Read Choke Point for Free Online Page B

walk. Not a woman easily intimidated. She trusts the safety of the surroundings. If he’d chosen a city park, she never would’ve showed.
    His moment has arrived. He doesn’t consider himself much of an actor, but presenting himself to women is easy enough. Second nature. As smooth as the beer. He’s never been afraid of women. Appreciates the companionship. He’d rather see a movie with someone than alone, would rather share the Sunday paper, a meal, a drink.
    The coffee she describes to the waitress has so many adjectives and descriptive clauses that the two might as well be speaking a foreign language. The waitress apparently has no trouble with interpretation and is off.
    She stares at him. Not exactly sizing him up, but not letting him off the hook. If he were an artist he might consider painting her. He’d like to see her naked; it’s one of the first thoughts that pops into his head, and it surprises him. It’s her skin that is the elixir. He wants to see what that coloring does to all the various parts. His imagination is a little wild with it, and he blames it on the beer. He doesn’t consider himself the type to first undress a woman, and yet that’s exactly what he’s done. He can imagine she smells different—exotic, sweetly perfumed, but heavy with the musky scent from between her legs. It’s not a reaction he’s comfortable with. He’s aware it can give her an unfair advantage, a leverage that he has no intention of giving. He has only seen her at a distance. Sitting so close is disarming.
    She possesses a professional edge that allows several minutes to hang in the air between them, the pendulum swinging back and forth between their nearly unflinching eyes. Each is waiting for the other to say something. Both understand that in a hand of bridge the lead carries a great burden: it establishes hierarchy, it sets the suit to be played. Better to let the other lead, and then elect to match suit or trump.
    “John Steele,” he says. He has always gotten a kick out of the surname. Strong. Heavy. He pulls a business card out of his pocket knowing she isn’t the type to care about a business card, but he went to the bother—for her sake—and he has planned this out, and the business card is part of the plan. So he slides it across the table to her, and she flicks it by the corner in order to pick it up. Reads it. Flips it over. Looks back across to him. Maybe it has had more of an effect on her than he thought it might. Europe and Asia put much more stock in business cards than America. She’s a reporter. Maybe it’s enough evidence.
    “So?” she says.
    “The article on the sweatshop. Good writing. Bad photo.”
    “It was carried on the wire, that photo. Published all around the world.” Her English is very good, though her accent thick.
    “McDonald’s operates all around the world. I still don’t eat there.” He’d hoped for a smile, but she isn’t volunteering.
    “Canada? The U.S.?”
    “Once upon a time. And that time was a long time ago. Have you not seen my work?”
    She studies the business card for a second time. “What is it you want?”
    “I’ve been trying to get up my nerve to make you a business proposition. But you don’t make it easy. And I’m not exactly sure what’s going on with you. There are two of them. They take turns in the café.” He waits for that to sink in. “Watching you.”
    “You were able to text me.”
    “I sat above you in the café. Your Nokia shows its number when it boots up. You might want to change that.”
    She wants to scoff at this; appears about to do so. He assumes it’s the look he gives her that convinces her otherwise. Knox never shies from allowing his confidence to show.
    “Are you so resourceful? I don’t like this.”
    “If you’re going after the story of the people running the sweatshop,” Knox says, “and I believe you are, it needs photographs. A hidden camera? Video? You know it. I know it.”
    “The paper has