Subject: NEW:  "Breaking the News" by Bonnie Drew
From: amstone@ix.netcom.com(Alaina M. Stone)
Date: 23 Jul 1997 05:31:42 GMT

Well, this is the first in a series arc (maybe) for Regina and Skinner.
 The events here take place approximately one week after the closing
scenes in "Nightmares."  Mostly, it's just an excuse for me to
fantasize about Walter Skinner in Marine dress blacks.  (Hey, sailor. 
New in town?) 

Walter Skinner is the property of Chris Carter and 10-13 productions,
but I reserve the right to use him like a dishrag when I see him.  Sam
Gerard belongs to Tommy Lee Jones (sigh) and the producers, writers,
directors of _The Fugitive_.  Regina Skinner belongs to me, as does
Bruce Coogan.  If this story creates any interest, please let me know. 
I want to know if it's worth continuing this arc.  Comments to Bonnie
Drew amstone@ix.netcom.com.

Breaking the News
by Bonnie Drew

     Bruce Coogan was bored.  Bored, bored, bored.  Despite the quart
or so of Scotch he's swigged down, his editor's words still rang
between his ears.  
     "Stick to the who, what, where, how and why, you muckraker, or
you'll be teaching summer school journalism classes to
thirteen-year-olds!"
     Who the hell did that tub of lard think he was?
     So maybe Coogan's methods weren't exactly, purely,
journalism-school ethical.  It sold papers, right?  And if the elite of
Washington D. C. couldn't keep their flies zipped, was that his
business?  And if the hookers were willing to talk to get some coin,
was that his fault?  So, he'd had a couple of the working girls tell
stories that weren't strictly true.  Truth was relative, after all, and
that's what the public wanted.  He didn't make up the stories, he just
wrote them.
     And now his editor was breathing sausages down his neck because of
one of the stories the paper printed.  Apparently, the senator who was
the object of the latest piece hadn't approved of what was said about
him by his companion.  That was common enough.
     What was uncommon was the girl.  She'd disappeared.  Her roommate
said she'd packed up and moved out.  No one could find her. 
     Coogan squirmed in his seat at the bar.  She'd probably died on
him or something, the little sow.  Her statements "could not be
verified" as Coogan's editor had phrased it and now the illustrious
statesman was suing for defamation of character.  The paper wasn't too
worried.  The clerk at the hotel had seen the senator take the girl
upstairs, but Coogan had only found out about this _after_ the story
had run and the girl gone.
     It had hit the fan then.  After the dust settled, Coogan thought
uneasily, he might be out of a job.  But at least he had one at
present.
     He took another swig of Scotch.  Such as it was.  That statement
could be applied to both the Scotch and the banquet.  
     Marines.
     You would think that the military could afford something more than
rubbery chicken and watered-down booze to honor the retirement of one
of its finest.  But no.  The stepping down of Colonel Brian Thorton was
celebrated with the usual bland fare.  There wasn't even a
decent-looking woman in the place, Coogan thought sourly.  "Get me
another, will ya?"
     The bartender, dapper in black vest and bow tie, leaned forward. 
"Buddy, I think you've had enough."
     "I'm still talkin', ain't I?  That means I'm not nearly drunk
enough."
     The kid shrugged.  "Suit yourself.  But I'm not serving you
anymore tonight.  Go sleep it off."
     "Listen, you punk!  I'm a member of the press!  Do you know who I
am?"
     The bartender gazed at him with complete disinterest.  "I don't
care if you're Woodward _and_ Bernstein.  I'm not serving you anymore."
     Yet another Marine in dress-blacks shouldered his way up to the
bar.  Coogan bit back a caustic comment after getting a good look at
the man's shoulders.  This was no kid.  Coogan may be drunk, but he
wasn't stupid.
     "Tommy, a woman at the next table spilled her drink," a baritone
voice rumbled quietly past Coogan's shoulder.  "Could you get someone
to clean it up, please?"
     "Sure, Mr. Skinner.  Right away."
     The newcomer nodded and the bartender corrected himself.  
     "I guess it's Lieutenant Skinner, huh?"
     The older man gave him a wry look.  "Once upon a time, Tommy.  I'm
just glad the uniform still fits.  Excuse me."  He pushed away from the
bar and disappeared back into a knot of uniforms.  Coogan stared
through bleary eyes.
