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license. You wouldn’t understand. ”
    â€œI’ve read a book or two. Try me. ”
    â€œI did it to dramatize the crime problem,” Wiley said. “The Harper murder symbolizes the unspeakable mayhem in our streets. Don’t you see? To make people care, I needed to bring Sparky Harper and his killer to life. Don’t look at me like that, Cab. You think I’m a hypocrite? Sure, Harper was a fat little jerk. But if I put that in the paper, no one would care about the murder. I wanted to give ’em goose bumps, Cab.”
    â€œLike the old days,” Mulcahy said with a sigh.
    â€œWhat’s that supposed to mean? I get more goddamned letters than I ever did. People read the hell out of my column. You should see the mail.”
    â€œThat’s the trouble, Skip. I do see the mail. People are starting to hate you, I mean really hate you. Not just the usual fruitcakes, either.”
    Not true, Wiley said to himself. The people who counted were on his side.
    â€œSo you’ve been taking some heat, eh?”
    Mulcahy looked away, out the window toward the bay.
    â€œA few ad cancellations, perhaps? Like maybe the Richmond Department Store account—”
    â€œSkip, that’s one of about forty things on my list. It isn’t funny anymore. You’re fucking up on a regular basis. You miss deadlines, you libel people, you invent ludicrous facts and put them in the paper. I’ve got a lawyer downstairs who does nothing but fight off litigation against your column. We’ve had to print seven retractions in the last four months—that’s a new record, by the way. No other managing editor in the history of this newspaper can make that claim.”
    Wiley was starting to feel a little sorry for Mulcahy, whom he had known for many years. Cab had been the city editor when Wiley had come to work at the Sun. They had been drinking buddies once, and used to go bass fishing together out in the Everglades.
    It was a shame the old boy didn’t understand what had to be done, Wiley thought. It was a shame the newspaper business had gotten such a frozen grip on his soul.
    â€œThe public defender’s office called me this morning,” Mulcahy continued. “Mr. Cabal’s lawyer didn’t appreciate your description of his client as ‘yellow-bellied vermin culled from the stinkpot of Castro’s jails for discharge at Mariel’s harbor of shame.’ The Hispanic Anti-Defamation League sent a telegram voicing similar objections. The League also notes that Senor Cabal is not a Mariel refugee. He arrived in this country from Havana with his family in 1966. His older brother later received a Purple Heart in Vietnam.”
    â€œPerhaps I got a little carried away,” Wiley said.
    â€œHell, Skip.” Mulcahy’s voice was tired and edged with sadness. “I think we have a big problem. And I think we’re going to have to do something. Soon.”
    This was a conversation they had been having more often, so often that Wiley had stopped taking it seriously. He got more mail than any other writer, and the publisher counted mail as subscribers, and subscribers as money. Wiley knew they wouldn’t lay a glove on him. He knew he was a star in the same way he knew he was tall and brown-eyed; it was just something else he could see in the mirror every moming, plain as day. He didn’t even notice it anymore. The only time it counted was when he got into trouble. Like now.
    â€œYou aren’t going to threaten to fire me again, are you?”
    â€œYes,” Mulcahy said.
    â€œI suppose you want me to apologize to somebody.”
    Mulcahy handed Wiley a list.
    â€œI’ll get right on it—”
    â€œSit down, Skip. I’m not finished.” Mulcahy stood up, brandishing the stack of columns. “You know what makes me sad? You’re such a damn good writer, too good to be turning out shit like this. Something’s