12:00 AM

By the time Vinya arrived back at Room 504, she wasn’t sure whether her head was spinning from the interview or the three hours of vintage technicolor madness that followed at the concert.

Or both.

There was such jarring disconnect between “Da” and “Lenny” – the jaded girl in the rock t-shirt dishing dirt vs. the beaming star in her polka dot dress, soaking in the roar of the crowd. That by itself would have been enough to blow out Vinya’s synapses, but then there were all the stories.

The entire cultural landscape was re-arranging itself inside her head, nagging questions about the Brilltones and Brill-world suddenly answering themselves. So many pieces were snapping violently into place that it was literally making her head hurt.

If this was how sudden enlightenment felt, Vinya wanted a refund.

It was already the time of night where the music of Vinya’s thoughts shattered into a hundred dissonant samples, and now all of the revelations were being looped and overdriven through the pegboard of her ADHD.

She inserted her card key into the reader so hard it almost cracked, then flung the door open. Hurling her purse across the room onto her bed, Vinya made a beeline for the bathroom - and her meds.

Then she realized that she wasn’t alone.

Nina Constantinos was sitting silently on the bed in her Star Trek pajamas, bolt upright, hugging her legs close to her chest and casting an unblinking stare at the wall

“Oh, hey.” Vinya blurted.

“Hey,” Nina responded in a blank monotone, not taking her eyes of the wall.

Vinya took another step into the room. “Everything okay? You look like you just saw a ghost.”

Nina blinked her eyes, snapping out of whatever trance she was in. “Something like that. Weird night.”

“Weird as in your dinner tasted funny?” Vinya probed, smelling a story, “Or weird as in your dinner was interrupted by a rampaging T. Rex?”

Nina stared at her sheets before answering. “Closer to the second.”

“Seriously?” The hairs on Vinya’s neck stood on end as she flung herself onto Nina bed. “Girl, I need details!”

Nina curled back into a ball and shifted away from Vinya. “Let’s just say I got some inside info, don’t know what to do with it, and don’t want to blab about it either.”

“Wait,” Vinya said, stiffening, “Inside info? Like, on the conclave?”    

Nina didn’t budge, “Yep.”

“Seriously?” Vinya bounded up onto her knees, “Seriously? What happened? Have you told Priscilla?”

Nina shook her head without making eye contact.  “I was out chasing a story with Dan Dragovich, which I don't think she'd approve.”         

Vinya saw Nina was starting to shiver nervously. There was more here. “And?”

“No. Not going there.”

Vinya took a deep breath, got off the bed, and fished a water bottle out of the room’s mini-fridge. “You need that,” she said while handing it to Nina, “Now please tell me what’s going on.”

Nina just shook her head.

Vinya sat back down on the bed. “Look, I’m not in the news division, but I know a big scoop when I see one. You have one and don’t know what to do with it.” She pointed back at herself. “I’m the ditzy music blogger. I’m nowhere close to this story and I don’t give a flying rip about the pope. Tell me.”

Nina’s eyes darted back and forth, but she didn’t say anything for a solid thirty seconds.  “You know,” she finally said, “if you want to convince people you’re a ditz, don’t use the term. It breaks the illusion,” then she went back to staring.

 “And if you had enough confidence in your skills,” Vinya snipped back, “you wouldn’t be staring at a wall. You need help and I’m safe. Tell me.”

Nina looked up. “Nobody’s safe here. I’ve learned that in two days. How are you any different?” 

“Because…“ Vinya searched for the answer. Why did she care, other than morbid curiosity? She closed her eyes.  “Because I’m your friend.”

Nina tilted her head and blinked. “We’re friends?” It wasn’t like she was hostile, just like she genuinely hadn’t considered the idea.  

Nina stared at the top of Vinya’s bowed head. This was easily the most awkward conversation she’d had in months.

She still wasn’t quite sure what to make of the definitely-not-ditzy-but-still-very-odd music blogger. Something about Vinya didn’t add up, but she seemed honest. Maybe a little too honest.

Nina bit her lip for a second considering how to respond. What came out was, “Okay.”          

Vinya looked up and raised an eyebrow. “Okay what?”

Nina shrugged her shoulders. “I could use D.C. friends. Just don’t expect that we’ll be painting each other’s nails.”

“Oh these,” Vinya chuckled, and waving her black and red swirl-pattern nails. “Hell no. Authorized professionals only.”

 “Well then, friend, we have a deal.”

“Deal,” Vinya replied, jumping back onto the bed. “Now, friend, will you pleeeeease tell me what’s up?”

Nina took a deep breath, then spilled the whole story in a flood of verbal brain-vomit - although being careful not to mention Cardinal Adams’ name.

Vinya’s eyes got wider and wider, and when Nina finished, she practically exploded. “That’s freaking awesome! Why haven’t you told anyone?”

“Think about it,” Nina said, “I told a public figure that I wouldn’t report his presence at a meeting that could potentially embarrass him. Sure, it got me an interview, but my job is to report. If I tell anyone, I’m admitting a breach of journalistic ethics – and Priscilla is already trying to pin me down for pro-Catholic bias.”

Vinya blew a lock of hair off her face. “Good point. So, we’re definitely not telling crazy boss lady.” She stopped to think for a minute. “What about Dan?”           

Nina shook her head. “He might insist I report it.”         

Vinya’s eyes glazed over as Nina watched her sink into deep thought. “So, you don’t give him the name.”  She sprung off the bed and practically dove into her suitcase across the room.

“He won’t go for it,” Nina shouted after her. “I’ve done anonymous-source stories before, the editor always has to know the identity of the source. Three people on Earth knew who Deep Throat was - Woodward, Bernstein, and their editor.”          

“I’m going to assume that’s some big news-history reference.” Vinya kept rooting in the suitcase, hurling out an assortment of electronics, jewelry, and neon-hued undergarments.

She came up with a handful of paper products and hurled them onto the bed. Red envelopes, black note cards, and a sheet of stick-on-seals. “Problem solved.”

Nina examined a card and an envelope, noting that both were monogrammed with a giant VJ in graffiti-looking font.

“Here’s what happens,” Vinya said, “You write the name in a sealed envelope, show it to Dan, then take it downstairs and have the concierge lock it in the safe at the front desk. Tell them to only open the safe if both of you are present, and not until after the conclave. You’ve been fully transparent, just on time-delay – and in the meantime he can advise you on the general situation.”

Nina fingered an envelope and bit her lip. “It might work,” she said, “Dan might think I’ve lost my marbles, but it could work. Only one problem,” she held up a card, “How am I supposed to write on black stationery?”

“Right!” Vinya ran back to the suitcase, tossing out some fishnet stockings. “I know I have white-ink pens somewhere!”

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