you’re indebted to me.” She flashes him a sly smile, lifting her Scotch and soda in a perfunctory toast.
    Manning now notices that his usual vodka on the rocks already sits before him. They touch glasses, then sip. He tells her, “For a pushy broad, you’re awfully alluring.”
    She has to think about that one. She reflexively bristles at the mention of “broad,” but she likes “pushy,” and “alluring” is a bonus. On balance, she takes it as a compliment.
    While she analyzes his comment, Manning studies Roxanne. They have slept together once—or was it twice? A few years younger than Manning, about thirty-five, she is single, stylish, undeniably attractive. She’s a climber, a talented attorney who was recently named partner at one of the city’s more prestigious firms. She occasionally provides tips or legal advice for Manning’s stories. She is a friend.
    Roxanne spreads a copy of the morning Post on the table in a pool of light cast by a Moroccan-style lantern overhead. She jabs at a story with her index finger. “Did you see this latest crap?” she asks Manning. “I’ve read more substantial reporting in school