Jim Qwilleran, whose name had confounded typesetters and proofreaders for two decades, arrived fifteen minutes early for his appointment with the managing editor of the Daily Fluxion.

In the reception room he picked up a copy of the early edition and studied the front page. He read the weather prediction (unseasonably warm) and the circulation figures (427,463) and the publisher's slogan snobbishly printed in Latin (Fiat Flux).

He read the lead story on a murder trial and the secondary lead on the gubernatorial race, in which he found two typographical errors. He noticed that the art museum had failed to get its million-dollar grant, but he skipped the details. He bypassed another feature about a kitten trapped in a drainpipe, but he read everything else: Cop Nabs Hood in Gun Tiff. Probe Stripper Feud in Loop. Stocks Soar as Tax Talk Irks Dems.

Qwilleran could hear familiar noises beyond a glass-paneled door -- typewriters clattering, teletypes jigging, telephones screaming. At the sound his ample pepper-and-salt moustache bristled, and he smoothed it with his knuckles. Aching for a sight of the bustle and clutter that constituted the City Room before a deadline, he walked to the door for a squint through the glass.

The sounds were authentic, but the scene -- he discovered -- was all wrong. The Venetian blinds were straight. The desks were tidy and unscarred. Crumpled copy paper and slashed newspapers that should have been on the floor were collected in wire wastebaskets. As he contemplated the scene with dismay, an alien sound reached his ears -- one that did not harmonize with the background music of any city rooms he had known. Then he noticed a copyboy feeding yellow pencils into a small moaning contraption. Qwilleran stared at the thing. An electric pencil sharpener! He had never thought it would come to this. It reminded him how long he had been out of touch.

Another copyboy in tennis shoes bounced out of the City Room and said, "Mr. Qwilleran? You can come in now."

Qwilleran followed him to the cubicle where a young managing editor was waiting with a sincere handshake and a sincere smile. "So you're Jim Qwilleran! I've heard a lot about you."

Qwilleran wondered how much -- and how bad. In the job résumé he had mailed to the Daily Fluxion his career traced a dubious curve: sports writer, police reporter, war correspondent, winner of the Publishers' Trophy, author of a book on urban crime. Then came a succession of short-term jobs on smaller and smaller newspapers, followed by a long period of unemployment -- or no jobs worth listing.

The managing editor said, "I remember your coverage of the trial that won you the Publishers' Trophy. I was a cub reporter at the time and a great admirer of yours."

By the man's age and schooled manner, Qwilleran recognized him as the new breed of editor -- one of the precision-honed generation who approached newpapering as a science rather than a holy cause. Qwilleran had always worked for the other kind -- the old-fashioned nail-spitting crusaders.

The editor was saying, "With your background you may be disappointed in our offer. All we have for you is a desk in the Feature Department, but we'd like you to take it until something turns up cityside."

"And until I've proved I can stay on the job?" Qwilleran said, looking the man in the eye. He had been through a humbling experience; now the problem was to strike the right chord of humility and confidence.

"That goes without saying. How are you getting along?"

"So far, so good. The important thing is to get back on a newspaper. I wore out my welcome in several cities before I got smart. That's why I wanted to come here. Strange town -- lively paper -- new challenge. I think I can make it work."

"Sure you can!" said the editor, squaring his jaw. "And here's what we have in mind for you. We need an art writer."

"An art writer!" Qwilleran winced and mentally composed a headline: Vet Newsman Put to Pasture.

"Know anything about art?"

Qwilleran was honest. He said, "I don't know the Venus de Milo from the Statute of Liberty."

"You're exactly what we want! The less you know, the fresher your viewpoint. Art is booming in this town, and we need to give it more coverage. Our art critic writes a column twice a week, but we want an experienced newsman to scout stories about the artists themselves. There's plenty of material. These days, as you probably know, artists are more plentiful than cats and dogs."

Qwilleran combed his moustache with his knuckles.

The editor continued in a positive vein. "You'll report to the feature editor, but you can dig up your own assignments. We'll want you to get around on the beat, meet a lot of artists, shake a few hands, make friends for the paper."

Qwilleran silently composed another headline: Journalist Sinks to Role of Glad-hander. But he needed the job. Necessity battled with conscience. "Well," he said, "I don't know--"

"It will be a nice clean beat, and you'll meet some decent people for a change. You've probably had your fill of mobsters and con men."

Qwilleran's twitching moustache was trying to say who-the-hell-wants-a-nice-clean-beat, but its owner maintained a diplomatic silence.

The editor consulted his watch and stood up. "Why don't you go upstairs and talk it over with Arch Riker? He can--"

"Arch Riker! What's he doing here?"

"He's feature editor. Know him?"

"We worked together in Chicago -- years ago."

"Good! He'll give you all the details. And I hope you decide to join the Flux." The editor extended his hand and smiled a measured smile.

