metaphor.
"It was."
"What happened?"
"Biggest resurrection this town
has seen since Jesus or our last crooked governor, depending on your
frame of reference. Spiked in the afternoon, it rose again that night
for one edition only, the final. But one edition was enough. The
Associated Press overnight guy moved it on the wire, which went to all
the broadcast outlets, and there was no turning back. Everyone in town
went with it, and everyone attributed it to the Beacon-Light ."
"Why only one edition?"
"Good question. One of many being
asked around the office today." Whitney's eyes
locked on hers, steady and serious. "It wasn't
suppose to be there, Tess. Not today. Maybe not ever. Someone decided
otherwise."
"So what happened? You should
know, you're a lock for a Pulitzer for in-house
gossip."
"I'd rather have that
Far East fellowship, the one in Hawaii, or one of those Alicia
Patterson grants for young journalists," Whitney said, as if
"Pulitzer" was the only word she had heard. For a
moment she seemed lost in some private reverie, perhaps an image of
herself striding through the Orient, literally head and shoulders above
the populace. She blinked, returning to Baltimore, Tess, and the roof.
"As it turns out, I do know quite
a bit about this. I got it all from the big boss, right after I saw you
today. Editor in chief Lionel C. Mabry himself."
"Do I know him?"
"He came to the paper nine months
ago, lured out of semiretirement at Northwestern University. Ran the Chicago
Democrat in its glory days. Reporters call him
the Lion King, because he has this mane of blond hair sweeping back
from a high widow's peak. They also call him the
Lyin' King, because he has a tendency to tell you nice things
to your face, then go to the editors' meeting and stick
knives in your back. Long, elegant, quite sharp knives."
"Not your bony back, Whitney. Bosses always love you."
"The old bosses did. But Mabry
doesn't know my work as a reporter, and he's going
to have a big say in who gets the Tokyo bureau when it opens up this
summer. I'm on the short list, but I'm not a lock.
Not even close."
Whitney frowned. She looked baffled, much in
the same way she had the first time she'd attended a Passover
dinner with Tess's mother's family.
"That's not horseradish," she had
insisted politely, poking the tuberous root with her spoon.
"Horseradish comes in a jar." No one had dared
contradict her.
Tess poured more bourbon into
Whitney's glass. "You'll win him
over."
"Or die trying. I even used the
elevator technique on him today."
"What's that, some blow
job tip from the pages of Cosmo ?"
"Well, it's not
fellatio, but it is a kind
of oral sex." Whitney hoisted herself up on the ledge and
sipped her drink, legs crossed demurely at the ankles.
"There's a theory that the most important part of
your career is the thirty seconds you spend on the elevator with the
boss—or in the hallway, or the john, but that last outlet
doesn't exactly work for me. It's prime exposure
time, and you should prepare for it in advance, the way you prepare for
orals in college, or the way you train for a race, so it's
all second nature."
"Prepare what ?"
"Your tapes. Think of your brain
as a mini tape recorder. You need two or three tapes at the ready, to
drop in the slot at the first sight of the CEO. Editor in chief, in my
case. Each tape features a timeless question or observation,
demonstrating you are a motivated, loyal, dedicated, happy worker
who's willing to do a hundred and ten percent to make your
terrific place of work even more terrific."
"I think I need a
demonstration."
Whitney threw her shoulders back and shook
her hair away from her face, transforming herself into an eager
acolyte. "Mr. Mabry," she began, a little
breathlessly, her voice higher and sweeter than usual. "Mr.
Mabry, I noticed our circulation numbers for the evening edition have
stabilized. Do you think the redesign, and the attempt to market the
evening paper as a street-driven product,
"It was."
"What happened?"
"Biggest resurrection this town
has seen since Jesus or our last crooked governor, depending on your
frame of reference. Spiked in the afternoon, it rose again that night
for one edition only, the final. But one edition was enough. The
Associated Press overnight guy moved it on the wire, which went to all
the broadcast outlets, and there was no turning back. Everyone in town
went with it, and everyone attributed it to the Beacon-Light ."
"Why only one edition?"
"Good question. One of many being
asked around the office today." Whitney's eyes
locked on hers, steady and serious. "It wasn't
suppose to be there, Tess. Not today. Maybe not ever. Someone decided
otherwise."
"So what happened? You should
know, you're a lock for a Pulitzer for in-house
gossip."
"I'd rather have that
Far East fellowship, the one in Hawaii, or one of those Alicia
Patterson grants for young journalists," Whitney said, as if
"Pulitzer" was the only word she had heard. For a
moment she seemed lost in some private reverie, perhaps an image of
herself striding through the Orient, literally head and shoulders above
the populace. She blinked, returning to Baltimore, Tess, and the roof.
"As it turns out, I do know quite
a bit about this. I got it all from the big boss, right after I saw you
today. Editor in chief Lionel C. Mabry himself."
"Do I know him?"
"He came to the paper nine months
ago, lured out of semiretirement at Northwestern University. Ran the Chicago
Democrat in its glory days. Reporters call him
the Lion King, because he has this mane of blond hair sweeping back
from a high widow's peak. They also call him the
Lyin' King, because he has a tendency to tell you nice things
to your face, then go to the editors' meeting and stick
knives in your back. Long, elegant, quite sharp knives."
"Not your bony back, Whitney. Bosses always love you."
"The old bosses did. But Mabry
doesn't know my work as a reporter, and he's going
to have a big say in who gets the Tokyo bureau when it opens up this
summer. I'm on the short list, but I'm not a lock.
Not even close."
Whitney frowned. She looked baffled, much in
the same way she had the first time she'd attended a Passover
dinner with Tess's mother's family.
"That's not horseradish," she had
insisted politely, poking the tuberous root with her spoon.
"Horseradish comes in a jar." No one had dared
contradict her.
Tess poured more bourbon into
Whitney's glass. "You'll win him
over."
"Or die trying. I even used the
elevator technique on him today."
"What's that, some blow
job tip from the pages of Cosmo ?"
"Well, it's not
fellatio, but it is a kind
of oral sex." Whitney hoisted herself up on the ledge and
sipped her drink, legs crossed demurely at the ankles.
"There's a theory that the most important part of
your career is the thirty seconds you spend on the elevator with the
boss—or in the hallway, or the john, but that last outlet
doesn't exactly work for me. It's prime exposure
time, and you should prepare for it in advance, the way you prepare for
orals in college, or the way you train for a race, so it's
all second nature."
"Prepare what ?"
"Your tapes. Think of your brain
as a mini tape recorder. You need two or three tapes at the ready, to
drop in the slot at the first sight of the CEO. Editor in chief, in my
case. Each tape features a timeless question or observation,
demonstrating you are a motivated, loyal, dedicated, happy worker
who's willing to do a hundred and ten percent to make your
terrific place of work even more terrific."
"I think I need a
demonstration."
Whitney threw her shoulders back and shook
her hair away from her face, transforming herself into an eager
acolyte. "Mr. Mabry," she began, a little
breathlessly, her voice higher and sweeter than usual. "Mr.
Mabry, I noticed our circulation numbers for the evening edition have
stabilized. Do you think the redesign, and the attempt to market the
evening paper as a street-driven product,
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