Cross Roads. Fern Michaels

she was starting to think there was something a little screwy where that organization was concerned. Well, one of these days she’d figure it out, but not right this moment. Homecomings with Fish were rather nice but a real letdown at times, too. The bloom, if there had ever been one, was definitely off the rose these days. There just wasn’t one damn thing about this new life of hers that was exciting or spontaneous. Not a single damn thing.

      Sad to say, owner or not, the staff here at Babylon merely tolerated her, and that was the bottom line. It was time to take a crack at sticking her nose into the Post. Maggie probably wouldn’t like it, but then, Maggie was expendable, just like everyone else. Annie owned the damn paper. She’d stay just long enough to stir up some trouble, screw things up, then take off for other parts. That was her life these days.

      Annie stopped now where a gaggle of seniors were arguing over the slot machines. She sat down on one of the chairs and listened to the heated exchange. Half of the group wanted to cash in the chips for money so they could put it toward something or other at the group home they lived in, and the other half wanted to play with it.

      Annie looked enough like some of the members that she felt she could stick her nose into their business and offer some advice. Without stopping to think, she started to chat up one of the women with a tart tongue who wanted to cash in the chips.

      “Before you make a decision,” Annie said to the sharp-tongued woman, “you should all play the only slot machine on the floor that actually takes a chip.” She craned her neck to see that machine, standing apart from all the others. The bells and whistles emanating from it were earsplitting. She pointed to it and watched all the little old ladies and stoop-shouldered men staring at it. One of the men, who claimed to have exceptional eyesight, bellowed that it cost ten dollars a turn. His partner with two hearing aids shouted that the jackpot was $1.8 million.

      These startling declarations started a whole new round of arguing. “We have to pay tax on it if we win!”

      “What would we do with all that money?”

      “We could prepay our own funerals so our kids don’t get stuck with the bills.”

      “How will we get all that money back to Culpepper, Virginia, without getting mugged?”

      “Then everyone will want to be our new best friends and borrow money from us.”

      “Who’s going to manage the money?”

      Annie wanted to swat all of them. “Come along, ladies and gentlemen, you can watch me play. I’ll warm up the machine for you.”

      “Who did you say you were again?” someone asked.

      “I’m a gambling addict,” Annie said cheerfully, leading the way to the machine that promised untold riches. Cell phone to her ear, Annie whispered instructions, then quickly turned off her phone. She looked upward and nodded in slow motion to the unseen eyes that saw everything that went on down below.

      “Hit it!” the man with two hearing aids bellowed. Annie hit it with a chip from her pocket. Nothing happened. “Bummer,” the man said.

      Annie dropped another forty dollars before she turned the machine over to the members of the group home. Another hassle ensued as each of them kicked in a dollar. With two dollars to spare, it was decided that the group had to sign off on a scrap of paper that if they won, the money would be divided equally. Everyone signed their name, but it didn’t solve the problem of the extra two dollars. Annie settled it by snatching the twelve dollar bills and shoving them in her pocket. She handed out two ten-dollar chips.

      By this time, to Annie’s dismay, a small group started to form around the famous slot machine as the seniors started to argue again about who was going to press the button that might or might not make them rich. “You all need to just shut up for one minute here!” Annie screeched to be heard over the bells and whistles. “You!” she said, pointing to a mousy little lady wearing a shawl and carrying a string bag. The lady stepped forward and flexed her fingers.

      “Shouldn’t we say a prayer or bless ourselves or something?” the man with two hearing aids queried.

      “Absolutely!” Annie said through clenched teeth. She wished she was sitting in an office at the Post writing a grisly story about something or other, one that would win her a Pulitzer Prize.

      The mousy lady dropped the chip into the slot and pressed the button.

      “Well, so much for that!” someone groaned.

      “You still have one more chip!” Annie shouted.

      The mousy lady flexed her fingers, sucked in her breath, and pressed the red button.

      Pandemonium broke loose as Annie backed off and headed away from the fast-approaching crowd descending on the famous slot machine.

      Annie’s private cell phone rang. She clicked it open and drawled, “Yes?”

      “I heard what you just did, Countess de Silva!”

      “I bet you did. What are you going to do about it, Fish? Not that I give a tinker’s damn what you think.”

      “Nothing. I just wanted you to know I know. And to tell you I won’t be home until next week.”

      “I’m fed up with this place. But I have to tell you, that was the best and worst ten minutes of my time since I’ve been here. I’m going to Washington tomorrow.”

      “You gonna screw up the paper now?”

      “I am. I’m going to write op-ed pieces, cover the crap no one else wants, then I’ll move on to exposés and win a Pulitzer, and by the time they kick me out, it will be time to come back here and start all over again. I-am-bored, Fish!”

      Fish laughed. “You could start planning our wedding.”

      Annie started to sputter, but Fish clicked off in midsputter.

      Maggie Spritzer sat behind her desk and thought about going home, but she really didn’t want to do that. The house in Georgetown was empty, with only Ted’s cats, Mickey and Minnie, in residence. She’d moved them into her house while Ted was away working for Global Securities. God, how she missed him.

      She looked down at the ring on her left hand, then at the new acrylic nails she’d had put on once she kicked the very bad habit of chewing her nails. She hated the nails because they interfered with the keyboard when she was typing. She even had a French manicure that she had to keep up with, which also irritated her. The only alternative was to stop wearing the ring, remove the acrylic nails, and go back to the hateful habit of chewing her nails.

      Maggie’s door opened, and her secretary stuck her head in. “If you don’t need me for anything, Maggie, I’d like to leave a little early.”

      Maggie roused herself enough to reply. “No, go ahead—things are quiet, it’s summer, no news, politicians are going on recess, and we’re good. Sometimes I like it when nothing is going on in this damn crazy city. I’m thinking of leaving myself. See you in the morning.” She waved listlessly before the secretary closed the door.

      Maggie looked down again at the sparkling ring on her finger and her beautifully polished nails. They weren’t the only thing that was new in her life these days. She was no longer obsessed with food; her metabolism had somehow magically fallen back into the normal range. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that, because there were days when she barely ate at all. “Crap!” she said succinctly.

      Maggie heaved herself to her feet, looked around for her lightweight suit jacket, kicked off her heels, and slipped her feet into Velcro-strapped sneakers that she didn’t bother to fasten. Maybe when she got home she’d putter in the weed-filled garden or go for a run. She knew in her gut she probably wouldn’t do either of those things. She’d pour herself a glass of wine and park her butt in front of the television set and watch one of the twenty-four-hour news channels until she dozed off for a few hours. Result, she’d be sleepless the rest of the night. “Crap!” she said again.

      Maggie