Chapter 34 Burying the Hatchet #3
Molly unleashed a blizzard of salt on the fries. “I’m not missing the Bulls game if that’s where this is going,” she said.
“How’s Adam?” Ava asked Matt in what sounded like an “I’m-sick-of-sports” tone.
Matt’s heart swelled at mention of Adam’s name and the memory of their magical first date. He’d already told Ava about that night, worn her slick with his lovesickness. She was asking for updates, as in had they talked lately? Matt would call Adam that evening. He couldn’t wait to hear his voice.
“Can your camera take newspaper quality photos?” Matt asked Molly. “Vince—Remember I told you about him? His drag name is ‘Bella Bottoms?’ Anyway, Vince is helping, but we need a photographer. A good one. I told him you’re the best.”
“Pass the ketchup,” Molly grunted.
Matt handed her the ketchup, waited while she burped the bottle, then dredged a handful of fries through the red glop as though wetting a paintbrush.
“The camera’s no problem.” Molly talked around a mouthful of fries. “You can tell your ‘Bella’ friend we’re good on that score.” She patted her camera case. “This baby’s professional quality, with great shutter speed.”
“What’s the plan?” Ava asked. She hadn’t touched the fries. Sipped her Diet Dr. Pepper absently.
Molly held up a hand, fixed Matt with a stern look. “I have a feeling this is going to take a while. If so, you’re gonna need more than these fries to keep my attention. Plus, no matter how intriguing your plan is, I’m bugging out promptly at 5:00. Bulls come first.”
“They always do,” Ava sniped.
Matt laughed. Molly really could “hoover up” food, as William had said. You’d never know it by looking at her, though.
A few minutes later, after Matt had secured two burgers and some onion rings, he explained his plan—and Vince’s conditions, at least the two that affected Molly.
“You said the date is March 22nd,” Molly said. “What time?”
Matt shrugged. “9:00 p.m.? 10?”
Molly slurped her Coke. Shook her head. “Not good enough. You want this story in the next day’s Daily Oklahoman, right?
They have a print deadline. You need to find out what that is.
Then subtract a couple of hours. I’ll have to take the photos, develop them, polish the article, and submit it.
That’ll take at least a couple of hours. Three is probably a safer number.”
“You’re not seriously considering doing this, are you?” Ava asked Molly. “No offense, Matt, but what you’re planning is a crime. And I’m fairly certain that anyone who helps you is guilty of—what’s it called?—conspiracy.”
Matt shrugged. He had asked Garland this very question, posing it, of course, as a “hypothetical” during a break in one of their marathon Gay Team meetings at Nicholas’s house.
“Hypothetically speaking,” Garland had stressed, the person in the drag queen’s position would be committing a misdemeanor. And conspiracy only applied to felonies. So, not a problem legally for anyone at this table, which Matt explained to Molly and Ava. As for Bella, she knew the risks.
Molly thought it over for a minute, then moved on to Vince’s conditions. “He wants to see my camera? Fine. Examples of my work? Fine. In fact, I’ll ask around and find out where Oklahoma City police unload prisoners. I’ll get some practice shots, and we can show those to him as well.”
This was great news to Matt. He grinned.
Ava, on the other hand, was not happy. She sported a major frown.
“And a license agreement for Bella to use the photos for publicity?” Matt prodded.
“One year,” Molly said. “Not three. After one year, he pays me a fair rate. We can negotiate that.”
Matt guessed that Vince would accept Molly’s one-year counteroffer but wasn’t sure. “So, we’ve got a tentative deal?” he asked. “You’ll do it?”
Molly laughed. “Nice try, Screech! I haven’t even told you my conditions yet.”
“Conditions? Plural?”
“We’ll start with the easy one,” Molly said. “Pie. I saw coconut cream in the display case. Ava, do you want any?”
Ava shook her head.
Matt left and returned with pie for Molly. “Next?”
“I can take your photos,” Molly said. “But the folks at the Daily Oklahoman don’t know me from Eve.
I won’t get past the security desk, no matter how good my pics are.
The editor at the Oklahoman will be staring down an approaching print deadline and won’t have time for some knock-kneed, frowzy-haired college girl claiming to have a big scoop. ”
Molly continued. “You’ve obviously got media connections—at least on the TV side.
