Dead Girl. Craig Nybo

I pointed to my temple. “Tons of action, no story, 2-D characters, plenty of explosions and market research. I’ll get it straight to Barb for proofing. What was the movie called by the way?”

      Ernie clenched his fists.

      Running Fox chuckled.

      “Just kidding, chief. I’ll go see the flick after I follow up on my lead.”

      “You aren’t following up on any lead unless I give the say-so.”

      “But, chief, it’s a really, freaking good lead. One afternoon and, boom, I’ll give you a banging story that’ll rattle even your hair out of alignment.” I flicked a glance at Ernie’s perfect Johnny Cash pompadour.

      The color left Ernie’s face. He moved around his disaster-area desk, having to take a few extra steps due to his girth problem. He rifled through a stack of files and trade rags. It took a full minute for him to find what he wanted. I and Running Fox exchanged more than a couple of glances as he kicked up the dust.

      “Here.” Ernie picked up a copy of the most recent issue of The Star--one of those believe it or not rags with everything from batboy to the president of the United States visiting aliens. The cover headline read, WITCH COVEN HELPS SALT LAKE CITY MAYOR IN ELECTION. I smiled. I knew the story well.

      Ernie leafed angrily through the crisp pages and landed on the cover story. He tore the page out, held it up, and pointed to the byline. “I want to know what this is all about.”

      I read the name. “Ernie Hunshuler? Who’s he?”

      “What do you mean, who’s he? You tried to tip my ear with this story two weeks ago and I told you it was a lark. The least you could do is omit my first name from your pseudonym.”

      Running Fox burst into laughter.

      “Shut up, Running Fox,” Ernie shouted. “Why do you gotta write this slop for Artie Prichard?” Prichard ran The Star. He and Ernie had gone to college together. Most of the newsroom speculated that they were roommates back at NYU. A rumor even circulated that Ernie had been best man at Prichard’s 2nd wedding. But now, Prichard edited The Star and Ernie edited The Wasatch Times and there they were, tooth-and-nail rivals. I understand hate. Hell, I hate a lot of people. More people move from my annoying club to my hate club every year I get under my belt. But Ernie had refined hate to a dangerous point and aimed it straight at Artie Prichard’s heart.

      I liked Prichard okay. I wouldn’t play poker with him, I’m not keen on cigar smoke and unnecessary, high decibel laughter. But, other than a few heartless moves that come naturally to any veteran newsman, especially if he runs a rag like The Star, he was a relatively decent guy.

      “You write for Prichard and you’re sleeping with the enemy, Block.” Ernie tore up the article and tossed it like confetti on his desk. The rumpled bits of newspaper would probably remain there for at least three months. “I can’t run a respectable news service as long as my reporters are moonlighting for fiction rags like The Star. Word gets out that you are writing for Prichard and a hole breaks open in the bottom of the boat. And guess who winds up down in the bilge with a bucket? Yours truly.” Ernie pointed at himself with one of his bratwurst-sized thumbs.

      “So what are you saying, Chief?”

      “I ain’t saying nothing. I already said it. You found it on your desk this morning.”

      “For the record, I gave you first right of refusal on the Wicca story.”

      “Like I’m going to print some baloney about a gaggle of teenage girls with their nails and lips painted black.”

      “You didn’t even read it.”

      “I read the title and byline in Prichard’s dopey rag; that was enough for me. You gotta decide; Are you Block Vang or Ernie Hunshuler?”

      “You know something, chief; you’re right; I gotta decide. I need to boogie now. I got a hot lead to follow and apparently I’ll be sitting in an aisle seat at the theater for Micheal Bay’s latest romp.”

      Ernie took a long, deep breath. He held it in and massaged his forehead with his fingers. “Block, you’re the biggest chump I ever met in the business.”

      “Great, chief. I’ll be off then.” I turned to Terry Running Fox and raised an open palm. “How.”

      “How, Kimosave,” Running Fox said.

      Ernie massaged his tan temples even harder.

      I walked out of his office, closing the door behind me, and went to my desk. On my way, I put Sheldon Sharp’s empty mug back on his desk, careful to avoid the corkboard coaster to the left of his keyboard. He looked at the mug then up at me. “You’re an adolescent,” he said.

      “Young at heart, baby, young at heart.” I snapped at him as I walked away.

      When I reached my desk, I picked up the second note I had found, the one that had surprised me, and read it again.

      Dear Mr. Vang,

      I fear that people will soon die of unnatural causes. I need help, but I feel you are the only one who will believe my story. Please contact me.

      -DeeDee Corelis

      She had written her telephone number at the bottom of the note. I snatched my briefcase, which contained my tools of the trade, a micro recorder, notebooks, pens, and a .38, and headed out the front door of The Wasatch Times to find a private place where I could give Mrs. Corelis a call.

      Chapter 2

      Morrie’s Diner is the last bastion of Salt Lake City bygone days. With more than a million people living, bussing, tracking, and working in the growing city, architects and big financiers have converted the place into a jungle of concrete, glass, and plastic. Two towering buildings pushed up into glass and concrete infinity on either side of Morrie’s. The little diner, a one-story block structure built in the 50’s, had somehow dropped through a city ordinance loophole and kept its place right smack dap in the middle of metropolitan Salt Lake City.

      Like so many other one-man-band shows in a city of chains such as Starbucks, McDonalds, and The Olive Garden, Morrie’s Diner attracted the city’s hippest urban executives. They came in droves with cool glasses and expensive shoes, not because they particularly liked the food or Morrie, but because Morrie’s was the kind of place in which they were supposed to be seen. Someone hip along the way, maybe a rock star, maybe a movie star, maybe some society white collar hotshot had cited Morrie’s as a with-it place to visit. Me, I just like the chili.

      Some might argue, me included, that the feeble janitor that cleaned up after every bustling day at Morrie’s kept the little diner at an acceptable sanitary standard. That day as I stood in line for lunch, the janitor--Chuck, the name patch on the breast of his tan overalls read--sat dozing in a red, vinyl booth, his mop and bucket leaning next to the wall, a Louis Lamour book resting open on the gold speckled linoleum table in front of him.

      I flipped open my old-school flip phone as I stood in line for chili. I fumbled in my briefcase for the note Mrs. Corelis had sent and dialed the number. A tall man with dark hair and perfect fingernails behind me in line eyed my phone and sneered at me. I winked at him and put the phone to my ear. It rang six times before Mrs. Corelis picked up. We went through all the telephone protocols, hello, is this Mrs. X, this is this Mr. Y, and got down to business fast.

      “Do you mind if I record our call, Mrs. Corelis?”

      “I don’t. It would probably be a good idea to save some kind of record.”

      “In case of what?” I asked, fumbling with a little microphone I had picked up at Radio Shack for 10 bucks and change, a functional unit that I put in my ear between my cell phone speaker and my micro recorder.

      “In case anything should happen to me,” Mrs. Corelis said.

      “Do you think you are in danger?”

      The man behind me in line with perfect fingernails folded his