Natalie
“Just one article, Ed, that’s all I’m asking for.”
“Natalie,” he says, taking a long puff from his cigarette, “we’ve already been through this. People don’t care about that kind of stuff, and we’re in this business to sell newspapers. Last time I checked, we weren’t doing it to change the world.”
“I know that,” I protest meekly, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. I watch as Ed exhales the smoke out through his nostrils, finishing his cigarette and then crushing it on the overflowing ashtray sitting on his desk. “But I think that good journalism can help the Gazette sell some --”
“No,” he grumbles, reaching for the red carton next to his keyboard and fishing out another cigarette. Perching it up on the corner of his mouth, he lights it up and takes a long drag, the smell of it making me wince.
“But --”
“I said no,” he repeats, resting one hand over his shirt, his overgrown belly stretching the fabric thin. Turning his attention to his laptop screen, he waves one hand at me dismissively, and I know that this meeting is over.
Sighing, I turn on my heels and start making my way toward the door when he calls my name. “Hang on,” he mutters in that hoarse voice of his, a product of decades of smoking like an industrial chimney. “Maybe there’s something you can do.”
“Really?”
“Maybe. Don’t get your hopes too high, kid, I still ain’t taking you out of the sports department.” Flicking the burning ash on the tip of his cigarette, most of it landing over the documents covering his computer’s keyboard, he then looks at me as if he’s sizing me up. “Can you handle something more longform than news articles?”
“Longform?” I ask him, not really sure what he’s talking about. Most of my days are spent writing short and snappy news articles (most of which don’t even end up on the print version of the newspaper, they just make it online), and the word longform has really made me perk up my ears.
“Yes,” he nods impatiently, leaning back. His chair creaks as he pushes his weight against the back rest and, for a moment, I almost think he’s going to fall back. He doesn’t, of course; he just keeps on staring at me with his beady eyes, his gaze cutting through the constant cloud of cigarette smoke that covers his office.
“Well, uh… What do you have in mind? I can handle longform,” I assure him, even though I have no idea what kind of job he’s thinking of. Either way, it has to be better than writing all those fluff pieces about athletes on vacation.
“How familiar are you with Hunter?” he asks me after a long silence, finishing his cigarette and burying it in his ashtray.
“The boxer? He just defended his title last night and --”
“I know who he is,” he growls impatiently, looking at his carton of cigarettes as if he’s thinking of going for another one; he decides against it, though, and just drums his fingertips against the surface of his desk. “What I’m asking you is, can you handle an article on him?”
“Definitely,” I reply with a nod, doing it so fast that I think I might’ve pulled a muscle in my neck. Truth be told, I don’t know that much about Hunter or boxing, but Ed has just thrown me a lifeline; I sure as hell am not going to waste it.
“Okay, good. What about Logan?”
“The light heavyweight champion? Yeah, I know who he is,” I tell him, even though all I know is that his name is Logan and that he’s a boxing champion, and just like Hunter, he’s hailed as one of the best fighters to ever grace the ring.
“That’s the one. Do you think you can handle a profile on these guys?”
“Do you want me to start profiling boxers?” I ask him, not really sure what the interest in these guys is. Sure, they’re two of the best paid athletes in the world, and they’re two households names… But why the sudden interest in the boxing world?
“I didn’t say I wanted you to start profiling boxers,” he growls, slapping his thigh with one open hand, the jowls under his chin quivering as he does it. “I want you to profile Hunter and Logan. They’re the ones that matter.”
“Alright, I can do that… What kind of piece do you have in mind?”
“Something well-researched, long… and juicy,” his lips curling into a thin veiled smile as he says that last word. “I want these profiles to sell newspapers, capisce?” He asks me, his tone making him sound like a don of the Italian mob. “You do that and I might give you a chance at a different kind of story,” he continues, waving his hand at me again, telling me to leave his office.
“Thank you, Ed!” I reply, not sure if I should feel excited about it. Are boxers even that interesting? Oh, why am I complaining? Sure, this might not be the project I’ve always dreamed of but, hey, it’s a start!
Marching out of his office, I close the door behind me and take a deep breath, sending a rush of clean air into my lungs. I don’t know how he manages to spend all day inside his office; he smokes so much that there’s a perpetual curtain of foul fog inside it.
“Is Edward inside?” I hear someone ask behind me, and I look back over my shoulder to meet the steely gaze of a man in his seventies, a scowl on his face. Despite his age, he’s the complete opposite of Ed; instead of fat and with a slouched posture, he’s elegant for his age and stands tall, so much that he looks like he’s always looking down at the world. He’s wearing a black tailored suit with a blue pocket square, and there’s something so intimidating about him that I just feel as if I’m half my size.
“Mr. Moreau,” I cry out, taking one step back. “Yes, Edward’s inside,” I tell him, replying to his question with an awkward mumble. I had already seen pictures of him, but I had never seen the owner of the Gazette in the flesh.
“Good,” he says flatly, opening the door to Ed’s office and stepping inside. Behind him trails a much shorter man with a buzzcut. He’s also wearing what looks like a tailored suit but, unlike Mr. Moreau, there’s no scowl on his face. Instead, there’s a discreet smile, as if he knows something the world had no idea about. He has a pale scar that goes from his chin to the corner of his mouth and, even though it isn’t that noticeable at first glance, it really adds to his disconcerting smile.
“BACK TO WORK!” Ed shouts at me from the inside as he watches me standing by the door. Snapping my heels together, I get out of his line of sight and make my way back toward the sports department offices.