Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 83501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 418(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 418(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
But cooler heads prevailed, namely one John Kisner who, as he was working on my very painful rib tattoo last night, told me the best way to get it back was with the promise of something he can’t pass up.
It was easy enough to get Betta’s phone number, and he returned my call within five minutes of me leaving a voicemail.
“Mr. Bateman… is this call on the record?” he asked, assuming I was calling about the article.
“It’s not, but I’d like to meet.”
The man couldn’t contain his excitement. “Will you give me a quote I can use?”
“On one condition,” I said. “I want the journal back.”
There was dead silence, and I waited for him to parcel out how badly he needed to keep it.
I pressed him hard. “That journal is important to Stevie Kisner. She’s been journaling her whole life. You’re not just holding a few facts about the Titans, you’re holding a chunk of her memories. She deserves to have it back.”
There was a very long pause before he said, “If you give me a recorded quote I can use, I’ll give you the journal.”
I had to control my anger because he acted like it was his property. It’s not. It was stolen, and he had no right to it. I could go to the police, but this way will be quicker and honestly… more fun.
We made plans to meet tonight after the game at an independent coffee shop about two blocks from the arena where I’ve been before. I easily identify him from his picture that accompanied the article.
He stands from a back corner booth and I walk that way. His hand comes out and I’m loath to shake it, but I’m playing nice until that journal is in my possession.
“It’s an honor to meet you,” Carmine says, pumping my hand hard. “Sorry about the game tonight. Want me to get you a coffee or anything?”
“I’m good, man. Thanks for meeting me.”
Carmine laughs and motions toward the booth. “Like I’d pass up an interview with Hendrix Bateman.”
“This isn’t an interview,” I say, making sure he’s clear as we both slide in.
“But I get a quote from you,” he presses.
“Yeah… I’ll give you a quote. But I want the journal.”
“Quote first,” he says, pulling a handheld recorder out of his shirt pocket and placing it on the table.
“Journal first. And I’ll remind you that it’s stolen property. I could just as easily call the police. I could call the newspaper and threaten a defamation lawsuit. I could pull your scrawny ass out of this booth and stomp it for what you did to her. But I’m willing to give you an on-the-record quote if you just hand over the fucking journal.”
“Fine,” he grumbles and reaches into an olive-green canvas satchel sitting beside him. He pulls out Stevie’s brown leather journal missing the page she gave to me, predicting we would fall in love.
I itch to lunge across the table for it, but I wait for him to offer it to me. He lets it go without hesitation. When it’s firmly in my grasp, a wave of giddiness hits me that I’ve recovered this for Stevie, but it’s quashed when he pushes the red button on the recorder. “This is Carmine Betta, and it’s December 30. I’m with Hendrix Bateman of the Pittsburgh Titans, and we are on the record. Hendrix… you’ve promised a quote regarding the article that was released last Friday. What was your reaction?”
Keeping the journal firm in my hand, I lean forward so the recorder has no problem picking up my voice. “My reaction? Well, I guess I’m mostly shocked that you’d use stolen personal property with private information you had no permission to use—”
Carmine makes a grab for the recorder to turn it off. My hand flies out, grabbing him by the wrist, and I hold it tight as I continue. “However, that aside, I’d like to say formally, on the record and on behalf of the Titans’ organization, the inaccuracies you reported and the exploitative slant you applied doesn’t touch a single person you wrote about. They’re all good people—including me—and the fans of Pittsburgh know that. I think it was clear by the number of comments denouncing your attempt to discredit us that you’re nothing but a wannabe journalist, and I expect the only reason you’re here right now is that the National Enquirer didn’t want you.”
I release Carmine’s wrist, and he slumps back in his seat, mouth hanging in shock. I reach down, turn off the recorder, and slide out of the booth. “You have my permission to print that word for word.”
He won’t, though.
I head out of the coffee shop and back to the players’ parking lot at the arena.
Next stop… Jerry’s Bar.
♦
Taking a deep breath, I tuck the journal inside my coat and zip it up. The style has a fitted waist so the book won’t slide out.