“How about school? Don’t you want to get your degree?”
“Yes, and the Trib is willing to work my hours around classes at Northwestern. Bob, I don’t want to leave you, but this is the kind of chance that doesn’t come along often.”
I felt like telling her she was a chance for me that might never come along again. Instead, I smiled—bravely, I hope—and said, “Sure, Liz. You can’t pass it up. Chicago is a big jump and I’d take it in a minute.”
“We’ll see each other,” she said. “It’s not a long trip. You can come down on weekends. Or I can come up.”
“Sure.”
We chatted lightly the rest of the trip, and Liz gave me a long, lingering kiss before she clambered out of the plane behind Frank. We took off immediately.
I moved up beside Phlager. “You look down,” he said. “Reaction to the day?”
“Just tired, Bill. I’m getting a little long in the tooth to be a combat correspondent.”
“Sure,” Phlager said. Actually, he was the one who hadn’t slept in two days. After a few minutes his head went forward and he was out for the rest of the trip.
The weather had followed us into the capital and we came down just as big drops began pelting the runway. It was pouring by the time we pulled up to the state hangar.
Two cars were waiting for us. Phlager’s wife was in one; Fargo Barton in the other. He waved at me as we sprinted for the cover of the hangar. I ran to his car and jumped into the passenger seat.
“I thought you might need a ride,” Fargo said as he moved the car away from the hangar.
We rode a few minutes in silence. Fargo began talking as he looked straight ahead into the downpour.
“We got the news about the paper just after you called from up north,” he said. “A lawyer from All-American Enterprises called and said they had decided… what did he say?… ‘phase out the corporation’s commitments in the print environment and concentrate on the ephemeral media.’ Anyway, we’ve been sold again.”
“Oh, who…”
“He told me the new ownership wants to retain the present staff setup for now,” Fargo said. He gave me a quick glance. “Of course, we need a new managing editor. I suggested you.”
“Me? How about you? Or Grace?”
“I haven’t got the stomach for it, Bob. You can’t do the job if it takes you twenty-eight years to get up the courage to make a decision that ought to come instinctively. And Bill just doesn’t want to be anything except what he already is. The job is yours if you’ll take it.”
I surprised myself. “Damn right I’ll take it.”
I found myself thinking about how we could cover the primary, which was coming up Tuesday, and start showing this could be a good paper—responsible, interesting, maybe even exciting. Not much time—better get at it today.
Fargo was smiling. “Good. I think you’ll do a good job. You know, Swift told me a couple of months ago that he thought you had the fiber to be a cracking good editor. Sounded like he was talking about a cereal.”
“Wait a minute. You didn’t say who bought the paper.”
“Oh,” Fargo said. He took one hand off the steering wheel and groped in his coat pocket. “I wrote it down. Got it here somewhere. I couldn’t quite place the fellow’s name, but Claggett recognized it right off. An Australian, I think he said.”
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Copyright
Published by
Dell Publishing Co., Inc.
1 Dag Hammarskjold Plaza
New York, New York 10017
All characters, places, and events in this story are fictional. Resemblance to real people or places is coincidence.
Copyright © 1985 by Arnold Sawislak
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. For information address: St. Martin’s Press, New York, New York.
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ISBN: 0-440-12191-4
Reprinted by arrangement with St. Martin’s Press
Printed in the United States of America
January 1987
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