Page 5 of Blame it on the Bet
“Sorry about that. I was actually calling to speak with Jack O’Halloran, please.”
There’s a long pause.
“And who did you say you are?” She sounds suspicious all of a sudden.
“My name is Bryan Truitt, of The Truitt Group in Los Angeles.”
Another long pause before I get a chilly response. “I see. Well, sorry, but he’s not available.”
“Okay, can you tell me when he will be available?” I persist. “I’ve been trying to reach him for some time.”
“I’m sorry, but you’ll need to take it up with the manager.
That would be Hennessy.”
“Hennessy?”
“Hennessy.”
“Is Hennessy there now?”
“No. I’m here.”
“And you’re not Hennessy.”
“No, I already told you. I’m Walker.” “So when is a good time to call back?” “Look, Mr. Pruitt…”
“Truitt. It’s Truitt.”
“Fine. Whatever. Just give me your number, and I’ll leave a message.”
No way I’m letting this go now that I’ve got a real live human being on the line.
“I’m sorry, but I’m not prepared to do that,” I inform her coolly.
“Suit yourself. Call back when you are prepared to do that. Until then, you’re not speaking to anyone. Including me.”
An earful of dial tone assaults me before I can object. “What just happened?” I mutter, still staring at the phone in my hand.
I sit back in my chair and close my eyes, breathing in for five counts, then out for five counts. In, out. In, out, until I feel my blood pressure drop. My therapist calls it “square breathing” or some nonsense like that. But I have to hand it to her, it works.
In. Out. In. Out… Oh to hell with this.
“Helen!” I bellow.
In three seconds flat, my door flies open and short, squat Helen is standing in the doorway. “Did I give you the impression that I’m hard of hearing?”
“Sorry,” I mutter, pulling a bottle of aspirin from my desk drawer and pouring a few directly into my mouth, chasing them with a gulp of coffee. “I need you to clear my schedule for the rest of the week and make travel plans for me.”
She nods, making a note on her pad.
“Where?”
“Mayhem, Minnesota.”
Helen looks up at me.
“Where?”
