Dead Cat Alley

By James Chatfield

In the year 2000 Dead Cat Alley had been declared an historic landmark. But by 2025 it had become a haven for Sacramentos underclass, and then murder scene. Author James Chatfield takes readers on a thrilling ride in the year 2025 as Sacramento Valley Times Editor Justin Wright himself on the edge of career burnout uses futuristic technology to solve the murder of an old woman and death a young reporter.
As he probes deep into his investigation, Wright uncovers a complex web of deceit, politics, and murder that could very well cost him his life or the life of the woman who shares his passion for the written word.
Filled with unpredictable twists and turns, Dead Cat Alley is sure to keep readers on the edge of their seats as they unravel the mystery. For more information on this book, interested parties may log on to www.Xlibris.com.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 21, 2011
• ISBN: 9781456883874

James Chatfield

James Chatfield lives in Northern California with his family, where he has been writing and editing newspapers since coming to California in 1980. He has personally received statewide awards for writing and photography. The newspapers at which he has served as editor have received awards for writing, photography, layout, and design. This book is dedicated to my wife, who has patiently put up with my “Type A” personality for nearly thirty years. I could not have written this novel without her faith in my skill and “gentle nudges” to enjoy the experience as a form a relaxation and not another task to be finished with all possible speed. I also want to credit our daughter, for her ideas and inspiration, particularly when it came to understanding so-called “new media.” Finally, I want to acknowledge the invaluable assistance of my sister, who pushed and pushed and pushed to add more depth and color to the characters and setting. Without her drive this work may never have been completed. This is a work of fiction. While inspired by real people, events, and places, the story is a product of the author’s imagination. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Book preview

Chapter 1

In death, some people have a greater effect on the living than they ever did in life.

The woman who staggered into the bar was one of those people. She didn’t know it yet. She would never know it.

It was her second visit to the bar that day. The hour was late, and it was early in the week, so there were only a few patrons remaining. Her attention was drawn to a Latino building crew arguing in Spanglish whether they should be getting paid more. She had seen them earlier in the day and moved in their direction when a fleeting movement outside a door exiting onto a dark alleyway caught her attention. She knew the exit and the alley well.

With actions born more of reflex than thought, the woman stumbled into the dark void scattered with human detritus and smelling of decay. From just inside her peripheral vision, she saw a shape moving right and turned toward it.

For a moment, her head resisted the heavy object that struck it. But only a moment. Then she collapsed. A thin rivulet of brackish water mixed with the blood from her face and skull.

Snorting water and blood, the woman’s last conscious act was to shift her head in a desperate gasp for air. She looked toward heaven and a neglected God.

Looking down on her lifeless body were soulless black on white eyes atop the Cheshire smile of a glistening red cat with horns.

*     *     *     *     *     *     *

About ten hours before the woman’s death, Justin Wright was at his desk, eyes glued to his video console, removing an unnecessary comma from a twelve-inch story that should have been no more than six. If asked the next day what the story was about, he wouldn’t have been able to say. It was just one more forgettable story of many he’d written or edited.

It seemed there were far too many of these stories: The Wintun County Board of Supervisors on Tuesday reported it was facing a $25-million deficit for the 2025-2026 fiscal years… blah, blah, blah. How many years had he been reading this stuff?

If asked why he spent so much time of late with his hands wrapped around a glass, he would blame his boredom. He tried not to find solace in whiskey and peanuts, but he needed the distraction. He needed the conversation, the social interaction, not the type that went on via e-mail, texting, and live chats.

It was Monday, and Wright’s week began as just another in a series of routine days that continued to take their toll. The damage grew with the years until the countenance of his masculine face now looked perpetually grim—an ever-present frown, chin down, head bent toward the ground. His once smiling—a woman had once called them meditative—brown eyes were now dark and somber, when not bloodshot. At forty-five, his body was still fit, his shoulders still broad and waist narrow. But he knew it was only a matter of time before the strain on his mind infected the rest of him.

