into the managing-editor job. Besides, being a managing editor mainly entailed making sure the men under her did their jobs, and bossing others around was something that came easily to the woman.
On this day, when the streets were still glistening from the previous night’s downpour, the man she was bossing around was Steve Bayliss. The Fairwater Gazette’s junior reporter, he was a local lad only one generation away from working the lobster boats. Bayliss was trying hard to make his mark in journalism, even if all he had to prepare himself for the slot was a junior-college degree and a collection of videotapes of classic newspaper movies that included all five film versions of The Front Page as well as every episode of TV’s Kolchak: The Night Stalker.
Bayliss was twenty-two but looked seventeen, clean-cut, hardworking, and eager to please, and that made him a perfect target for Magda Ravanski’s ire when she was in a bad mood, which she was a good deal of the time.
DEATH STRIKES AGAIN read the headline of the story he was composing on his computer. In a window adjacent to the story was the photograph of a smiling yuppie sporting a forty-dollar haircut and an L. L. Bean polo shirt. Beneath the photo was the caption Victim Chuck Hughes, age 30.
Magda read out loud as Bayliss fidgeted and tugged at the collar of his freshly pressed white shirt. “ ‘Third mysterious death this week, twenty-three in two months. What is happening to the people of Fairwater?’ ”
To him, she added, “What is happening, Steve, is a fit of bad writing.”
He cleared his throat.
She continued: “ ‘The mystery heart condition that has killed twenty-three people in two months has claimed another victim. Doctors are baffled as to why seemingly fit and healthy people are suffering massive heart attacks.’ ”
Magda sucked in her breath and sighed deeply. “Steve, I expected better from you.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Ravanski.”
“Please, call me Magda. I’ve asked you.”
“Sure . . . Magda.”
“I mean, this isn’t the Daily Planet, although if Superman is anywhere in the neighborhood I would love to hear from him.”
Steve smiled uncomfortably.
She said, “Remember: who, what, where, when, and why.”
He checked his notepad. “I have that written down.”
“Good. Memorize it. Who is Chuck Hughes? What happened? Okay, he died, we know that, and we know where and when—in Fairwater last night. The big question is why. The man looks fit to me.”
She bent over and looked more closely at the photo. As she did so the front of her blouse opened slightly and Steve got a whiff of the scent of Passion splashed between her breasts. He wondered, however, not about her sex life but if she didn’t need a new prescription for her contact lenses. Steve was very young, in fact as well as in appearance.
“The man looks very fit to me,” she concluded. “So what killed him? Don’t give me this half-assed speculation about strange epidemics of heart attacks. Here, look at what you wrote down here.”
She read out loud again: “ ‘Many of Fairwater’s residents are claiming that the shadow of Death has once again descended on the town.’ Steve, what’s this ‘shadow of Death’ stuff?”
“It’s what they’re saying,” Steve replied. “People are starting to freak out.”
“Steve, death is not a proper noun. There’s no capital D.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, hanging his head.
She continued: “ ‘For decades the name of Fairwater has been synonymous with death, following the infamous 1954 Bradley-Bartlett murder spree, when twelve people died at the hands of hospital orderly John Charles Bradley and Patricia Anne Bartlett. Now, forty years later, the Grim Reaper is once again stalking the quiet streets of Fairwater.’ ”
It was Magda’s turn to hang her head. Steve went back to fidgeting. She said, “No, Steve . . . no, no, no. Have you learned nothing during your internship with us? This is tabloid
On this day, when the streets were still glistening from the previous night’s downpour, the man she was bossing around was Steve Bayliss. The Fairwater Gazette’s junior reporter, he was a local lad only one generation away from working the lobster boats. Bayliss was trying hard to make his mark in journalism, even if all he had to prepare himself for the slot was a junior-college degree and a collection of videotapes of classic newspaper movies that included all five film versions of The Front Page as well as every episode of TV’s Kolchak: The Night Stalker.
Bayliss was twenty-two but looked seventeen, clean-cut, hardworking, and eager to please, and that made him a perfect target for Magda Ravanski’s ire when she was in a bad mood, which she was a good deal of the time.
DEATH STRIKES AGAIN read the headline of the story he was composing on his computer. In a window adjacent to the story was the photograph of a smiling yuppie sporting a forty-dollar haircut and an L. L. Bean polo shirt. Beneath the photo was the caption Victim Chuck Hughes, age 30.
Magda read out loud as Bayliss fidgeted and tugged at the collar of his freshly pressed white shirt. “ ‘Third mysterious death this week, twenty-three in two months. What is happening to the people of Fairwater?’ ”
To him, she added, “What is happening, Steve, is a fit of bad writing.”
He cleared his throat.
She continued: “ ‘The mystery heart condition that has killed twenty-three people in two months has claimed another victim. Doctors are baffled as to why seemingly fit and healthy people are suffering massive heart attacks.’ ”
Magda sucked in her breath and sighed deeply. “Steve, I expected better from you.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Ravanski.”
“Please, call me Magda. I’ve asked you.”
“Sure . . . Magda.”
“I mean, this isn’t the Daily Planet, although if Superman is anywhere in the neighborhood I would love to hear from him.”
Steve smiled uncomfortably.
She said, “Remember: who, what, where, when, and why.”
He checked his notepad. “I have that written down.”
“Good. Memorize it. Who is Chuck Hughes? What happened? Okay, he died, we know that, and we know where and when—in Fairwater last night. The big question is why. The man looks fit to me.”
She bent over and looked more closely at the photo. As she did so the front of her blouse opened slightly and Steve got a whiff of the scent of Passion splashed between her breasts. He wondered, however, not about her sex life but if she didn’t need a new prescription for her contact lenses. Steve was very young, in fact as well as in appearance.
“The man looks very fit to me,” she concluded. “So what killed him? Don’t give me this half-assed speculation about strange epidemics of heart attacks. Here, look at what you wrote down here.”
She read out loud again: “ ‘Many of Fairwater’s residents are claiming that the shadow of Death has once again descended on the town.’ Steve, what’s this ‘shadow of Death’ stuff?”
“It’s what they’re saying,” Steve replied. “People are starting to freak out.”
“Steve, death is not a proper noun. There’s no capital D.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, hanging his head.
She continued: “ ‘For decades the name of Fairwater has been synonymous with death, following the infamous 1954 Bradley-Bartlett murder spree, when twelve people died at the hands of hospital orderly John Charles Bradley and Patricia Anne Bartlett. Now, forty years later, the Grim Reaper is once again stalking the quiet streets of Fairwater.’ ”
It was Magda’s turn to hang her head. Steve went back to fidgeting. She said, “No, Steve . . . no, no, no. Have you learned nothing during your internship with us? This is tabloid
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