“I guess you think you’re Shakespeare, huh?” Bob says. He whacks himself a little too hard with the pencil. He imagines a tiny eraser-shaped bruise is forming just below his kneecap.
“Shakespeare has no place in investigative journalism, Woodward.”
“I’m not sure that’s what we’re doing anymore.”
Carl does turn to look at him then. His expression is still impassive, but if Bob looks hard enough, he can see the confusion starting to sneak in around the edges, crumpling his bottom lip and the corners of his eyes. It must be an act though, because Bob knows that Carl knows what he means. This book deal seemed like manna from heaven when it came to them, but now, a few months on, it’s become tedious. The work is important, but it isn’t the same as chasing down a new story. He misses the feeling he gets when a new piece of the puzzle slots into place. He misses facing down a potential source and seeing that flicker of surrender in their eyes when they decide they’re going to talk. And he knows Carl misses it too. He can see it in the way the empty packs of cigarettes pile up on the desk and the way he’ll wake up in the middle of the night to Carl knocking on his door, as urgent as if they were facing down a deadline.