Only two weeks after graduation and I was on a jet, traveling to cover my first real assignment. During my last semester's lame internship I'd covered sizzling stories like protests over historic building renovations otherwise mistaken for loitering gaggles of senior citizens waiting on a nursing home mini-bus.

Okay, so I wasn't with a prestigious newspaper or magazine. No, I worked for the Weekly Electron Star, an online startup competing with the weekly supermarket tabloids.

My contact at Southwest Florida International Airport, a Mr. Dennis Sherkle, said he'd be wearing a New York Mets ball cap and a green shirt. New York was hard-charging for the worst record in the entire league; predictably, the number of Mets caps was limited to one. The tall fellow, whose Crayola-green shirt stood out more than his hat, watched arriving passengers crowd the luggage carousel. I waved and, with a widening grin, he pointed from himself to me and back.

I reserved judgment based on his attire. My loafers, blue khakis, and slightly wrinkled shirt didn't exactly shout 'hot-shot reporter.' I'd figured August in Florida was too sweltering for a tie or sport jacket.

My contact met me halfway, offering a short but firm handshake. "Mr. Sherkle," I said, smiling back, "I'm Marvin Petro of the Weekly Electron Star."

"Who else would you be?" Mr. Sherkle joked. With the beginnings of crow's feet and lightly stained teeth, I pegged him as a coffee drinker in his mid-thirties. "Call me Dennis."

"Great," I said, watching the crowd move on the luggage carousel like Weight Watchers escapees descending on a Chinese buffet. "Call me Marv."

Dennis made use of his six-inch height advantage. "What color's your bag, Marv?"

I pointed to my carry-on slung over my shoulder. "Black, like this, but with neon green tape around the handle."

"Good idea, the tape," he said and cut into the crowd.

Before I knew it we'd made our way through the airport and shuttle ride to the parking lot. I tried to guess what kind of car Dennis drove and decided on a clunker Honda Civic from the eighties.

Moderating his long strides for me, Dennis asked, "Hungry?"

"After the tiny bag of eight pretzels they served in coach?"

He laughed. "You a fast-food fella or a sit-down sort?"

My editor had arranged everything, telling me only that the story involved corporate theft and property rights. During her brief four a.m. call, Jenni had failed to clarify if it involved intellectual property rights or property as in land and buildings, or both.

"What's our destination?" I asked, checking my cell phone. Jenni hadn't responded to the text message I'd sent during my taxi ride to Newark Liberty International Airport.

"It's a ways," he said while unlocking the doors to a chili-pepper red Saturn VUE. "You'll see."

I stowed my luggage, except for my laptop and recording equipment, before getting buckled in. "My editor, Ms. Smyth, set this up this morning. Who will I be interviewing?"

"I know she did," Dennis said, starting the engine. "You'll be interviewing me." He shifted into drive and maneuvered out of the lot. "At least to start with." He shrugged. "Maybe only me, probably."

The way he kept adjusting his hat and licking his teeth told me to hold off on the interview a bit. Better to build some rapport first. "You said we're gonna be on the road a while?" He nodded. "I'll trust you to pick a good sit-down place between here and there."

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