He was losing his fire. The thrill of seeing his name in print and pixels was gone. He no longer got a charge out of contact with the rich, the powerful, and the profane in areas spanning politics to business. The only rush left was one of having an effect on people—when he thought, his work made a real difference.

After years of work, he was now the one in charge. He managed chaos, managed a staff, and accepted responsibility for it all. He was the editor.

Regardless of the story, the praise or blame would fall on his shoulders. He assigned the tales to be told, worked with writers to bring those stories to life, put the final polish on them, and sent them out to readers. Story after story, day after day, year after year.

His work as a reporter and editor started in high school and now spanned more than twenty-five years. Now the compliments and complaints were wearing thin. He’d been praised as God’s right-hand man for breaking stories others would not. He’d been condemned to hell for the same stories.

Saint or sinner? He was both.

Only minutes earlier, he had definitely decided to go home instead of the bar. Then came the phone call from an angry dad about her daughter.

Is this the editor? the voice screamed.

"Good afternoon, Justin Wright, Sacramento Valley Times, he replied in his best neutral-sounding voice. How may I help you?"

This is Darren Wells, Melissa Well’s father, you son of a bitch. Just who the hell do you think you are? Do you know what you’re doing to my family? What sort of asshole are you, anyway?

Excuse me, Darren? Wright replied as he changed his pitch to a monotone and barely above a whisper. Are you talking about a story? Those who knew Wright also knew his quietness was a signal. It was like watching a calm ocean before that eleventh wave hit the shore; a sleeper wave that suddenly reared up out of nowhere, picked you up, and sucked you out to sea if you were lucky; or slammed you against the rocks, if you weren’t.

In this case, Wright was trying to calm the irate father by speaking softly and slowly, giving him time to vent and hoping he might keep him on long enough to calm him down. He doubted it would make much difference, but it was his job to try.

Wright didn’t know Darren Wells. But he knew his daughter, Melissa.

The story is right here on the front page, the man’s voice snarled. Don’t you read your own goddamn paper? You’re saying my little girl was arrested for prostitution. That’s not true. It’s a goddamned lie. I’m going to sue you and everyone over there. Get that story off the front page right now. Do you hear me? Right the fuck now!

Darren? What story are you looking at? Wright replied, his voice still quiet, calm, and subdued as he attempted to calm her down. I don’t know how you set up your paper. Can you give me the…

Click.

Well, one question answered. To Darren Wells he was a sinner.

The conversation took seconds, but for all his outward placidity, the harangue was enough to turn Wright’s stomach. It was enough to send him out the door for a drink.

It was so much simpler in the old days, Wright thought. Decades past, he could pick up the hard copy of an actual paper and look at it when someone called to chew his head off. He could review a story. Check the wording to see the problem from the readers’ perspective. But now, people could configure their iPaper any way they wanted, and with continuous updates, it became nearly impossible for Wright to know what story, or version of a story, someone had been reading.

Well, not impossible, he admitted to himself. It was probably the follow-up piece about Melissa’s court case. His court reporter, Luke Wilson, was covering the case. It was a simple trial. Few people were actually tried for prostitution anymore, but in this case, Melissa had tried to roll a city councilman, and he was out for blood. The DA was pursuing charges against the twenty-eight-year-old; something Melissa’s parents didn’t appreciate. They appreciated it even less when they saw the details in print. Because the family had a long history in the Sacramento Valley—and were advertisers—they thought it gave them the right to control what was published.

Some things never changed, Wright reminded himself. People always wanted to shoot the messenger. Of course, it was the paper’s fault, that some private matter became public.

A community newspaper should report on community issues, readers reminded him again and again—unless it involved some seamy aspect of their own lives. Then the paper was intrusive, a rag, or scandal sheet. And despite the fact, the Sacramento Valley community was more than thirty million people strong, the Valley Times was beamed to them all, making them one big family, a family that didn’t always see eye to eye.

When the family disagreed, the blame was usually placed on the messengers. In its mildest form, the complaints consisted of name-calling. He knew all the insults—Sacramento Valley Snooze, Sacramento Little News, Sac Valley Losers. He didn’t mind the insults from those just spouting off.

