Dwarf Rapes Nun; Flees in UFO: A Novel of Journalism

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The discussion, as I recall, was exploring one of your loftier points of editorial integrity when we got our first glimpse of the new management.

“The Garden Club election,” Fargo said, “goes above the fold.”

“You’re joking, for Christ’s sake,” I yelled. “It’s a society brief for Mary.” When you get pulled off a nice, quiet state-house beat to sit in “temporarily” as city editor, you figure you can yell a bit at the boss—at least a boss like Fargo.

Bill Grace, whose recurrence of shingles (or herpes if the girls in classified were to be believed) was responsible for my involuntary servitude in the office, claims he saw Fargo get mad once in eight years.

His wife sent him to work with a bean sprout and cream cheese sandwich, which Fargo bit into, gagged on, examined at length, rewrapped, and dropped into the Kapplan Brothers shopping bag he used as a briefcase. “Tastes like worms and toothpaste,” he told Grace. “Looks like worms and toothpaste. Dumb woman.”

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