     "Hey, barkeep.  You know that guy?"
     "Sure.  That's Mr. Skinner.  He was a Marine in Vietnam.  Not a
bad tipper, either."
     "Yeah, but do you know what he does now?"
     Tommy frowned.  "I think he's in the F.B.I."
     "An Assistant Director in the F. B. I."  Coogan sat up eagerly. 
"What's he been drinking?"
     "He's had a beer or two.  Why?"
     Coogan slumped over the bar.  "Why would he want to stay sober on
a night like this?"
     Tommy gave him a knowing look.  "You would want to stay sober too
if you had a honey like that on your arm."  The bartender jerked his
chin toward one of the round tables in the corner of the hotel banquet
hall.
     The reporter's eyes followed the gesture.  The first things he saw
were legs.  Very long feminine legs that went on for a mile or two. 
Maybe three.  She was sitting sideways and very straight in her chair,
making his view of her profile.  He decided not to rush his look at
her.  Bare legs with a lot of smooth, mahogany-colored skin. 
Tawny-colored velvet draped over her thighs and slim waist.  She was
resting an elbow on the table, listening with a little smile to another
man talk.  She tossed her head when she laughed, and the rich black
waterfall of hair rippled down her back.
     "That's his date?" Coogan whistled.  "I thought the guy was
practically a monk."
     Tommy shook his head.  "I grew up Catholic.  We never had no nuns
look like that."
     "So who's the guy she's talking to if she's Skinner's date?"
     "Dunno his name.  He's ordered whiskey most of the night, but just
a couple."  Tommy surveyed the man at the table critically.  "He kinda
looks like a cowboy.  Maybe she goes for that type."
     "Catch his name?"
     "I heard Skinner call him 'Sam.'  The lady," Tommy shrugged.  "I'd
call her an angel."
     Coogan slid off the barstool.  "Angels don't live in D. C. 
Neither do ladies.  Unless they are a certain kind."  He waited until
the room righted itself and then headed over to the table, doing his
best to stay in a straight line.
     He was close enough to overhear part of their conversation.  The
woman's voice was gently accented, Mexican, Texan, and something else. 
"Stop complaining, Sam.  I'm not coming back to you.  Get used to it."
     The other man, who had a face like a cross between saddle-leather 
and a basset-hound, sighed.  "I can't believe he just stole you away
from me like that.  You're the best.  If we slip out now, he'll never
notice.  What do you say, Gina?"
      Gina' patted his hand. "If this goes on for much longer, I just
might."
     That did it.  It confirmed his suspicions.  Coogan's liquor-fogged
brain was certain now.  He flopped into an empty seat on her other
side.
     "Hey, honey, how's tricks?"
     The woman turned dark, flinty eyes on him. "Excuse me?"
     "Sorry.  I didn't introduce myself.  Pretty rude.  Lady like you
probably is used to men being more, shall we say, sociable?  Bruce
Coogan."  He held out his hand to her.  She eyed it for a moment with
no expression on her cool beautiful face.  Eventually, he let it drop.
     "I know who you are, Mr. Coogan.  I've had friends tell me about
you."
     He winked at her.  "Word gets around in your circles, don't it,
sweetie?"
     The other man leaned forward.  "Look, buddy.  I don't know who you
think you are, but-"
     Gina cautioned him with an upraised hand.  "It certainly does. 
It's all right, Sam.  Let's hear this . . . gentleman out."
     Coogan was a little too drunk to see the quick, appraising look
that passed between the woman and the Cowboy, as he'd come to refer to
him in his head.
     The Cowboy sat back and folded his arms over his chest.  "Sure,
Gina.  Whatever you say."
     Coogan whistled, a little sloppily. "You've got him set up, don't
you?"  He gave her another bold once-over.  "Not that I blame him. 
You're a different kind of look.  Classy.  Exotic. I bet your services
get pretty costly."
     She gave him a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.  "Not
really.  Mostly I work pro bono."
     He leered at her.  "I bet you do."  He reached out to caress her
thigh.  She caught his hand and bent back the wrist at an impossible,
and extremely painful, angle.
     "Don't try that again, Mr. Coogan."  She released him, still
perfectly composed.
