When an ex-reporter like me tries to write fiction

“Well, is he crooked or not? 

My editor didn’t bother waiting for me to walk across the newsroom to his desk. He'd spotted me the moment I turned the corner from the hall by the elevator into the large open space where all of us reporters and editors worked. I was reading an email from my father on my smartphone while nibbling a bagel. Another day in journalism – fielding quasi-existential questions while inhaling lunch on the fly after a news conference ran long.

 

I was sapped. But I had been on the beat long enough to understand his unspoken question.

 

Without looking him in the eye, I said, “You ever cheat on your wife?”

 

I could feel Joe smile immediately, as if to say, “Now we’re getting somewhere.” It was almost as if I were able read his thoughts – how he preferred saucy women reporters to the men who wandered into the field with a sense of entitlement even though he wasn't going to object too much to the routine promotions of said men.

 

He allowed himself -- and me -- a small chuckle. “Not if I can help it.”

 

“Exactly.”

 

“Exactly what?” Looking at his watch, he picked up some papers from his desk. “I have to go into a roomful of editors right now and they’re going to want to know if the Mayor is crooked enough to put on the front page.”

 

“I know. And I’m telling you he might be as crooked as you are. Or he might be a helluva lot more crooked. Just can’t tell yet.”

 

The police scanner blared with static, and then the dispatcher's voice emerged. “Stay on the line caller,” she said, then nothing, followed by, “Caller advises that her husband has locked himself in the bathroom with a handgun and a three-year-old child…..”

 

We listened for a moment instinctively, then ignored it. Not our problem. Our corner of the City Desk didn't deal with the cop beat.