Long ago, at the beginning of his career, the names hurt because he took pride in his work. But he’d gotten accustomed to the taunts over the years. Now, even the angry phone calls seemed tiresome. But they still took their toll on his mood. It couldn’t be avoided. He was human, despite claims to the contrary.

Sometimes he had to wash them away.

Hey, boss! You headed to the ‘Cat?’

Yeah, Josh. Want to come along?

Give me a few minutes to make a couple of notes on that councilman follow-up and log out of the system.

Wright gave Josh the time. He always gave Josh the time. Josh was a favorite. Wright saw a lot of himself in the kid. He was full of enthusiasm, unafraid of those he hurt, and willing to fight for the little guy when the little guy was worth fighting for.

Wright recruited Josh Adams directly out of college. Josh first met Wright as part of a summer internship program offered by the Newspaper Publishers Association, a name that now seemed outdated since there were so few printed newspapers, or even publishers, around for that matter.

Wright had served on the committee, interviewing candidates. Josh applied at the end of his junior year, submitting a story he’d done on a university president paying off a dean to quit. She was fired when her purchase orders were found to include $50,000 for new office furnishings. The president, it turned out, fired the dean without sufficient evidence of actual theft, resulting in the threat of a lawsuit.

Rather than face costly litigation, the president decided to keep the dean on the university payroll for a year after her departure, or until she found another job. The decision cost the state $350,000, which was considered cheap. If the case had gone to trial it would have damaged the school’s reputation and cost about $600,000 in attorney’s fees.

Josh’s investigative journalism skills impressed Wright. Then he found out how Josh got his information—seducing a secretary in the university president’s office. He got the secretary’s private computer password, using it to access personnel files, confidential minutes, and other notes.

The story almost resulted in Josh’s suspension, but university officials were too busy trying to explain too many other things at the time. Suspending the student who exposed the scam was not the sort of additional publicity ivy leaguers wanted, or needed. Better to graduate him and put the incident behind them.

Despite Wright’s disappointment in how Josh got his story, Wright was still impressed at the initiative. It was enough for him to track Josh’s progress through what was left of his university career. He offered Josh a full-time position as soon as an all-too-happy university president thrust a diploma into Josh’s hand and quickly stepped back as though he might catch a contagious disease, or worse, watch it replay on YouTube.

At age twenty-two, Josh’s hair was jet-black and wavy. There were tattoos on his arms and chest—which he was only too happy to show women when given a chance—and a gleam in his sky-blue eyes. Josh wasn’t all that tall, but walked with a swagger born of supreme self-confidence.

Wright suspected Josh was often more lucky than skillful because he often stumbled into situations which led to stories. But when he got the story, he went after it like a pit bull. He reminded Wright a lot of himself right out of college. Josh delivered, and that also reminded Wright of himself at a younger age. The two were always looking for another story, some other wrong to right.

Josh used his intuitive sense about people whenever possible. He knew how to read their expressions, their actions, and emotions. It made him a good manipulator, which sometimes made Wright think he was being used to further Josh’s own ends. But as long as the kid used his charms to deliver in-depth stories, Wright was willing to stretch the rules just a bit.

Josh and Wright weren’t really friends, but they were more than colleagues. Wright was trying to mentor the aggressive little shit to be the next generation of writer, and maybe an editor when he became more seasoned.

For now, Wright made sure the holes were filled in Josh’s copy, the occasional apostrophe placed where it should be and that his writer’s enthusiasm didn’t translate into an exaggerated—and unsubstantiated—claim, which would get the lawyers involved. Like most journalists, Wright deeply disliked lawyers, even those who were on the company’s payroll. He tried to avoid involving them in anything.

Josh often pushed the limits, however, necessitating an attorney’s intervention. Wright often pushed back to remind Josh there were limits.

Together they were part of a team that resulted in several federal investigations, a resignation or two of some political types who didn’t deserve to hold public office, and the sudden departure of one county sheriff after it was learned, his office affairs involved receiving more than petty bribes.

