Robert B. Parker’s Revenge Tour

Thirty-Seven

The Observer-Dispatch was located at Oriskany Plaza. The staff was back at the office, I was told at the receptionist’s desk, after spending almost two years working remotely. When I told her who I was and what I was in Whitesboro working on, she said she’d be right back, and walked through their city room. Came back a few minutes later with the boss.

The name of the paper’s editor and lead columnist was Tom Gorman. He didn’t look like the actor Daniel Craig. But he reminded me of him, just without the James Bond accent. Not much more than my height. But definitely checking all the cute boxes.

Down, girl.

Working here.

We were in his office. He had called in an intern and told the young woman she needed to take a trip back in time for a former employee. “How far back, Mr. Gorman?” the kid had asked. “When dinosaurs roamed the earth,” he said. “The Reagan administration.”

While we waited for her to come back he said, “We don’t give this kind of service to just anybody. But you have an honest face.”

“So does Lester Holt,” I said.

He laughed and did some bragging on the paper, saying it was still doing the kind of local journalism that was dying in far too many places around the country. I asked him how he’d ended up here. He said he’d ended up majoring in journalism. Said it was his idea of the American dream, after growing up a foster kid.

“Good for you,” I said.

“You know what they say,” he said. “School of hard knocks.”

“I’d be generally more impressed with you,” I said, “if not for the honest-face comment.”

“I meant it as a compliment,” he said.

“Telling me I reminded you of Emma Stone would have been a compliment,” I said.

He laughed again. It was a good laugh, both genuine and unforced. Definitely cute.

“Have you ever read Melanie Joan?” I said.

“I plan to,” he said. “Right after I finish rereading Ulysses.”

“You haven’t read Ulysses,” I said. “No one has.”

“But I’ve read about her,” Gorman said. “And I’ve seen the same stuff you have about her having worked here. But I frankly never cared enough to check if she actually did.”

“What kind of local journalism is that?” I said.

The intern came back with a printout and handed it to Gorman. He glanced at it, grinned at me.

“She was here for what would have been one semester,” he said. “September through Christmas.”

“She tells interviewers she worked her way through school,” I said.

“Then she must have won the lottery while she did,” Gorman said. “Because according to our records, it looks like she went off for Christmas vacation and never came back. At least not back here.”

“Makes for a nice story, though,” I said.

“Doesn’t it, though,” he said. “Apparently she doesn’t just make shit up in her books.”

I thanked him for his time. He asked how long I planned to be in town. I told him I’d probably be leaving tomorrow. He said that left time for us to have dinner.

I was at the door by then.

“Come to think of it,” he said, “you do remind me of Emma Stone.”

“Too late,” I said.