Chasing George Macduffey (Short Story‪)‬

The name on the knocker read ROURKE, and there were two flags--one Irish, one American--whipping in the chill New England wind. They were attached by wooden poles to the brownstone, and a small wooden cross was nailed to the door just above the knocker. I knocked. Once. I waited. As I started to knock again, the door swung open and I stood face to face with a tall, wiry bald man, dressed in gray running pants and a black windbreaker. His eyes were bright green, sharp, and nervous. "Hello? What do you want?" he shouted. "Mr. Rourke?" I began hesitantly. "I'm lake Churchill, from the Sunday newspaper ... the Globe. I called on Tuesday and set up an interview to talk with you about last weekend's race."