In the meantime he sucked down orange juice and reviewed his notes. Between hands the previous night he’d been scribbling madly and interviewing players. Now he pondered and framed his actual article. Movement flickered in his peripheral vision and someone sat across the booth from him. It wasn’t Gwen, though, but a dark-haired guy with a narrow face. “Can I help you?” “You’re Del Redmond, right?” Del blinked. Five hundred miles from his home, it was the last thing he’d have expected to hear. “And you are?” “Pete Kellar, stringer for the Globe.” The guy’s speech was staccato. His chin punched the air assertively. “Greg Jessup asked me to look in on you.” He squinted. “I gotta say, your head shot in the paper doesn’t do you justice.” “So, what are you looking in on me for?” The kid didn’t look old enough to be a stringer. He barely looked old enough to have graduated college. It didn’t stop him from settling in as if he’d been invited, though.