     He shook out his wounded wrist and forced a smile.  Bitch!  But
he'd have to have her cooperation to get the goods on Skinner.  "Sassy.
 I like that in a woman."
     "I doubt that very much, Mr. Coogan."
     Coogan chuckled and echoed back at her,  " I doubt that very much,
Mr. Coogan.'  Really classy, like I said.  I bet you've been to
college."
     She didn't respond to that.  Instead, she simply asked, "What do
you want, Mr. Coogan?"
     "Right to the point.  Good.  You're here tonight with Walter
Skinner, is that right?"
     She smiled, and this time, it did reach her eyes.  "Yes."
     "Do you know him well?"
     "Fairly well, yes."
     "He's been one of your clients before, then?"
     "I've worked for him once or twice in the past.  Same with Sam
here."
     The Cowboy coughed and Gina handed him a napkin.
     "Really?  He must really be a satisfied customer."
     "I've never heard him complain.  Sometimes all three of us work
together, don't we, Sam?"
     The Cowboy nodded slowly.  "Sure.  That's when we get the most
done."
     Coogan could almost hear his editor grovelling on this one.  So
sorry, Coogan!  I really underestimated you!  Now, if he could just
close the deal.
     "You know what Skinner does for a living, don't you, honey?"
     "He works for the government."
     "He's a G-man, baby.  F. B. I.'s best and brightest."
     "Well, that doesn't surprise me.  He's always been . . .special."
     "How would you feel about making a couple of hundred, sweetie? 
Same way you've always done it.  You just tell me what I need to know."
     She took a sip of her drink, considering.  He motioned over a
waiter.  "The lady's getting low.  How about a refill, huh?"
     "Sure.  Why not?"
     "What are you having?"
     "Diet Coke."
     Coogan blinked.  "Diet Coke?  Well, I suppose a lady in your line
of work has to watch her figure."
     "It's important I take care of myself, yes.  Now, Mr. Coogan, you
really couldn't have meant what you said about a couple of hundred for
information, could you?  That's not even close to something I would
look at."
     "Well, what would you look at?"
     "No less than fifteen hundred."
     "Honey, I wouldn't pay Heidi Fleiss that.  How about 500?"
     "How about I throw this drink in your face?  850.  Final offer."
     Coogan narrowed his eyes at her.  He should have known.  Lady like
this would go for at least 500 a throw.  He decided he'd have enough of
being on the defensive.  Time to go for the extra point.  "How do you
know you can get anything out of him?  That's a lot of money for a man
to spend, and the guy's on government salary."
     Cowboy swished the drink around in his mouth.  "Take a look at
her.  Would you risk it?  We call her the Tornado back home."
     "You mean she's worked in different states?"
     "When you're the best, you work where you want.  Most recently,
out of Chicago. With me."
     Gina spoke up while Coogan digested this.  "Look, I can tell you
with certainty that the man is no monk.  And he's definitely not gay. 
I'm the only one who stands a chance of going home with him tonight. 
That's a promise.  So, I'll tell you what I'm going to do.  I'll give
you my golden guarantee.  If I don't go home with Skinner tonight, I'll
go home with you.  How does that sound?"
     That sounded pretty damn good to Coogan.  "Deal. 850."
     She nodded.  "Sold.  Now, here he comes.  Sit back, little boy,
and let me take care of this."
     Skinner had returned from mingling.  "Gina.  I intercepted the
waiter.  Here's your Coke."  He set the drink in front of her.  "Sorry
this is so boring."
     She crossed her legs, and Coogan watched as the tall Marine's eyes
flicked down to admire the length of calf.
     "I don't mind."  Her voice was the same tawny velvet as her dress.
 "I'd be willing to spend a lot more time with you.  No matter what." 
     This seemed to take Skinner aback and for a moment, Coogan was
pretty sure that his own bed wouldn't be quite as cold tonight.  Then
Gina said in that same throaty purr, "Walt, I want you to meet Bruce
Coogan.  He's a newspaper reporter.  He wants to do a story on you, and
came to me for information."
     Skinner nodded slowly.  "What did you tell him?"
