NaNoWriMo 2006
Busted Seventh: a novel experiment
(Take Two.)
(a previous attempt is around here somewhere)

##

"Mitch, I needed that story seven days ago."

"I hear you, Bill, but you're the one who forced me to do a re-write on a perfectly fine..."

Bill's raised hand stopped Mitch mid sentence. The look on Bill's face was more sympathetic than angry, though.

Bill Lucerne was sitting at his desk, piles of paper in seemingly random stacks covering most of it's top and leaving just enough room for the editor to lean in on his elbows while talking. On the walls of the cramped office were numerous frames, holding certificates, awards, and the occasional picture of Bill with some famous person. Just behind the desk was a set of floor-to-ceiling filing cabinets.

"Close the door Mitch. Come in and have a seat."

Mitch Connaught took the chair from the other desk and spun it around to face Bill's. In contrast to the older, wooden desk that Bill preferred, this was a computer desk that looked like it was pulled right out of a cubicle, and it was also spotless. Mitch knew that Bill used the computer, when necessary, but it was obvious to him where Bill preferred to get his work done.

After Mitch settled in, Bill took a moment to look around, even though they were the only two in the office. "It wasn't me, Mitch. The new magazine owner has taken an editorial interest that is more than a little annoying. I hate it too. Hell, Mitch, you should have known that an article critical of electronic voting machines wouldn't fly with Haskins. His name is on the equipment you were investigating."

"His was one of five companies I looked into. And his wasn't even the worst. I tried to spin it his way, honestly I did. Well, for about five minutes. The re-write I turned into last week didn't mention Haskins at all."

"Yeah, he read it, but was still pulling for a 180 degree turnaround."

"Bill, I've been an investigative reporter for the past 12 years, and you've been an editor for easily twice that."

"Hey now, I'm not that old."

Mitch waved his hand, as if to dismiss the interruption, and then dived back into his argument. "I've never know a publisher, owner, or any shareholder to ever interfere with the nuts-and-bolts of reporting"

"You just haven't seen it. I get a lot more of that kind of thing than you'd think. This new guy, though..."

Bill sighed. He reached down into one of his desk drawers and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. After lighting one, he flipped the 'thank you for not smoking' sign on his desk face down and began to use it as an ashtray.

"Mitch, I think Haskins has got it in for you now. No matter what you write or how you write it, even if you're 100% impartial, that asshole is going to call it on some sort of BS liberal bias and drop your articles. Depending on which people in the office start kissing up to the new boss, he may be able to do it before I even see them. And he'll damn well make sure you can't get paid for any of it." Bill took his time finishing the cigarette, and stubbed it out on the back of the no-smoking sign. "I wish I could do more to help, but it could mean my job if I do."

Bill found a battered Rolodex on his desk from somewhere between two stacks of paper. He pulled a card out and handed it over to Mitch.

Mitch looked up from the card with a quizzical expression on his face.

"The Empyrean & Chthonic New World Times?"

"Just call him. I went to college with the guy. He's always buying articles and you'd be surprised what topics he's into. He'll buy your story on voting machines--without asking for any edits--just for starters. It's not quite as much money, but it'll be steady work."

Mitch stood up to leave. He still had questions, Bill could see that written all over his face, but Mitch just shook his head and put the card in his pocket. Mitch leaned over the desk to shake Bill's hand.

"Thanks, Bill, I appreciate the lead. And Bill?"

"Yeah, Mitch?"

"When you leave here--that's 'when', not 'if'--when you do leave here, give me a call. I look forward to working with you again sometime."

"Sure Mitch. You got it. Close the door on your way out."

As Mitch left, Bill lit another cigarette and leaned back in his desk chair, blowing smoke toward the ceiling.

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