Speak Ill of the Living Read Free

slumped. He shrugged listlessly. “I try to tell them we shouldn’t chase stories like this if we’re going to get beat by a week, but they don’t care.”
    â€œWho’s they?”
    â€œSometimes I don’t even know,” he said. He sketched a question mark on his legal pad, and then crossed it out. Cuhna had melodrama in his voice, as if he was reporting on the approaching end of the world. “That’s the problem when you’re owned by a media chain—new supervisors all the time. My latest boss is in Salt Lake City. Do you think she cares if I get scooped in Lowell?” His voice rose as he worked out some pent-up anger. “And the office they rent for me? They knocked down the wall between a former greasy spoon and a bankrupt laundromat. Stinks like pork sausage and lemon Tide.”
    Eddie hid a smile behind his hand. For Cuhna, this seemed like serious stuff, and Eddie didn’t want to make an enemy out of him.
    â€œMy lease says that I have to let the people who live upstairs use the giant washing machines in my office anytime they want,” Cuhna said.
    â€œCrazy.”
    â€œNow the family upstairs has started making evening meals in my kitchen on deadline, and I can’t find anything in the lease that says they can’t!”
    â€œWhew.”
    Cuhna groaned. “Not that it matters to my H.Q. Sometimes I feel all they want from me is to gray-up the white space around the ads.” He looked Eddie up and down again. “You’re still in the eighteen-to-thirty-five demographic, right?”
    â€œBarely.”
    â€œYou’re supposed to be my target audience, but I bet you don’t subscribe.”
    â€œActually, no,” Eddie admitted. He quickly added, “I pick it up on the newsstand sometimes, but I only have time in the morning for the
Washington Post
.”
    â€œThe
Post
? It’s darn near impossible to get that delivered up here. You a diehard Redskins fan?”
    â€œNo, I’m a fan of the help-wanted section. Lot of people advertise for freelancers there.”
    â€œFreelancer, eh? Must be nice to have no boss, but I’d wager the corporate newspaper boys screw you as hard as they do me.”
    â€œAmen.”
    Bitching about the business side of journalism is the universal sign of fellowship among scribes. Eddie introduced himself and they shook hands. Cuhna’s hand was small, sweaty, and stained black with ink.
    Eddie felt bad for him. Media chains are sometimes more concerned about stockholders than readers. They cut spending on their newsgathering to show more profit on Wall Street. Teeny editorial budgets at many weekly papers make for low pay and small staffs; sometimes the reporters have to sell ads or design pages in addition to writing.
    The straight newsweeklies have it the toughest; they can’t compete with the dailies on breaking news, and they don’t pay enough to attract experienced writers who can produce the thoughtful pieces. They survive by thinking small, offering news the dailies don’t bother with—school bus schedules and lunch menus, Little League and bridge club scores.
    Entertainment weeklies do better with younger readers. They give more movie and concert news, and sometimes offer political analysis with attitude.
    The Second Voice
was a mix of the two styles, so it did nothing particularly well. The paper was forever clouded in rumors it was about to fold.
    The TV guys had finished and they bustled out of the room. Their aluminum tripods bounced and clacked as they carried them.
    The officer called, “Next!”
    Eddie let Lewis Cuhna go ahead of him. Cuhna got three steps into the room, looked toward the picture on the wall and stopped. He wiped a hand over his face and then slowly stepped toward the photograph.
    The picture was standard print size, about four-by-six, in color. The man in the picture was trim and healthy, probably in his early fifties.