The Alchemist in the Attic Read Free

Selby. Atwood had been dancing on the edge for years now and he knew it. He was bound to fall at some point. Still, at least he knew why so many people had stopped paying, but Maguire wasn’t going to like it. Hearst was increasing the pressure and Atwood wasn’t sure they could hold him back forever.

2
The Newspapermen
    Atwood paced back and forth outside Maguire’s office. The other reporters had all gone home for the night, but Maguire was ensconced with a number of gentlemen in frockcoats. Atwood couldn’t make out the words, but he could hear a relentless murmur of voices seeping out through the walls. He had recognized some of the visitors—they were all among the Oracle ‘s wealthiest investors, and none of them sounded happy.
    Atwood reached the end of the hall and turned back abruptly with jerky, violent motions. The floorboards creaked in protest, and he could feel Walter’s eyes on him, but he paid them no heed. His ribs hurt and his legs ached, but he couldn’t keep still. He wanted to run. He wanted to scream. He could feel the frustration and exhaustion coiling up inside him, stretching tighter and tighter. He hated waiting.
    “You’re making me dizzy,” Walter said from his post, where he was leaning against the wall. They had both changed into their best, if slightly wrinkled, coat and tails. They had plans later, provided they managed to see Maguire first, or at all.
    Atwood shot Walter a glare, full of dark, angry thoughts, but Walter appeared unperturbed. He was familiar with Atwood’s moods and gave an unapologetic shrug. Atwood held the glare for a few moments, but he could feel the anger draining away and forced himself to smile.
    Suddenly there was an angry shout from inside and Walter glanced at Atwood, trying to meet his eyes, but Atwood turned away and gazed down at the composing room below. The younger man was looking for reassurance and Atwood had none to give. Walter should have known that.
    Maguire’s office was on a mezzanine level that overlooked the two great printers in the long, windowless room below. Even at this hour, those hulking monstrosities were going at full bore, churning out 10,000 copies an hour. They would be lucky if they sold half that. Atwood glanced down. A number of ink-stained journeymen were bent at their work, sweating even on a cold September evening. The compositor and pressman looked up and met his eyes sympathetically.
    Atwood’s father and Maguire had built a small kingdom out of a potent mix of sensationalism, scandal-mongering, and blackmail, but the Oracle was a small fish compared to the Examiner and the Chronicle , caught between Hearst and Young. They had deep pockets and a simmering feud to drive them. The Oracle was simply in the way.
    Atwood checked his pocket watch. It was nearly midnight. “You don’t have to wait with me, Walter,” he said. “You should go save us a seat at the Club.”
    “Are you sure?” Walter fixed him with his sad, discerning eyes.
    “I’m sure.” Atwood patted him on the arm. “We need to keep our hand in. Show the others we still mean business. It’ll be fine.”
    “If you say so.” Walter didn’t believe a word of it, but he obliged willingly.
    Atwood watched him leave. He and Maguire would be able to talk more freely without Walter’s silent, ingratiating presence.
    The meeting finally seemed to be drawing to a close inside. The gentlemen emerged in a row of frockcoats and long faces and took their leave with stiff politeness. A few of them recognized Atwood, and nodded. He returned the gesture, but said nothing.
    “Get in here, Atwood!” Maguire called, as soon as they were gone. Atwood sighed and obeyed.
    Maguire’s office was piled high with books and papers. They covered every available surface, the desk, the chairs, and the cabinets, even the floor. Maguire maintained that there was a system, and despite his continual effort, Atwood had never quite managed to prove him wrong.
    “I should have