Rough Justice Read Online Free PDF Page A

me. A bad thing in a boss. It made me nervous. “I studied English literature at Princeton. You probably know all this. Journalism at Columbia?”
    â€œI’ve heard it around,” I said.
    â€œWhen I graduated, I got a job on a little paper called the Wallkill Record . All by myself, no connections. I was very proud.” One corner of her mouth lifted. She held me with that gaze. “I covered church meetings, barbecues. Town board twice a month. And after half a year, the editor—very sweet guy by the name of Porky Hindenburg—he sat down on my desk, put his fatherly hand on my shoulder, and said, ‘Emma, you’re going to have a long and happy career. Just as soon as you stop trying to be a reporter.’” She cocked an eyebrow at me. “And he had that right, too.”
    â€œYou stank, huh?”
    â€œLike a senator’s soul. Ned would’ve been the reporter in my family.”
    She took a deep breath, sat back finally. I felt like her grip had loosened on me. I stretched my neck out of my shirt collar. The collar was damp.
    â€œWell, there’s a lot of money in advertising,” I said.
    â€œYes, there is. Yes, there is. And it’s taken me twenty goddamned years to get up the courage to leave it and try this business again. And this time, I used every connection I had.”
    I gave her a nonchalant wave. “Okay,” I croaked. I cleared my throat.
    â€œNow,” said Emma Walsh very quietly. “Now, let me tell you what you are going to do for me.”
    I blew out a stream of smoke. I waited for it.
    She said, “If I tell you to learn the computer, John, you are going to learn the computer. If I tell you to get your feet off the desk, you are going to get them off, fast. You don’t have to call me ‘ma’am,’ but when you talk to me out in that city room, you better sound like that’s what you’re calling me, you hear?”
    I didn’t say anything. I was plotting her destruction.
    â€œAnd if we’re in a staff meeting,” Emma Walsh went on, “and I’m telling the assembled multitudes about the all-new perky, perky Star , you are not going to snicker, John. You are going to nod your head and rub your chin thoughtfully.”
    â€œLike this?”
    â€œNot bad, but work on it. Work on it till you get it right.” She sat straight. Her long hair framed her face. Her voice was even. Her eyes were calm. “Because if you will do that—if you will do all those things, John—then I will make this the newspaper of your dreams.”
    She paused long enough for me to say, “What?”
    â€œYou heard me. I will back you to the limit. To the wall and beyond. I will give you space if you need space. I will give you time if you need time. I will put the front page on ice for you. You understand?”
    â€œUh—no.”
    â€œBecause while I play office politics—which I am very good at—and while I convince the People Upstairs that we are going perky as a kitten in a ball of twine, I want you to blow this fucking town apart.”
    I may have stared at her. I probably did. My brain was racing to catch up with hers, but kept losing it in the stretch. I could only make another nonchalant gesture—a little turning of the hand this time—and keep trying to figure her angle.
    And she said: “I want all those crooks of yours on the public payroll, John, my dear. I want the federal homeless aid that’s being fed into the pockets of slumlords. I want all those wiseguys and good-fellows who’re running the unions. And I want Dellacroce, not just indicted, but sent away. I want all those bastards, every one. And I want you to get them for me.”
    She fell silent, her gaze unwavering, her mouth turned up in a faint smile.
    I placed my cigarette carefully at the corner of my lips. I pulled on it slowly, stalling for time.
    â€œMan,” I said then.