Josh was the lead investigator on that story. The facts came down to the disappearance of several hundred thousands of dollars and one Sheriff Matt Lopez. After the Valley Times broke the story, Lopez vanished and was presumed hiding in Mexico. It was rumored Lopez’s wife, Shelley, had hired detectives to find him, but whether she wanted him dead or the money was unknown. One day, Josh would get that part of the story as well.

Chapter 2

Wright and Josh headed out of the office and walked about a block to the Phat Cat Saloon. Spring was warm this year, with cool, pleasant evenings filled with the scent of flowers coming from hanging planters on the light poles that lined the street. The saloon was a decades-old institution and not just a spot for journalists, politicians, and others with higher social standings. The name Pfat Cat, was the only thing lame about the place. It had been some Yuppie’s screwball idea to lure a younger crowd in the 1980s. Although the faded name could still be read on the sign out front, no one called it Pfat Cat.

The Cat was an old-time bar in a modern era. Beers with traditional names were still served in ice-cold glass bottles, or frosty mugs. No cans. Josh liked beer. Wright preferred whiskey, the older the better. His preference was twelve-year-old Balvanie Doublewood, twenty-one years if it’d been a good day. He hadn’t tasted Balvanie 21 in a long time.

Both men were wearing dress shirts and ties. Wright wore a white shirt with blue and red tie and a dark blue jacket. Josh had his red-striped tie on a silk number that made his blue eyes even bluer, but no sport coat. Their attire was a holdover to the old days. Wright preferred to maintain the style and formality of the profession as a sign of respect to the craft and those who made a living at it. Josh, in keeping with his mentor, emulated that style for reasons known only to him and not questioned by Wright.

Wright took his customary post at the back curve of the antique, carved, dark-wood counter, facing the front door. Josh threw a leg over his stool where he could look at himself in the mirror.

The bartender was new, and, of course, Josh knew her. Her name was Jessica. Her grin showed she remembered Josh.

Wright merited a split second blank stare before a mechanical smile became visible.

Jessica automatically pulled a long-necked Bud from the cooler for Josh, popped the top, and set it on a coaster in front of the young man whose smile was gleaming white. Then she looked at Wright, who sighed and asked for two-fingers of Balvanie, pointing to the bottle when her eyes glazed over for a moment. Wright slowly repeated, Bal-vane-ee, and pointed a second time at the half-full bottle of smoky amber liquid on the glass shelf at knee-height behind the server’s pert backside. The bottle had probably remained untouched since Wright’s visit the previous Friday evening.

It must be the eyes, Wright thought. Women couldn’t pull themselves out of Josh’s blue eyes. Those eyes made others around Josh forgettable.

As the editor, Wright accepted Josh’s handsome features and their effect on women as a means to an end.

Wright, the man, was jealous as hell.

In the old days, Josh would have been a babe magnet. Other guys, like Wright, worked hard at keeping their hair just so—or keeping their hair. Trips to the gym were required. Josh hadn’t seen the inside of a gym in years, unless it was to pick up tips for a story, or a girl.

Josh went to work on Jessica, rolling up his sleeves and loosening his tie while somehow undoing the top two buttons of his shirt. Jessica immediately noticed the pentagram on Josh’s left forearm and the Grateful Dead blue and red skull with white-lightening streak down its center, on his right. Another partial tat of a girl’s forehead and tresses showed on what could be seen of Josh’s chest. Josh made a habit of showing his artwork. Jessica most likely was familiar with them already, but it didn’t stop her from eying them again.

Jessica was too young to remember the Deadheads, so was Josh. That didn’t stop her from asking about the tats and leaning up and over the bar for a better look. Both got what they wanted, his baby blues drifted idly down the partially open blouse to linger on the woman’s firm breasts.

Wright pulled his semitransparent plastic iPaper from inside his jacket and started scanning the headlines and stories he’d readied for publication, some only minutes earlier. He watched the page refresh itself as the plastic snapped into its compact rectangle. He’d programmed the paper to refresh itself every five minutes.