You’re gonna need someone to grease the skids for me with the Oklahoman.
Enough grease to get me in the door and for me to get at least a shared byline on the article that accompanies my photo.
And sole image credit for the photo. I’m not sharing the limelight with their staff photographer or anyone else. ”
Matt had not considered these things, and worried as to what else he’d overlooked. Hopefully, Nicholas had contacts at the Oklahoman. “Okay. I’ll take an IOU on that and get back with you. Any other conditions?”
“Yeah, the big one. The GM has to share their clubhouse with us lesbians.”
Ava jumped in. “And William must quit calling Molly, ‘Moldy Ringworm.’”
Matt was stunned. “Want me to throw in a million dollars as well?” he asked sarcastically. “Season tickets to Bulls games? You know William isn’t going to agree to either of those conditions. As far as he’s concerned, Molly, you’re his arch nemesis. He loves hating you.”
“And therein lies the problem,” Molly said. “While William’s been hating me, his ex-boyfriend has wreaked havoc with your sort. Colton’s your problem. Not mine. My problem is that my girls and I don’t have anywhere to kick back, crack open a cold one, and watch the Superbowl or the Masters.”
Matt slumped in his seat. Deflated. Defeated.
Without Molly, the whole plan fell apart.
Vince had stipulated that the price for his participation in Operation Cockroach Squash was a good photographer and a licensing agreement.
So, no Molly, no Vince, which meant that Colton’s reign of terror would continue.
Which also meant Adam would not return to MCU.
And it wasn’t like Matt could just put an ad in the paper for another photographer, as in “Help Wanted: experienced photographer for questionably legal, ethically murky event orchestrated by nineteen-year-old soccer player and starring a raunchy drag queen. Must provide own equipment. No pay, but possible copyright royalties—assuming you snap the perfect pic.”
Ava snickered.
Matt wasn’t in a laughing mood. “What’s so funny?”
“You are,” Ava said. “Funny. The great ‘Mustang’ who fearlessly took on the whole administration and brought them to their knees and got Debbie re-hired. That guy is afraid of William Tyler Jennings, a scrawny queen who says ‘dahling’ all the time.”
“I’m not afraid of him, DAHLING!” Matt retorted.
Ava smiled. “Then do what ‘Mustang’ would do and find a solution.”
Molly pushed her pie plate away, snapped her fingers to get Matt’s attention.
“Ava’s right, you know. Quit moping and live up to your name. And, likewise, you and William should also be hoping that I won’t live up to mine. You’re named after a horse. My namesake was an eighteenth-century hooker who murdered her clients with an axe.”
“What?” Matt was surprised. “I thought you were named after that actress?”
“That’s what William thinks, too,” Molly said.
“Men aren’t very good with Math—among other things.
They always round five inches up to eight, as if their lovers don’t know the difference.
Molly Ringwald didn’t star in any movies until the mid-eighties.
I was ten at the time, so, clearly not named after her.
And, while I respect her accomplishments, I’m tired of people thinking I’m named after her. ”
“Who then?” Matt asked. The only other Molly he knew of was Molly Brown, the unsinkable one. Not a prostitute. No axes either. Wrong century.
“True story,” Molly said. “My mom grew up in Florida. By the early ‘70’s, she was in Jacksonville, going to a lot of dive bars that featured local bands. She started dating this guy in a band called ‘Molly Hatchet.’ Supposedly the band was named after some axe-murdering prostitute ‘Hatchet Molly.’”
“Mom moved in with ‘Molly Hatchet’ guy, got a tramp stamp tattoo on her ass—a big hatchet, got pregnant, got dumped, found a Bible thumper to marry her, and named her daughter ‘Molly Hatchett McGee.’ That’s me. McGee is my stepdad’s last name.”
“Wow!” Matt couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“That’s one word for it.” Molly looked at her watch, stood up.
“I’m out of food and it’s close to 5:00, so the Bulls are calling.
The point of my story, Mustang, is that I’m named after a lady who got tired of living in a world where men made all the rules and women were expected to clean up their messes.
From where I sit, not much has changed. Call me when you work things out with William. ”