town on the coast. An Alaskan company wants to float gigantic, ugly plastic bags at the outlet of the Deer River to collect water to sell to southern California. Mayor’s all for the deal; he claims the water belongs to the state, not the municipality, so they can’t stop it. Which means he’s been paid off by the Alaskans. His constituency is concerned about environmental issues and visual pollution. The mayor’s effort to convert them to his point of view ended up in an unfortunate egg-throwing incident, which Joe captured on film.”
“Egregiously.”
“He tends to underestimate his talents. Anyway, I’ll leave you to await his emergence.”
Matt had hoped, now that the tour of the facilities was at its final destination, to ask Quill about Ardis Coleman. But when he invited him to sit down and chat till Maynard was done, the reporter said he had an appointment in fifteen minutes. Maybe they could have a beer after work? Matt suggested. Sure, Quill said, if they finished at the same time. Hours at the
Spectrum
were irregular at best.
Joe Maynard was built like a linebacker, with a shock of unruly brown hair, a nose that looked as if it had been broken more than once, and almost no neck. His hands were so large and clumsy-looking that Matt wondered how he could manipulate the settings on his camera. As they began trading histories in the cautious manner of men who know they must get along in order to work together, he found that Joe had indeed been a linebacker, at UCLA, where he’d earned a degree in fine arts.
“So what brought you to Cyanide Wells?”Matt asked.
“A chance to work at a paper in a place where I could also hunt and fish. After college I played a couple of seasons on special teams for the Pittsburgh Steelers, but I hated the weather back there. And I wasn’t really pro caliber, anyway. So I saved my money, came back to California, and worked for the
Long Beach Sentinel.
Then I heard about an opening here and applied. They’d just won the Pulitzer, and McGuire had an interesting reputation. Plus, I could live cheap.”
“How come McGuire didn’t promote you when the last guy left?”
“She tried to, but I turned her down. I don’t want to work full-time. I invested well before the dot-com bubble popped, took my profits, and put them into conservative holdings. And a year ago my wife presented me with twin boys. I want to be as much a part of their lives as I can.”
“Good for you.” Matt proceeded to give him the same abbreviated details of his made-up life that he’d told Carly McGuire, then said, “Now, let’s see how those shots of the egg-faced mayor have turned out.”
Maynard’s photographs were so good that Matt wondered what he might have accomplished had he had the desire to apply his talent. But talent alone, he knew, wasn’t enough to ensure success; success took drive and dedication, which his new assistant plainly lacked.
“So,” he said as they emerged from the darkroom, “you came to the paper before it won the Pulitzer?”
“Afterwards. That was one of the things that attracted me. I mean, how often do you get to work for a small country weekly that’s achieved the granddaddy of journalistic honors? The only other one that comes to mind is the
Point Reyes Light
, for their exposé of Synanon, and that was decades ago.”
“I understand the bulk of the
Spectrum
’s prize-winning articles were written by a reporter called Ardis Coleman. You know her?”
“I’ve met her.”
“What’s she like?”
“Quiet. Unassuming. Self-deprecating, actually. She once told me she didn’t do anything special, she was just handed a great story. But under the circumstances, I’d say her coverage was extraordinary.”
“What circumstances?”
“Ronnie Talbot and Deke Rutherford, the murder victims, were good friends of Coleman’s, and she was the one who found their bodies. Yet she was able to separate herself from her emotions and write extremely balanced,
“Egregiously.”
“He tends to underestimate his talents. Anyway, I’ll leave you to await his emergence.”
Matt had hoped, now that the tour of the facilities was at its final destination, to ask Quill about Ardis Coleman. But when he invited him to sit down and chat till Maynard was done, the reporter said he had an appointment in fifteen minutes. Maybe they could have a beer after work? Matt suggested. Sure, Quill said, if they finished at the same time. Hours at the
Spectrum
were irregular at best.
Joe Maynard was built like a linebacker, with a shock of unruly brown hair, a nose that looked as if it had been broken more than once, and almost no neck. His hands were so large and clumsy-looking that Matt wondered how he could manipulate the settings on his camera. As they began trading histories in the cautious manner of men who know they must get along in order to work together, he found that Joe had indeed been a linebacker, at UCLA, where he’d earned a degree in fine arts.
“So what brought you to Cyanide Wells?”Matt asked.
“A chance to work at a paper in a place where I could also hunt and fish. After college I played a couple of seasons on special teams for the Pittsburgh Steelers, but I hated the weather back there. And I wasn’t really pro caliber, anyway. So I saved my money, came back to California, and worked for the
Long Beach Sentinel.
Then I heard about an opening here and applied. They’d just won the Pulitzer, and McGuire had an interesting reputation. Plus, I could live cheap.”
“How come McGuire didn’t promote you when the last guy left?”
“She tried to, but I turned her down. I don’t want to work full-time. I invested well before the dot-com bubble popped, took my profits, and put them into conservative holdings. And a year ago my wife presented me with twin boys. I want to be as much a part of their lives as I can.”
“Good for you.” Matt proceeded to give him the same abbreviated details of his made-up life that he’d told Carly McGuire, then said, “Now, let’s see how those shots of the egg-faced mayor have turned out.”
Maynard’s photographs were so good that Matt wondered what he might have accomplished had he had the desire to apply his talent. But talent alone, he knew, wasn’t enough to ensure success; success took drive and dedication, which his new assistant plainly lacked.
“So,” he said as they emerged from the darkroom, “you came to the paper before it won the Pulitzer?”
“Afterwards. That was one of the things that attracted me. I mean, how often do you get to work for a small country weekly that’s achieved the granddaddy of journalistic honors? The only other one that comes to mind is the
Point Reyes Light
, for their exposé of Synanon, and that was decades ago.”
“I understand the bulk of the
Spectrum
’s prize-winning articles were written by a reporter called Ardis Coleman. You know her?”
“I’ve met her.”
“What’s she like?”
“Quiet. Unassuming. Self-deprecating, actually. She once told me she didn’t do anything special, she was just handed a great story. But under the circumstances, I’d say her coverage was extraordinary.”
“What circumstances?”
“Ronnie Talbot and Deke Rutherford, the murder victims, were good friends of Coleman’s, and she was the one who found their bodies. Yet she was able to separate herself from her emotions and write extremely balanced,
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