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'Don't say that even joking, John. You did a wonderful, heroic thing, and you deserve recognition for it. My God, the woman has platinum records. She's a legend. And you saved her life.' Lynn was silent for a moment. Then she said, 'I still can't believe you didn't tell me about it.' |
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'I knew you'd make a fuss.' |
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'You spend one day by yourself in San Francisco and save the life of a legend and you don't even tell your own wife. I have to find out from strangers.' |
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'They weren't supposed to find out, either.' |
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John had thought, for more than a week after returning home, that he'd gotten away clean. Then, the call came. Apparently, some damn paparazzo had followed him to the car after he broke that crazy bastard's arm and fled through the crowd. He'd never gotten a photo of John's face, but a snapshot of the car revealed its license plate number, and either the freelancer or someone at the magazine got his identity through the DMV. The call had come from an editor, who wanted to send out a staff writer and photographer to do a feature article on him. An exclusive. Passerby Confronts Gunman, Saves Life of Rock Superstar. John's 'Thanks, but I'm not interested' only seemed to make the editor more persistent. But John had held his ground, stuck to his refusal. |
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He was taking a shower half an hour later when the editor called again. This time, Lynn had answered the phone. |
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Thus, a dinner tonight at the Edgewood with a |
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