Janet Evanovich: The Rocky Road to Romance

The fourth book in the Elsie Hawkins series, 1991

At 6:30 A.M., when Washington, D.C., was waking to another sweltering summer day, a Ledbetter Oil Company tank truck rolled off a ramp of the capital beltway, spilling five hundred gallons of highly flammable black gunk across four lanes of traffic. No one was injured, but the rush-hour commuters traveling the outer loop found themselves in hopeless gridlock surpassing even the normal snarl of morning traffic.

As operations manager of WZZZ, AM radio, Steve Crow didn’t wish bad luck on anyone, but in his eyes, thanks to Ledbetter Oil Company, this had all the makings of a superior Monday. It was now nine-thirty in the morning, and Ledbetter ’s gunk was still being sanded, shoveled, and scrubbed off the beltway, trapping half of Northern Virginia in transit. The nation’s movers and shakers were sweating and swearing in their cars, and each and every one of them was tuned to WZZZ. WZZZ told the news, all the news, and nothing but the news-twenty-four hours a day. And while some detractors of AM radio felt the call letters prophetic, no one caught in Washing-ton’s daily commuter crunch could deny the pull of WZZZ’s traffic report. Sooner or later, if you sat in traffic long enough, you tuned to WZZZ. During rush hours WZZZ kept a helicopter aloft, giving live traffic reports every fifteen minutes. The worse the traffic, the higher WZZZ climbed on the ratings charts-and today’s traffic was gloriously terrible.

Steve Crow was celebrating with a jelly doughnut, chewing happily, watching in fatalistic resignation as powdered sugar sifted onto his navy slacks. When a glob of jelly plopped onto his striped power tie, he muttered an expletive and yanked at the knot.

His secretary stopped by his open office door and shook her head when she saw him. “You get jelly doughnut on your tie again? How many does that make this month? Everybody knows you do it on purpose so you don’t have to wear a tie, so why don’t you just leave it at home?”

“Wouldn’t look good. I’m a professional person.”

“You’re a professional weirdo,” his secretary said. “Good thing for you you’re so good at what you do.”

“Mmmm, and I’m cute, too,” Steve said.

“Cute? Let me tell you… puppies are cute, panties that say Tuesday are cute, and drinks that come with little paper umbrellas are cute. You are not cute. You are wickedly handsome.”

He grinned and washed the doughnut down with half a cup of coffee. “Give yourself a raise, Charlene. And get me this week’s advertising schedule when you get a chance.”

“Work, work, work,” she said, then turned to march off to the copier. “I thought this was gonna be a glamour job. Get dressed up, meet some celebrities…”

Steve slouched in his chair and looked through the large glass window that separated him from his staff. He watched the anchor move through his cue cards, manipulating his tape carts and controls in a glassed-in booth at the far side of the room. The editor and the assistant editor sat at their console outside the broadcast booth. Reporters worked at consoles lined against the inside wall. Everything was cranking along perfectly. Steve smiled in satisfaction, flipping the switch to pipe the broadcast into his office.

Frank Menken, the midday traffic reporter, had just been cued in. From nine to four, when the traffic job wasn’t usually as critical, Menken took over the traffic car without the aid of a helicopter team. He drove a circular route around the city, relying on three scanners with a hundred bands apiece, a CB, a two-way radio, a car phone, and an AM radio equipped with an earplug. It was a grueling job that required being able to listen, talk, drive, and drink coffee, all at the same time.

“Traffic heavy on the G.W. Parkway due to construction,” Menken said, broadcasting as he drove. “We’ve got a minor delay on the approach to the Whitehurst Freeway. There’s been a three-car collision, but police are on the scene, and no one seems to be hurt. Prince George’s County reports…”

There was a pause in Menken’s rapid-fire recitation, then Menken suddenly launched into vigorous, unexpected swearing. Steve Crow jumped to his feet; the editor immediately cut Menken off the air, and the newsroom was filled with the crackle of static coming from Menken’s two-way radio. Just one word made its way through the static.

“-Garbage!” Menken gasped, then all was silent.

Daisy Adams was an enterprising twenty-six-year-old graduate student. She’d written a cookbook called Bones for Bowser, and somehow, through sheer tenacity, she’d managed to turn a gimmick into a five-minute slot on WZZZ every Monday morning. She filled her airtime with dog stories and gave detailed directions on how to make homemade dog biscuits, dog soup, and dog stew. She’d become the darling of the morning DJs on the FM stations, who made her the brunt of their jokes, referring to her as the “Dog Lady of Snore,” hitting on a tender subject for Steve Crow and his unfortunate luck in call letters.

A few wisps of bangs straggled over her forehead, tortoiseshell combs held her blond hair swept back from her temples, and big, loose curls tumbled in a luxuriant mass down the back of her head and neck to an inch below her shoulders. Her eyes were big and blue, her nose small, her mouth wide. She had a gamine quality to her face that was completely misleading because there wasn’t an ounce of gamine in her personality. Her ex-boyfriend had compared her to Attila the Hun, but most people thought she was more like the human version of the Little Engine That Could.

At ten-fifteen Daisy swung into the newsroom. She waved hello to the anchor in the glass booth and gave the Capitol Hill correspondent a bag of experimental snacks for his beagle. She adjusted the strap on her oversized shoulder bag and dropped into a seat beside the editor. “What happened to Frank? I heard him giving the traffic report while I was driving in. He said a rude word and that was the last of him.”

“Rear-ended a garbage truck and got buried under half a ton of Dumpster droppings. He’s okay except for a broken leg.”

Daisy pulled a five-by-seven card from her pocketbook and glanced over a recipe for dog granola. “That’s too bad. Who’s doing traffic?”

“Nobody’s doing traffic. Steve’s offered double Frank’s salary plus a year’s supply of Girl Scout cookies, but nobody’ll take it.”

Daisy felt her heart jump. Double Frank’s salary! “I could do it,” she said. “I need the money.”

“You need money that bad?”

She bit her lower lip to keep herself under control. This was the chance of a lifetime. She had enormous school expenses, a big rent payment due, a live-in little brother who was eating her out of house and home, and a car that drank a quart of motor oil a week. She was determined to make it on her own. Besides her dog lady job, she worked as a school crossing guard, a cab driver, a waitress on the dinner shift at Roger’s Steak House, and delivered newspapers. She’d written Bones for Bowser to give herself additional income, but she wasn’t due a royalty check for three more months. If she took the traffic job, she could drop waitressing. Maybe she could even give up the newspaper route. She was doing the dissertation for her doctorate, and she could work on it at night.

She swiveled in her seat and looked across the room at Steve Crow. She’d always been a little frightened of him. With his jet-black hair, dark, piercing eyes, and slightly aquiline nose, he was an intimidating figure. His complexion was dark, his shoulders broad, his hips narrow. The scuttle-but at the station said his father was pure-blood Native American; his mother was Hispanic.