Read Online (1982) The Almighty by Irving Wallace - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Irving Wallace
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clandestine meetings, earth-shaking news. That’s what you believe, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, that’s what I believe. I think being on a newspaper is one of the last romantic things in the world.’
‘Honey, this is big-time, big commercial time, and you’re going to lose your girlish laughter fast. Maybe newspapers were romantic once. When your father was a young newsman, battered felt hat, ancient Underwood typewriter, stubby pencils, underworld connections, making deadlines, Extras in the street. Honey, that world is as dead as the one-hoss shay. You know what a newspaper is now? Something you read if happened to miss last night’s television. Something that shovels in words between the ads. No more regular
typewriters, no more stubby pencils, no more Extra-read-all-about-it. Just one big electronic rig-up, filled with computers and tapes. It’s one big bore, with no future. Take my word for it and spare yourself a lot of grief.’
‘I hope you’re wrong,’ she said.
‘For your sake, I hope I am.’ He signaled a passing waiter and held up his empty glass. ‘One more for the road,’ he
called.
When he turned back, he found her eyes hard on him.
‘Nick,’ she said, ‘why do you drink so much?’
He gave her a wicked smile. T don’t know,’ he said. ‘You’re
the investigative reporter. You find out.’
The next morning, at her desk early, Victoria Weston was still thinking about Nick Ramsey when she heard her name on the loudspeaker. It was a summons from the managing editor. Taking up a notepad and ballpoint pen, she hurried to Ollie McAllister’s office.
Studying the contents of a manila folder, he told Victoria to
draw up a chair.
‘Your first assignment,’ he said.
‘I am ready,’ she said, indicating her pad and pen and wondering what the assignment would be.
‘Since Edward Armstead has just taken over, we haven’t as yet had time to determine what investigative stories we want to get into. However, to keep you busy we have some news features that need doing. Especially one we want to get into the works right now.’
Victoria waited tensely.
McAllister looked up. ‘Ever heard of Sam Yinger?’
‘Who hasn’t? He murdered all those kids.’
‘He’s going to die in the electric chair at Green Haven prison two days from now. Since his crime - horrendous as any I’ve heard - has imprinted itself on the public consciousness, we figure there’s wide interest in how Yinger spends his last hours or last day. Especially now that the state has restored capital punishment. He’ll be one of the first big names to burn under the new law. What we want is a color story, really. There you are in a cell on Death Row. Soon you are going to be extinguished as a human being. How do you spend your final hours? What are you doing? What are you
thinking? Do you get the picture?’ ‘I get it.’
‘Is it scary, or isn’t it for a subhuman like Yinger? We don’t know. We hope to find out. Unfortunately we - and all of the press - have been refused visits or interviews. We can’t get to Yinger directly. But as it turns out, we can get to him indirectly - that is, at second hand.’ ‘I’m not sure I understand.’
‘You will in a moment,’ said McAllister. ‘Here at the Record we have on the payroll a large number of tipsters in every field. We have some in city hall, some in the D.A.‘s office, some in the state capitol.’ He paused for effect. ‘And we have some in the underworld.’
Victoria was not surprised. But because McAllister obviously was playing it for effect, she said, ‘Really? Isn’t it terribly dangerous for them, informing on their friends?’
‘Yes, it is, although they rarely give us anything important. But they are people always short of money. They tip us off to small things, when they think they can do it safely. Well, one of our more productive underworld tipsters is a man named Gus Pagano. Does the name mean anything to you?’ ‘I don’t think
‘Yes, that’s what I believe. I think being on a newspaper is one of the last romantic things in the world.’
‘Honey, this is big-time, big commercial time, and you’re going to lose your girlish laughter fast. Maybe newspapers were romantic once. When your father was a young newsman, battered felt hat, ancient Underwood typewriter, stubby pencils, underworld connections, making deadlines, Extras in the street. Honey, that world is as dead as the one-hoss shay. You know what a newspaper is now? Something you read if happened to miss last night’s television. Something that shovels in words between the ads. No more regular
typewriters, no more stubby pencils, no more Extra-read-all-about-it. Just one big electronic rig-up, filled with computers and tapes. It’s one big bore, with no future. Take my word for it and spare yourself a lot of grief.’
‘I hope you’re wrong,’ she said.
‘For your sake, I hope I am.’ He signaled a passing waiter and held up his empty glass. ‘One more for the road,’ he
called.
When he turned back, he found her eyes hard on him.
‘Nick,’ she said, ‘why do you drink so much?’
He gave her a wicked smile. T don’t know,’ he said. ‘You’re
the investigative reporter. You find out.’
The next morning, at her desk early, Victoria Weston was still thinking about Nick Ramsey when she heard her name on the loudspeaker. It was a summons from the managing editor. Taking up a notepad and ballpoint pen, she hurried to Ollie McAllister’s office.
Studying the contents of a manila folder, he told Victoria to
draw up a chair.
‘Your first assignment,’ he said.
‘I am ready,’ she said, indicating her pad and pen and wondering what the assignment would be.
‘Since Edward Armstead has just taken over, we haven’t as yet had time to determine what investigative stories we want to get into. However, to keep you busy we have some news features that need doing. Especially one we want to get into the works right now.’
Victoria waited tensely.
McAllister looked up. ‘Ever heard of Sam Yinger?’
‘Who hasn’t? He murdered all those kids.’
‘He’s going to die in the electric chair at Green Haven prison two days from now. Since his crime - horrendous as any I’ve heard - has imprinted itself on the public consciousness, we figure there’s wide interest in how Yinger spends his last hours or last day. Especially now that the state has restored capital punishment. He’ll be one of the first big names to burn under the new law. What we want is a color story, really. There you are in a cell on Death Row. Soon you are going to be extinguished as a human being. How do you spend your final hours? What are you doing? What are you
thinking? Do you get the picture?’ ‘I get it.’
‘Is it scary, or isn’t it for a subhuman like Yinger? We don’t know. We hope to find out. Unfortunately we - and all of the press - have been refused visits or interviews. We can’t get to Yinger directly. But as it turns out, we can get to him indirectly - that is, at second hand.’ ‘I’m not sure I understand.’
‘You will in a moment,’ said McAllister. ‘Here at the Record we have on the payroll a large number of tipsters in every field. We have some in city hall, some in the D.A.‘s office, some in the state capitol.’ He paused for effect. ‘And we have some in the underworld.’
Victoria was not surprised. But because McAllister obviously was playing it for effect, she said, ‘Really? Isn’t it terribly dangerous for them, informing on their friends?’
‘Yes, it is, although they rarely give us anything important. But they are people always short of money. They tip us off to small things, when they think they can do it safely. Well, one of our more productive underworld tipsters is a man named Gus Pagano. Does the name mean anything to you?’ ‘I don’t think
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