The flexible sheet of plastic, about the size of a slim-magazine, provided a never-ending stream of stories, video, and audio. It could be reenergized again and again, allowing it to last for years. It could also be tailored to each individual’s specific news taste, making the papers very personal. Best of all, the iPapers were portable. They could be rolled up, wadded up, and then flattened into their original shape with no loss of function, thanks to hair-thin microelectronics and molecules of colorized liquid crystals.

The pricing structure of iPapers was similar to what was once cable TV. Readers could receive a basic set of stories and then buy additional packages. People who wanted to download stories could do so at any printer configured to receive a burst from the device for an additional fee, or micro-charge. The amounts of money per story was miniscule, but added up over time and number of subscribers. It was one of several ways the national news consortium generated revenue.

These thoughts flashed through Wright’s mind as he watched Josh at work schmoozing for information. He’d seen it done by Josh before as he built sources and contacts and not only just at the Cat. There were five or six bartenders—some male, some female—in his stable of informants.

Jessica might make his seventh. She was a pretty thing. She had waited on Wright a couple of times in the past and reminded him of someone from another time, years earlier. Unfortunately, the memory wouldn’t come. She wasn’t that tall, but seemed athletic. Her hair was blondish and hung to her shoulders when it wasn’t tied up in a ponytail. Her face was narrow with sharp nose, full, red lips, and brown eyes now highlighted by a hint of mascara.

Wright knew Josh would flatter the girl, become her friend and confidant, and maybe, even her lover. Wright didn’t know Josh’s sexual orientation. He suspected Josh didn’t care whose bed he shared as long as it got him a lead for another story.

As Wright mulled over the news on his paper, Josh was laughing at a joke made by Jessica, who seemed to be blushing.

Josh spilled some of his beer on the bar as he shook with laughter. Wright was sure it was intentional. Jessica popped the cap off another beer and set it in front of him without even glancing at the register or Josh’s debit stick lying on the counter. She also pulled a cloth from her apron and wiped up the mess, some of which splashed onto Josh’s own electronic-paper.

A few more weeks, probably less, Wright thought and Jessica would be providing updates and other interesting tidbits of information on the occasional politician or community celebrity who blundered into the Cat and spilled more than beer.

Jessica would be all too ready to let Josh know what someone said or did and with whom when visiting the Cat. Josh would feign half-interest in the gossip while flirting, but he would be taking it all in nonetheless.

Eventually, the information might find its way into a story, or be used as bait to catch bigger prey.

It was all part of the game. Jessica just didn’t know she was one of the players.

Then again, the way she was flirting, thought Wright, maybe she did.

Wright wondered if Josh would deduct the beer—and maybe the eventual flowers or negligee—as a business expense. If he did, Wright would find a way to make it disappear in the budget. He’d done it before.

Wright’s eyes went back to his iPaper for a few minutes and then came up again to casually sweep over the early evening mob. There weren’t many because it was so early in the week and early in the day. Most were regulars.

He saw Mahlon Wilkins, a banker, he knew from Freedom Central. Mahlon was more honest than most. He was grinning while talking interest rates and points with a prospective homeowner, who must be a rich guy if Mahlon were giving him so much of his personal time. Their eyes met, and Mahlon gave a half-nod. There was also a stockbroker, Kevin Harden, with Piper Hopwood Investments, overdressed as usual in a three-piece suit, scanning the crawl at the bottom of his paper, checking how the market had done that day, even though he most likely knew the numbers like the back of his hand. There were a couple of young women office workers as well, giggling while going through e-mails on their Blackberrys, sharing photos, and probably a dirty joke or two.

Wright himself rarely used a PDA. He had an old-fashioned mobile phone that didn’t even do video. That was the extent of his out-of-office tether. The communication companies kept threatening to take it away and upgrade it with a modern vid-phone, but his old model worked fine. Besides, he spent too much time at the office to ever worry about being completely out of touch.

Elsewhere in the bar, there were four Latino construction workers in a booth, pouring beer from a pitcher and complaining in Spanglish about some new building code, when they weren’t talking about the Sunday loss for the San Francisco 49ers. Wright spoke the language—every good editor in California did—and winced.

