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Chapter 10

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Alex Chapa watched as his boss struggled to find comfort in a chair that should have been replaced years ago. Chapa was one of only four reporters at the Record who still had an office. So, as he explained to Sullivan, they may as well use it. There was also a bit of a power play involved. It’s always best to meet with a superior on your turf, even if that turf is slowly being taken away and constantly threatened.

“Do you understand what I need you to do in your current assignment?”

Chapa leaned back in his dark brown chair and took in the comforting smell of old leather.

“Figure out what Jim was working on, connect the dots, cover the same ground he would be covering, keep my job.”

Sullivan let out a sigh that was big enough to inflate four tires plus the spare.

“That last part—”

“My job?”

“Yeah, that’s why I wanted to talk. That may present the biggest challenge.”

Chapa already knew that. The Chicago Record had once racked up awards so routinely that at times it seemed like some were being invented just for that purpose. Was it really only four years ago that the Record had been named one of the nation’s top twenty dailies? To Chapa, it seemed like a lot more time had slipped past, during which countless column inches had been sacrificed to the sort of fluff and nonsense Wormley wallowed in.

Chapa had no patience for shallow human interest stories, empty feel-good pieces, and especially entertainment news, which he considered a complete waste. He wondered how so many folks could care so much about celebrities whose only similarity to real people was their dependence on oxygen. Chapa also saw little of value in the Neighborhoods section and its twelve-inch stories about folks like Floyd down the street who won a prize at the fair for growing the biggest tomato.

When it came to his views on journalism, Chapa wasn’t just old school. He might as well have helped pour the cement for the building’s foundation.

While Chapa thrived on stories about regular people, he believed that most journalists focused on the trivial, instead of burrowing inside to find out what made the person do whatever it was they did. Not just how Floyd grew that tomato, but what had he sacrificed to do so, and why. Was his wife really all that proud of him? Were his kids embarrassed? Was he okay with that? What was Floyd trying to prove, and to whom? And most important of all, why should anyone else give a damn?

That took work, and an ability to ask the right questions. Those were the qualities that separated him from most of the other reporters at the Record, and distinguished him from someone like Duane Wormley. But they were also what made him something of a dinosaur, and expendable in the eyes of some of his superiors. That, and the fact that he was one of the Chicago area’s highest paid newspapermen.

“Yes, Alex, connect the dots, and I might be able to talk you-know-who into having you replace Chakowski on a more permanent basis.”

“You mean Macklin?”

“Yes, of course, Mr. Macklin.”

“He’s an ignorant prick from way back.”

“Who happens to own the paper.”

“Daddy owns the paper. He just chose the runt of the litter to run it.”

Another sigh from Sullivan.

“Okay, do you want to keep your job or not?”

Chapa perched his feet on the edge of the desk and looked up as though he were considering Sullivan’s question. A crack ran the length of the ceiling and several inches down a wall. Chapa stared at it and wondered if he’d ever noticed it before.

When enough time had passed that Sullivan seemed to be getting nervous, Chapa said, “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Yes, please. You know I think very highly of you.”

Chapa liked his editor, though he’d only worked with him for a couple of months. What he didn’t like, however, was the way he’d flipped like a pancake every time Carston Macklin had changed the direction and priorities of the Record’s news division. He usually got on well with Sullivan, but wished that just once the man would find the cojones to tell Macklin to fuck off.

“I need to get into Chakowski’s office, check out his files and notes.”

Sullivan nodded, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of keys. He sifted through them, selected a narrow office key that resembled Chapa’s, and tossed it on the desk.

“Just connect the dots, Alex, that’s all you’ve got to do, the way Jim Chakowski would have. No need to go excavating any new ones.”

Chapa responded with a sparse smile, and watched Sullivan attempt to decipher what it meant, give up trying, then work himself out of the chair.

“Good luck, Alex,” Sullivan said as he left the office.

Chapa heard him let out another massive sigh as he walked away.

Mourn The Living

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