Page 86 of By Any Means

Before he could lose his nerve, he knocked.

Halting, uneven steps from beyond—the door flew open. “Chary.”

Once again to see Laurie’s handsome face was a hot relief. “I’m sorry. Were you asleep? I shouldn’t have⁠—”

“No, I wasn’t. Can’t. You neither?” He stepped back. “Come in. I was gonna just order some more food—you want some?”

Chary didn’t know what he wanted. Not food. He did follow Laurie into the room. It was a mirror image of his but with a couch. The bed did not look slept-in. The table held lined papers a-scattered, one tossed-down pen, a silver-dome meal cover, cutlery, and empty plate.

“Or at least help me decipher this menu. Block off the prices. I don’t think I can do it twice in a day.”

“I’m not hungry; I’m sorry. But by all means.”

“Oh, well, then nah.” He tossed the menu to the table. “I dunno why I care when it’s expensed, and Sam’s paying… You oughta see the bills Hiram racks up when he’s out on assignment. I’m the least of it.”

Laurie seemed nervous. He had put back on his out-of-season suit, complete again since Chary had given back the jacket hours before. Chary himself was very aware of his thinly robed self.

He folded the robe over himself. “Because you feel as though you owe him enough already?”

“Yeah, I guess you could say that. What’s lunch against an education, a career, and furnished bail?”

“Columbia University?” Chary guessed. “He sponsored you?”

“Columbia,” Laurie confirmed. “Funny thing about socialists—they walk the walk, a lotta times.”

“That worked out for him.”

“Probably not for much longer,” Laurie said wryly.

Chary found himself not even hesitating. “What if I could give you the whole tapestry?”

“What?”

“The whole story.”

“I’m not writing about you, Chary, I said. It’s not happening. Alright?”

“Not that.” He almost couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of it before. If anyone could understand, a socialist would probably stretch furthest. A socialist with a career dedicated to worker rights and toppling monopolies even more so. Lawrence Tulley was the perfect candidate. A natural choice to crack open the industry in the name of change. “Say I could get you into the glassworks. You’ve written about child labor before, but never glassworker boys. Would Sam Sullivan want something like that?”

“Would he?” Laurie said. “Geez. No journalist’s gotten into a glassworks firsthand, and you know it. Probably, he’d cry.”

“So, it’d be something to give him?”

Laurie began to pace: bed to couch and back again. “Yeah, it would.” He whistled. “Hell. That kind of thing, I could serialize it. You know how many glasshouses there are on the East Coast? And you’re not unionized—no problem with advertisers… When were you thinking to let me in? Next week? God, if I even have a job next week.”

Hence Chary’s urgency, the frantic vibration beneath his skin.

“Well… I was thinking tonight. It’s Wednesday. I should be working.” Then it occurred to him: “Of course, your ankle…”

“Tonight? Jesus. Anyone, excepting you, Chary Wright, should be working. But my ankle will be fine. I can walk, can’t I?” He demonstrated across the carpet.

“If you’re fine, then I am,” Chary said stubbornly.

“Ow!” Laurie jerked forward, clutching at his ankle. Chary startled. “No, sorry,” Laurie groaned. “Looks like next week it will have to be.” He hissed in pain for two halting, hunching steps, and then, halfway raised up, he winked. Pain gone.

“Oh, Lord above. You scared me, Laurie Tulley.”

Laurie wheezed with giggles and fell back onto the bed. “Come sit down. Did you even try to sleep?”