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intended effect. Neil isn’t buying it.
    “No, really,” says Manning. “Daryl was serious. They were in college together. He knows. David’s butch act is just a cover.”
    “Oh?” Neil is now fully attentive. “And …?”
    “And … I thought you’d want to know.” Manning doesn’t mention that he’s high on David’s “most wanted” list. Such a detail would cause more trouble than the momentary ego-boost would be worth.
    “God,” says Neil, “if he ever gropes his way out of the closet, it’ll be open season. With that face— and body—he could bag any prey in his sights.”
    “Think so?” asks Manning, detached, now lost in his own thoughts. He doesn’t hear Neil’s answer.
    Back at their building, climbing the stairs behind Neil, Manning recalls a similar view of Neil’s body when they first ran together on a winter morning in Phoenix some two years ago. They had met in Chicago in the fall during a business trip of Neil’s. Manning recognized at once that their budding friendship carried carnal overtones that he both welcomed and suppressed. Confused but determined to resolve the issue, he accepted Neil’s invitation to spend a long holiday weekend with him at his home in the desert. They went running that first morning—it was Christmas. All was quiet as they wound their way along a mountain road that took them back to the house. Neil led the way, and Manning watched, mesmerized by the movement of his younger friend’s body, the clenching of his calf muscles, the trickle of sweat that soaked the crack of his shorts. When they arrived at the house, they walked without discussion to a concealed courtyard in back, where they made love under a pristine blue sky. Their drive was so urgent, they didn’t take time to remove their running shoes. They later joked about the kinkiness of that first torrid mating, but the memory—the images of it—remained etched in their minds. To this day, they have indulged in the private celebration of a mutual fetish.
    Arriving at the door to their loft, Neil inserts the key. There in the hallway, Manning nuzzles up behind Neil, pressing his nylon shorts against Neil’s rump. He grabs a shock of Neil’s hair and turns his head, speaking point-blank into his ear: “Let’s horse around.”
    Neil opens the door. “We’ve got work to do, pal.”
    But it’s a mild protest, and as soon as the door closes behind them, they’re at it—on the floor. It’s been a while, and both quickly succumb to the lure of impromptu sex. Their shorts are off by now, but neither has bothered to remove his shoes. They are transported to a warm Christmas morning when their lives first merged.
    Just as their senses begin to cloud, their frenzy is penetrated by the beep of a pager—it’s an arm’s length away, clipped to the waistband of Manning’s shorts.
    Neil catches his breath. “That better be important.”
    “Sorry, kiddo.” Manning rolls over and peers at the gadget. “It’s Gordon. I’d better return the call.”
    Neil lies watching, grinning, as Manning rises and crosses to the phone, his treaded soles squeaking on the polished wood floor.
    Manning dials and waits. “Hello, Gordon,” he says. “You beeped?”
    “Yeah, Marko,” the editor’s voice buzzes over the phone, “sorry to bother you at home, but Nathan just phoned. He wants to see both of us upstairs tomorrow—early.”
    “Hmm,” says Manning, impressed that he would be summoned to the top-floor office of the Journal’s publisher. Few lowly reporters have ever set foot in Nathan Cain’s penthouse lair—though tales of the walnut-paneled “inner sanctum” abound. Manning asks Smith, “Do you know what he wants?”
    “I assume it relates to Zarnik, but who knows? I wish Cliff Nolan had delivered that story as planned—we’d be done with it now.”
    “That reminds me,” says Manning. “Are you aware that Cliff actually interviewed Zarnik? They met on Monday afternoon.”
    Smith