How did he forget the game? He had money riding on the Niners. He called up the sports pages on his paper, looked over the spread, and realized he was out $100. Why didn’t he check the score earlier? Maybe because deep down he knew the Niners would lose.

Finally, Wright took in an elderly looking woman who was stumbling through the door. She was a fixture in the downtown area, dressed outrageously, and ready to make a score for more booze or drugs. Wright remembered her street name as Wig Lady.

The kids called her Wigged Wanda, a takeoff from an old cartoon character. She was the object of ridicule and derision by most locals. She was one of those forgettable people in town, one of the community derelicts who always seemed to be around when you didn’t want them. He didn’t know her age, but she always wore a dirty platinum wig and would accept a drink in exchange for pretty much anything. She would come and go, winding up in the oddest places. Already she was headed toward the rear of the Cat, probably to use the restroom, thought Wright.

Josh’s game with Jessica seemed to be on hold while she served Mahlon a Scotch and talked with Kevin who urged her to put some money in a mutual fund. Josh tapped his iPaper a few times and now turned his attention to Wright, who finished scoping out the crowd and was sipping at his drink while also skimming the changing headlines.

You OK, boss? You look more down in the dumps than usual, and you usually look down in the dumps.

I’m fine, just another day in the ‘newspaper’ business. I got a phone call on that prostitution story from the girl’s father. I thought those types of things didn’t affect me anymore, but they still do. It’s just so damn hard when you’re trying to put out a product that will inform people about what’s going on and then someone screams at you for doing it.

But you did the right thing, Josh said. I mean we had to run the story?

Of course, but you can do the right thing and still get blamed for it. After thirty years of being screamed at for doing the right thing, it’s hard to remember what the ‘right thing’ is sometimes.

I guess I can only imagine, but it does sound like one of those ‘Catch-22’ problems, Josh agreed.

Well, someday it will be your problem. I’ll be history in a few more years, and you’ll have to handle those types of calls.

C’mon, boss, you’re not going anywhere anytime soon.

I don’t know, Josh, Wright continued, taking a long pull off his drink and signaling Jessica for another, I’m becoming a fossil. When I started writing for newspapers—they were real papers then—computers and word processors were just becoming common in the newsrooms. As a kid, I remember watching my dad work at the old Sacramento Union where he was a copy editor. He used a blue pencil to edit copy for people who would typeset it. Then we moved on to keyboards. And now we’ve got software that checks everything before I even see it.

But aren’t you glad things have changed? No more editing with a blue pencil. No more ink-stained hands after reading a paper. No more press guys shouting at you if the paper doesn’t hit deadline. Hell, we get something wrong, we can change it in a heartbeat instead of waiting for the next day.

Things aren’t that different—only the technology. We still feed off sensationalism. Did you ever read about a guy named Walter Winchell? In the early twentieth century, Winchell was the most powerful newspaper columnist in the country. All he published was gossip for his print readers and radio audience. He knew people were hungry for dirt. And that SOB gave it to them. People loved that stuff because it made them forget about their own troubles or turned celebrities into ‘average Joes.’

I once wrote a paper on Winchell: He was something all right.

Fuck, the news isn’t news anymore, continued Wright. He was on a roll. It seems to always be the same. We always seem to be in another ‘budget crisis.’ There’s always another ‘government scandal,’ some politician who gets caught with his pants down or her skirt up. There are murders and mayhem out there aplenty to keep our readers amused.

Josh had seen Wright get this way in the past when he was depressed. Hell, the guy was forty-five years old and been in journalism since high school, covering football games, student council meetings, and the senior prom. It was understandable that he got down once in a while. Wright often reminisced about his days in college, somewhere in the Midwest, where he majored in journalism and minored in English.

My first job, Wright said, rambling, was working on my hometown daily just out of college. I was damn lucky to get hired. I came to California in the early 2000s because the Golden State was the place to be. Never been sorry I came. Those were good times. People read what I wrote, instead of the one-graph synopsis. They wrote real letters to the editor to offer their opinions. And sometimes they took action. Sometimes, a grateful parent even sent a note of appreciation for publishing the honor roll. Once in a while, they even sent a bottle of Johnny Walker.

