Page 97 of A Ticking Time Boss

TWENTY

The article is ready. Arguably, it’s past ready. Booker had asked for the first draft three days ago. “That thing you were working on,” she’d said, snapping her fingers. “What was it? Evictions, right?”

“Yeah, in Queens. A construction company has put it into practice.”

“That’s the one. I think it could work for a Sunday issue. Have it on my desk soon, yeah?”

I’d nodded, and inside, I’d almost passed out. The Sunday issue is the biggest of the week. If you want a story to get read widely, you put it in the Sunday issue.

Now my article is lying on my desk, printed and ready. The changes Carter had suggested were good. Minor, but good. They made it stronger.

Even if it was hard to incorporate them after the other night.

“You’re done,” Declan says by my side. “Come on, you just have to submit it.”

“Yeah. Will do.”

He leans back in his chair. His hair is artfully tousled today, but in a different direction than usual. It looks good. “She cut half of mine and asked Johnson to add it to his beat,” he says dryly. “We can’t be precious about our first stories.”

He’s right, of course. I know it too. The term I was student editor of my college newspaper, I’d made countless decisions like that. Not as high stakes, though. Not at all. I see the faces of the family being evicted in front of me, their bodega, the metaphorical wrecking ball coming closer.

I grab the papers. “You’re right.”

“Grab her by the balls, tiger,” Declan says.

I look at him, and he gives me a sheepish shrug. “Sounded better in my head.”

I laugh. “Thanks, though. I appreciate it.”

Booker is having two conversations at the same time. Firing off story beats at a rapid pace. When she turns to me, her eyes are feverish. “Spitfire,” she says. “Thank God. Want to do me another favor?”

I lower my article. “Sure.”

“Tyrell is sick and Johnson just told me we have to push the epilepsy story for tonight’s print. Which means we’re several articles short for Friday’s edition.”

“Shoot. What can I—”

“I have two half-baked articles banked. They’re approved already, but they need filler, better research, and all their facts checked. Can you stay late and do that?”

“Yes, absolutely.”

“Great. I was thinking about your article, too—is that it?”

“Oh, yes, it is.” I hand over the document. “It’s long, but for a Sunday piece it could work.”

Those are bold words for a junior reporter.

Booker meets my gaze with a shrewd one of her own. “I’ll look it over. I promise I’ll give it a fair shake, too. You’re a good writer. But right now I want you focused on the articles for tonight. I’ll email you the details.”

“Will do.”

Another late night at the newsroom, then. I return to my desk with a grin.

“That good?” Declan asks.

“She asked me to stay late,” I say. It’s grunt work, of course, for a junior reporter. But it also means she trusts me to deliver.

Declan gives as noncommittal sound. He’d had to stay late just a few days ago, and he’s smugly complained about it the whole day.

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