The Geographer's Library

The Geographer’ s Library
over, and had a lousy record—drinking, beating, all kinds of nasty stuff—so
he headed back here. Clean slate, I guess. Problem is, to make the slate really
clean, he’d need to change his personality, which he hasn’t done. Still drinks,
still lazy, still rude. Wouldn’t be surprised if he convinced Allen to head over
to the dead guy’s house so he could pinch something.”
“So why not do a story about that?” I asked. “Town corruption, police
misconduct: isn’t this what journalists are supposed to salivate over?”
Art made a noise midway between a sigh and a grunt and straightened up
in his chair. “Yes. Yes, it certainly is. But this paper, for better or worse, isn’t
the place for it. Hartford is. Waterbury, maybe. Even New Haven. But this is a
community paper. Weddings and football games. Carnivals. New store
opens, old store closes. Besides, most of our readers come up from the big
city to get away from that kind of corrupt-cop stuff.” He drummed his fingers
on the desk, looking pained and a little embarrassed by the conversation.
“Running that story will also ensure that you get every sort of moving and
parking violation under the sun, plus a few they’ll make up. Problem is,
though, my friends in Hartford won’t want to do it, because who really gives a
shit about Lincoln? You want to do investigative stuff ?” He looked across the
desk at me inscrutably—I couldn’t tell whether he wanted me to say yes or
no. I nodded. Why not: it wasn’t like I was doing anything else for the next
sixty years.
“You want to do investigative stuff, I’ll find you a job somewhere bigger.
Hartford, Stamford. New Haven, maybe. Might even be able to find something
for you at the Record, in Boston, but that’s pushing it. You decide you
want to do it, let me know. You know, you’ve been here sixteen months, and
it’s been great having you here. But you can’t stay here forever. Either you’ll
turn into Austell or one day you’ll climb up the steeple with an AK and start
picking our readers off, one by one. Can’t have that. Go see the world, make
some noise. You could do it, you know.” He stubbed out his smoke. “Here
endeth the first lesson.”
He checked his watch. “Meanwhile, you got anything to do today? Anyone
to call about this dead professor of yours? Got to be something, someone,
somewhere, who knew him, right?”
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