Was that before the Crash of 2008, boss? Josh asked, interested in this part of the story. He’d heard a lot of stories from Wright, but this was different. Josh knew from his history that between 2008 and 2012, many old-time businesses disappeared. Record labels failed in the face of digital file sharing. Even the porn industry suffered as people found it cheaper to get free T&A on their vid-screens rather than buying old-fashioned DVDs. That didn’t bother Josh one bit. He thought free porn was the right of every red-blooded American.

It was that damn Internet, Josh, Wright fumed. It ruined real newspapers, starting with classified advertising, which evaporated when free sites like Craigslist and others came along. Pretty soon our ad revenue dried up as Yahoo and Google started stealing our contents and ads. Then came the bloggers and ‘Twitters,’ all capitalizing on news we wrote. We sweated out stories, and those guys came along and stole it all.

I remember reading about Twitter, Josh said, taking a pull off his beer. It seemed like a real waste of time.

It was. But people didn’t want to really talk to each other. They wanted to make statements. Nobody wanted to listen. All of that crap nearly wiped us out. Then those old-time publishers and corporate owners decided we’d give away our contents. Give it away, for Christ’s sake. We’d bleed for stories, and some guy in a suit, who never even saw the inside of a newsroom, decided we should put our work online for nothing. How would you like to see your work treated as nothing more than ‘product?’

I wouldn’t. I work hard for my stories, Josh said. I expect to be paid…

"You’re damn right. You work your ass off for a story, and now get paid a livable wage for it. It wasn’t always this way. Shit, people got so used to free news those in the business didn’t even read their own newspapers. I was at a conference once back in Denver, and those guys at the Post—you remember the old Denver Post?"

Well, I read about it in a History of Journalism course I took in college and learned it was a good paper in its day. I like the new one better. It’s got more videos.

Well, Wright rambled on as though Josh hadn’t spoken, "we were at this conference, and the Post dropped off copies of the paper at the doors of our hotel rooms. None of us read it. We were all looking at our PDAs, or our mobile phones. Fuck, it’s no wonder most print editions disappeared."

Wright went on, Thank God, for the Newspaper Recovery Act (NRA) of 2014. It saved us. Shit, I love that: the ‘NRA.’ I bet that sent some of those weapons’ rights activists over the edge. Once we got tax breaks, centralized ownership, and could be recognized as nonprofit corporations dedicated for the public good, we were better off. Of course, some of those fat cat owners didn’t think so.

We’re doing pretty well today, right? the young man asked his mentor. I mean we get paid for our efforts, and the papers are being read?

"Damn straight. We had to teach people how to read again, but they’re reading. Once the nation was completely wi-fied, we wiped out TV, and nearly destroyed radio. We merged our industries, and today, we’ve got a consolidated business plan that works. Our team covers Wintun County. Other teams cover their own counties, or geographic areas. Together we make up the Valley Times. Separate groups, whose combined strength was greater than any single paper."

Josh looked at his editor and realized he was a survivor. Despite Wright’s recent struggles with alcohol, Josh thought his boss was a guy of moderation. He exercised regularly to relieve stress, didn’t smoke much, or drink much either for that matter—at least compared with most writers he knew. He also didn’t play around. Josh figured Wright just didn’t have the time to behave like a normal human being.

Josh actually liked his editor. He gave him enough time to work on stories, wasn’t too gruff when it came to editing them, and was willing to listen. He figured now was as good a time as any to bounce an idea off him.

Boss? Do you mind if I run a story idea past you before I make the pitch to the team tomorrow.

Wright, left eyebrow arching, showed irritation as his head came up from his third drink. It had taken years to cultivate the raised eyebrow, and anyone who knew him recognized it as a warning sign. Josh knew the expression well and backed off for a minute. He knew the procedure was for the editor and writing team to do a huddle at the start of their shift, talk over ideas, prioritize, determine advertising potential, if any, and move on. Some stories would be ready by the