12
The Business of News
“Confirmed doofus. Who leaves people waiting this long?” Cindy said, slouching in the lumpy plastic chair in the newsroom of the Colta City Herald. Bronson sat next to her in an identical chair with an identical posture.
“Trust me,” he said. “I met this guy the other night. He’s mean. He’s loud. But he seemed pretty smart.”
Cindy and Bronson jumped when a man harrumphed behind them.
“You wanted to see me?” John said, throwing a box down on his desk.
“Yeah,” Bronson said, “we’d like to talk about the article you wrote in this today’s paper.”
“Oh, yes. Thank you. I was this close to forgetting about that stupid thing. According to our saint of a mayor it didn’t even happen,” John said.
“Who told you that?” Cindy asked.
“Didn’t you hear? Mayor Lane just released a statement saying the police don’t have a record of a murder on Liberty Pier last night. Funny, considering I saw the whole thing. Ah, well, guess it doesn’t matter anymore,” he said.
John picked up an award shaped like a diamond. He ran his finger down the fine edge of the award before putting it in the box.
“Everything okay, Mister Upton-Haywood?” Cindy asked.
He chuckled. “You can call me Mr. Taylor. John Taylor. I’ve been relieved of my duties as a reporter, for the moment, so we can go ahead and drop the pen name.”
“You got fired? Well that’s pretty rotten luck. Do you have any idea who killed him?” Bronson asked.
“You seem real familiar, kid. Hmm… Did you ever hear of Dogboy?” John asked.
“Umm… I… No, why do you ask?” Bronson said.
“Come on, come on. You know who I’m talking about. The kid superhero. Anyway, he was there last night. Kid ran away with the gunman. I think he was in on it.”Cindy jumped up, slamming her fist down on the desk. “Listen, Mr. Uptown Hayseed—”
“Upton-Haywood is my pen name. Call me Mr. Taylor,” he said.
“Listen, Mr. Taylor, and listen good. I’ve met Dogboy. We even helped each other once or twice. He’s a good guy, mostly. He’d never get involved in a murder. I’ll bet you a zillion dollars. Got it?”
“I’m not convinced,” John said. “Not that it matters. I’m off the story. What do you kids care about it anyway?”
“Cindy McNeil, WWJH, and we’re here on an extra credit assignment,” Cindy said, handing him a rectangular piece of typing paper with a big WWJH logo and her name printed on it. “We’re trying to get a peek into the life of a real reporter.”
“If you’re looking for a real reporter you missed him by ten minutes. Now if you kids don’t mind I need to get out of here before they call security on me,” he said, dumping a desk drawer out into the box.
“Can you answer a few questions while you’re packing?” Cindy asked.
“Fine, but keep it down. Sal’s in rare form today.”
Bronson pulled out a notepad, running his finger down his prepared list of questions. “Ok. So how did you get the Dexter Stonehouse story?”
“I was down there doing a fluff piece on Stonehouse for the Sunday supplement,” John said. “See, he’s been trying to improve his image so he’s been staging all sorts of photo ops around the city. I look away for ten seconds and BAM— Stonehouse is in the water. I was a little distracted, so by the time I got over there the gunman and Dogboy were halfway down the pier.”
“Distracted?” Cindy asked. “Distracted by what?”
“This… nice young lady started talking to me. She thought I could help her acting career or something.”
“Did you interview her? Maybe she saw something you didn’t,” Bronson said.
“You know, it was strange? She seemed blasé about the whole thing, just wandered off after a minute.”
“Did she give you anything? A name or something?” Cindy asked.
“Hold on, I think she…” He leaned down then dug through the wastepaper basket next to his desk.
“Ah, here it is,” he said, handing Cindy an 8×10 of a young blond woman, who according to the autograph was named Summer. It also listed her contact information (and her agent’s) in the lower right-hand corner.
“That’s her,” John said.
Across the newsroom a door marked EDITOR slammed open. An older man peeked his head out.
“John, you’re suspended. Get out of here before I have to start paying you again,” the man yelled across the newsroom.
“Hey! Want to come over and talk to me like a human being?” John asked.
Sal navigated through the crowded room to John’s desk. “How could you be such a doofus?” he yelled. John winced at each bombastic syllable.
“Sal, it happened not forty feet from me. He’s dead. This is Mayor Lame trying to save his butt. They’ll say Stonehouse is on vacation, wait two weeks until the next big thing happens, then ‘find the body’ when nobody cares anymore.”
“Not my call,” Sal said. “You have to understand how this makes the paper look. Stonehouse owns the Inquirer, our biggest rival. Then we come out as the only rag in town saying the guy who owns the Inquirer is dead. A little fishy, right?”
“Sal, give me ten minutes. I’ll write a retraction saying I saw what I saw, but the mayor’s office is contradicting my story. It’s honest without letting Mayor Lame off the hook.”
“See, you always have to poke at them. Can’t ever leave something laying there long enough to settle. I’m sorry, John, but you need to go.”
“Maybe you should give him one more shot,” Bronson said.
“When’d you get kids?” he asked.
John picked up the box off his desk. “Don’t worry,” he said, “I’ll walk ’em out.”
“John,” Sal said, grabbing the lapels of his jacket and puffing out his chest.
“Yeah?” John said.
“I believe you. I know Lane’s rotten, but if we’re gonna get him we have to do it right. This should all blow over before too long. We’ll call you as soon as we know.”
Bronson and Cindy followed the reporter down the stairs then out the front door to the street.
“Thanks, Mr. Taylor,” Cindy said.
“Yeah, thanks. And sorry about you getting fired and everything,” Bronson added.
“It’s okay. Good luck on the project, though.” John balanced the box on his knee as he fished two business cards out of his wallet. “Here, in case you have any more questions. It’s my number and e-mail. You kids have a good day now.”
John disappeared into a neighboring parking garage. Cindy and Bronson strolled down the sidewalk.
“So what now?” Cindy asked.
“I don’t know. I guess we can talk to that girl. You still have the number?” he said.
“Yeah,” Cindy said, examining the signature on the 8×10. “Seriously? Who makes a heart for a lowercase ‘e’? It doesn’t even look like an ‘e’ anymore.”
“Careful. You draw a microphone for your lower case ‘i’,” Bronson said.
“Not the same thing,” she said. They continued down the street, looking for a phone to call the last person on Earth who might be able to help them.
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