     She looked up at him with wide black eyes.  "Nothing.  Absolutely
nothing.  Except that-"  She stood, stepped up to him and skimmed her
palms over the front of his uniform.  "I have a real weakness for a man
in uniform.  As long as it's not Cavalry.  What is it about you that
just is so incredibly sexy?"
     Skinner caught her hands.  "If that's what it does to you, I don't
suppose I'll be taking this uniform off anytime soon, then."
     "I'd be happy to do it for you."
     Coogan swallowed, hard.  She was turning _him_ on, and he was just
getting residual waves.
     She continued, "What do you say, Marine?  Let's blow this taco
stand, huh?"
     Skinner cupped the woman's face in his hands and kissed her mouth
with surprising gentleness.  "I can do that."
     She smiled.  "Give me a minute to go use the ladies room, and I'll
be right with you."  She strolled away.
     Coogan whistled.  "Wish I had a swing like that in my backyard. 
You're a lucky man, Skinner.  I think a piece like that may be worth
the money."
     The bigger man looked down at him impassively.  "She is.  But a
low-life scum-sucker like you could never afford her."
     Coogan's temper, stoked by drink and lust, flared.  "I don't think
you'll be so cocky tomorrow when the papers come out, G-man.  I've got
all I need for one hot little story about you and your lady-friend
there.  Not to mention this guy."  He poked a thumb in Sam's direction.
     "Well, you'd better make sure you get the facts right on this one,
Coogan.  All of D. C. knows what kind of yellow journalism you print. 
Better make sure the names are spelled right. It's Gerard, Sam Gerard.
G-E-R-A-R-D.  Federal Marshal from Chicago.  That lady is Regina
Skinner.  Two n's.  Also a Federal Marshal."
     Coogan spilled his drink.  "Skinner?  Regina Skinner?"
     Skinner took him by the lapels of his coat and shoved his face
close to the other man's.  "That's right.  And the next time you call
my wife a whore, they'll be picking you up with a sponge, got that?"
     "W-w-wife?  She didn't tell me she was your wife!"
     "You didn't ask.  We've only been married a week.  We're
newlyweds."  The now-familiar soft accent drifted over her husband's
shoulder.  "Walt, put him down, querido.  He's not
worth the time.  After I finish telling his editor about this little
escapade, he'll be proof-reading tire ads."
     Skinner reluctantly released the man.
     "You can't do that!" Coogan babbled.  "I'll be ruined!  Please! 
You gotta keep this to yourself!  I'll do anything!"
     She tapped her fingers lightly on her lips.  "Anything?"
     "Anything!"
     She held out her hand, palm up.  "The 850.  I want it.  I gave you
information."
     "But-!"
     "Not my fault you can't print it.  Hand over the check and I'll
consider not making that call to your editor."
     Desperately, Coogan looked to Skinner for help, who only scowled. 
Gerard just shrugged. "Seems like a fair trade to me, young man."
     Coogan took out his checkbook as if in a daze.  He scrawled the
words quickly and tore the check out.  She took it and glanced over it.
 She nodded to her husband, and he took over.
     "Good.  And one more thing.  You are going to quit your job
harassing and entrapping the people of this city and find work writing
something more suited to your questionable talents. _The National
Inquisitor_ is about your speed.  If I ever see your name in any byline
other than one containing two-headed Elvis alien clones, then I shall
make it my personal goal to make your life very, very interesting.  Now
get lost."
     Coogan didn't need to be told twice.  He scampered off.
     Gina looked at the check in her hand and Walt looked at it over
her shoulder.  "That's a lot of money, mestiza-woman. What are you
going to do with it?"
     "I'm sure there's a woman's shelter that needs it.  He can start
making up in some way for all the people he's hurt."
     Skinner nodded.  "You know, you really do look incredible tonight.
 I didn't tell you?"
     She smiled up at him.  "No.  You didn't.  And I would have to say
that uniform really is. .."  She traced patterns on his chest with her
fingers.  "Amazing."
     "Thank you."
     "So gringo, are you going to take me home tonight or what?"
     Sam snorted.  "Go. Both of you.  Makin' me sick."
     Gina laughed and blew him a kiss before Skinner hustled her out
with speed unbecoming a man of his standing in the community.

The End
     
----------------------------
"Breaking the News"
Bonnie Drew
amstone@ix.netcom.com
----------------------------