Qwilleran wandered out through the City Room again -- past the rows of white shirts with sleeves at three-quarter mast, past the heads bent obliviously over typewriters, past the inevitable girl reporter. She was the only one who gave him an inquisitive look, and he stretched to his full six-feet-two, reined in the superfluous ten pounds that pushed at his belt buckle, and passed a preening hand over his head. Like his upper lip, it still boasted three black hairs for every one that was gray.

Upstairs he found Arch Riker presiding over a roomful of desks, typewriters and telephones -- all in a single shade of pea green.

"Pretty fancy, isn't it?" Arch said apologetically. "They call it Eye-Ease Olive. Everybody has to be pampered these days. Personally, I think it looks bilious."

The Feature Department was a small edition of the City Room -- without the smolder of urgency. Serenity filled the room like a mist. Everyone seemed to be ten years older than the crew in the City Room, and Arch himself was plumper and balder than he used to be.

"Jim, it's great to see you again," he said. "Do you still spell your name with that ridiculous W?"

"It's a respectable Scottish spelling," Qwilleran protested.

"And I see you haven't got rid of that overgrown moustache."

"It's my only war souvenir." The knuckles smoothed it affectionately.

"How's your wife, Jim?"

"You mean my ex-wife?"

"Oh, I didn't know. Sorry."

"Let's skip that . . . . What's this job you've got for me?"

"It's a snap. You can do a Sunday piece for us if you want to start today."

"I haven't said I'll take the job yet."

"You'll take it," Arch said. "It's just right for you."

"Considering my recent reputation, you mean?"

"Are you going to be touchy? Forget it. Quit needling yourself."

Qwilleran parted his moustache thoughtfully.

"I suppose I could give it a try. Want me to do a trial assignment?"

"Anything you say."

"Got any leads?"

"Yes." Arch Riker drew a pink sheet of paper from a tickler file. "How much did the boss tell you?"

"He didn't tell me anything," Qwilleran said, "except that he wants human-interest stuff on artists."

"Well, he sent up a pink memo suggesting a story on a guy called Cal Halapay."

"So?"

"Here at the Flux we have a color code. A blue memo means For Your Information. Yellow means Casual Suggestion. But pink means Jump, Man, Jump.

"What's so urgent about Cal Halapay?"

"Under the circumstances it might be better if you didn't know the background. Just go out there cold, meet this Halapay person, and write something readable. You know all the tricks."

"Where do I find him?"

"Call his office, I suppose. He's a commercial artist and head of a successful agency, but he does oil paintings in his spare time. He paints pictures of kids. They're very popular. Kids with curly hair and rosy cheeks. They look apoplectic, but people seem to buy them . . . . Say, do you want lunch? We could go to the Press Club."

Qwilleran's moustache sprang to attention. Once upon a time press clubs had been his life, his love, his hobby, his home, his inspiration.

This one was across the street from the new police headquarters, in a sooty limestone fortress with barred windows that had once been the county jail. The stone steps, bowl-shaped with age, held the evidence of an unseasonable February thaw. In the lobby the ancient woodwork gleamed red under countless coats of varnish.

"We can eat in the bar," Arch said, "or we can go upstairs to the dining room. They've got tablecloths up there."

"Let's eat down here," Qwilleran said.

It was dim and noisy in the bar. Conversation was high-key, with confidential undertones. Qwilleran knew it well. It meant that rumors were circulating, campaigns were being launched, and cases were getting solved unofficially over a beer and a hamburger.

They found two empty stools at the bar and were confronted by a bartender wearing a red vest and a conspiratorial smile that brimmed with inside information. Qwilleran recalled that some of his best story tips had come from Press Club bartenders.

"Scotch and water," Arch ordered.

Qwilleran said, "Double tomato juice on the rocks."

"Tom-tom on the rocks," said the bartender. "You want a squeeze of lime and a shot of Worcestershire?"

"No, thanks."

"That's the way I fix it for my friend the mayor when he comes in here." There was more of the authoritative smile.

"No, thanks."

"How about a drop of Tabasco to give it a bite?"

"No, just pour it straight."

The bartender's mouth turned down at the corners, and Arch said to him, "This is Jim Qwilleran, a new staffer. He doesn't realize you're an artist . . . . Jim, this is Bruno. He gives his drinks a lot of personal expression."

Behind Qwilleran an earsplitting voice said, "I'll take less expression and a bigger shot of liquor. Hey, Bruno, make me a martini, and leave out the garbage. No olive, lemon twist, anchovy or pickled unborn tomato."

Qwilleran turned and faced a cigar clamped between grinning teeth, its size vastly out of proportion to the slender young man who smoked it. The black cord hanging from his breast pocket was obviously attached to a light meter. He was noisy. He was cocky. He was enjoying himself. Qwilleran liked him.

Copyright © 1996 by Lilian Jackson Braun