The office of The Las Vegas Weekly Wierdo reeks of burnt coffee and hot toner. The office is just two rooms. Frankie Cross doesn't mind the size; she likes that everyone shares a cramped space. Stacks of papers everywhere, boxes filled with unsold zines or electronics cover the walls and bleed into the sections between desks. The ancient chipped wooden floor is only visible from the small paths leading to and from the copier, the desks, and the break room.
It's the stink she hates.
Frankie slouches in her wooden chair. Her puffy jacket engulfs her. She stares at the photocopier shoved next to her desk as Lorna, big-haired and southern, feeds the pages of this week's zines through the copier. She'll be there for an hour, easy.
Frankie spins her fidget spinner. She runs her tongue across her teeth. One of these days, she'll take a bat to that machine.
Lorna hums a song—something from the fifties. She taps a chunky gold ring against the side of the copier. Her fingers stained green from rubbing against the cheap gold. Frankie's gaze travels from Lorna's finger to her own. Rough cuticles, chipped purple nail polish, the same color as her shoes. She gives her fidget spinner another spin.
Claire, Frankie's photographer and a self-proclaimed psychic, sits cross-legged on an upside-down milk crate. She hums along and snaps test shots with her new iPhone camera lens. She leans close to a cactus on the desk and takes a photo. Frowns. Then takes another. She adjusts the brightness, her brows knit, her tongue poking out of the side of her mouth.
Frankie swivels in her chair, then stands. She heads to Tony's side of the office and leans against the bookshelf. Claire follows, her wooden beads clacking loudly.
A young man sits across from Tony. He's talking fast, his voice shaky. Tony nods along, scribbling notes on a pad. Tony's old tape recorder between them. From back when he was a legitimate journalist and forty pounds lighter.
"I can't sleep. I've been up for days," the guy says. He grips the front of his jeans, his leg bouncing a mile a minute.
"He's watching me. always."
"The Preacher," Tony adds.
"Yes. And the color."
"The one you can't describe." Tony leans back, straining the buttons on the front of his shirt. "We'll hit up a paint shop, get some swatches, give you some options. We'll find it."
"No. It's not that I don't know the color; I know colors. But this one—this one's not a normal color, it's…" He gestures frantically. "Indescribable."
Tony nods and scribbles more notes.
The man leans back, sighs, and yanks at his hair.
Frankie spins her fidget spinner and stares. The guy's a wreck: messy hair, wrinkled shirt, stained jeans.
"Cross!" Tony yells, then spots her. "Good, I've got a new assignment for you. Guy saw God in his drywall. Headline writes itself!"
"What? No. I'm on the Nude Sand Sculpture Competition. You promised!"
"Yeah, you promised us buns. Lots of em!" Claire adds.
"Glenn's got it now," Tony says.
"Yes!" Glenn shouts from across the office. "Finally, something with class!"
Frankie leans around the bookshelf and glares at Glenn from across the room. He gives her a wide, smug smile. "Try not to get converted, Cross."
Frankie draws a finger across her neck. "Your death will be slow, Glenn."
She turns back to Tony. "You did the same thing with the Annual Alan Convention!"
"Yeah, we were supposed to judge who looked the most 'Alan' among them! I looked forward to it all year."
"Do you want to disappoint this charming little girl again?" Frankie gestures to Claire, who pouts.
"I'm eighteen," Claire mutters. "Not a little girl."
"Forget her. You want to screw over your best reporter, again?"
Glen laughs. Loud. Frankie whips around and glares.
"I will hang you by those dorky suspenders!"
"Enough!" Tony yells. He jabs a stubby finger at them. "Cross, you and Voyant are on Preacher duty."
"Yes, sir," they say in unison.
The guy shrinks into his chair. His fingers dig into his jeans. Claire stares at him. Sighs. Looks down and chews her lip.
Claire walks over and kneels. "Mind if I do a quick vibe check?"
He looks around, confused.
Frankie shrugs.
Tony leans back in his chair. "It's her thing."
"Okay."
She breathes in. Holds it. Exhales and sets her hands on his. His grip on his jeans loosens. She closes her eyes and breathes again.
The young man fidgets in his seat.
Claire opens her eyes and smiles. "We need to take this one."
Frankie sighs and rolls her eyes. "Fine."
"Great!" Tony jumps to his feet. "Now, everyone, get the hell out!"
Frankie kicks the front door open and steps into the harsh Vegas sun. She carries a milk crate filled with cables, EMF meters, and other spirit-hunting junk.
Claire skips after her, her tote bouncing against her hip and her sandals slapping against the pavement. She heads for the passenger side of Frankie's beat-up Outback.
Glenn jogs behind.
"No hard feelings, right?"
Frankie doesn't answer.
He sprints ahead and yanks the back door open. Frankie dumps the boxes in without looking at him.
"There's gonna be women modeling at this sand sculpture thing, right?" Glenn asks, grinning like a creep.
Frankie slams the trunk shut and turns, all smile.
"No, Glenn. All male nudes. Geared for a very specific male audience." She steps closer. "You'll be very popular." She snaps one of his suspenders.
She walks around the car and climbs in.
"What do you mean?"
Frankie doesn't answer. She shuts the door.
Claire beams. "Enjoy the hunky butts, you lucky ducky!" she hits her pink vape, exhaling a marshmallow-scented cloud, and climbs in. "Take pics!"
The engine coughs. Catches, then they pull away from the curb.
Glenn stands in the middle of the street. His hands limp at his sides.
"What do you mean…?"