"Who's running the show?" the President asked with interest.
"Ah," Phil said ripping through his notes, "Rickfield, sir."
"That bigot? Christ. I guess it could be worse. We could have ended up with Homer Simpson." The easing of tension worked to the President's advantage, for a brief moment. "I want the whole picture, the good and the bad, laid out for me." He scanned his private appointment book. "Two weeks. Is that long enough to find out why I'm always the last to know?"
* * * * *
Wednesday, December 30
New York
"Scott Mason," Scott said answering the phone with his mouth full of hot pastrami on rye with pickles and mayonnaise.
"Scott? It's Tyrone." Tyrone's voice was quiet, just about a whisper.
"Oh, hi." Scott continued to chew. Scott was unsuccessfully trying not to sound angry.
Other than following Scott's articles in the paper, they had had no contact since that eventful phone call a month ago. Since then, Scott had made sure that they rode on different cars during their daily commute into the city. It was painful for both of them since they had been close friends, but Scott was morally obligated, so he thought, to cut off their association after Tyrone broke the cardinal rule of all journalists; keep your sources protected. And, Tyrone had broken that maxim. Scott had not yet learned that the Bureau made their own rules, and that the gentleman's agreement of off-the-record didn't carry weight in their venue.
"How have you been?" Tyrone said cordially. "Good bit of work you been doing."