Bad Guys by Linwood Barclay Page A

spoke so quietly into her phone that I could not make out what she was saying, and when she was done, said to me, “He’ll be with you in a moment.”
    I cooled my heels for about five minutes, standing around Magnuson’s closed door like a kid waiting to see the principal. Finally, it opened, and Magnuson himself gestured for me to come in.
    He was a slight man, a bit round-shouldered, thinning gray hair atop his head, immaculately dressed, even with his suit jacket off and hanging over the back of the leather chair behind his broad oak desk.
    “Mr. Walker, what a pleasure,” he said. “I don’t think we’ve actually spoken since you joined us.”
    “No, Mr. Magnuson, I don’t think we have.”
    “Have a seat.”
    I took a chair in front of his desk as he got back into his behind it. He tossed a red binder across the desk at me. There was a sticker on the front that read “Editorial Policy Manual.”
    “Did you get one of these when you were hired?” Magnuson asked.
    “Uh, I believe I did.”
    “I’m going to have to rewrite it,” he said.
    “Really? Why is that, Mr. Magnuson?”
    “I left something out. I should have thought of this before I had it drafted. I can’t believe how neglectful I was.”
    I didn’t want to ask, but felt it was expected of me. “What, uh, did you leave out?”
    “The part that says
Metropolitan
staffers are not supposed to be involved in shootouts.”
    “Mr. Magnuson, that’s not exactly correct. I was in a car with someone who was doing the shooting, but the only thing I was doing was holding the steering wheel so he could get off a few shots.”
    “Oh, I see,” Magnuson said. I didn’t get the impression that this made everything okay. “You used to work for the competition, didn’t you?”
    “Several years ago, yes. I worked at
The Leader
.”
    Magnuson nodded thoughtfully. “Did the reporters over at
The Leader
get involved in shootouts, Mr. Walker?”
    “Not regularly, sir, although there was one night when two guys from sports who’d had a bit too much to drink started shooting at each other over a Leafs-Sabres game. I don’t know where they got the guns, exactly.”
    Magnuson cocked his head, squinted at me. “Is that an attempt at humor, Mr. Walker?”
    I swallowed. “If it was, sir, it was evidently a very weak one.”
    Magnuson eased back in his chair. “I’ve asked around a bit about you. You know what I hear back?”
    “I’m somewhat hesitant to ask, sir.”
    “People say you’re annoying.”
    “You should talk to more people than my wife, Mr. Magnuson.” I was hoping that might spark a smile, even a small one. It did not.
    “When you were hired there, at
The Leader
, did they give you a notepad, a pen, a tape recorder, and a .45?”
    “No, sir, they didn’t.”
    “Because I was thinking, if it was okay for reporters there to do that kind of thing, to ride around in cars shooting off guns, that might explain why you thought it was okay when you got hired here. Maybe no one told you.”
    “You see,” I said, swallowing, “what happened last night was kind of an unusual set of circumstances because—”
    “Mr. Walker,” Magnuson said, leaning closer to me and pointing his finger, “we write the news. We try not to create it. It’s nice when we can be there as it’s happening, but as a rule we don’t hold the steering wheel so that others can fire wildly into the night. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
    “Yes.”
    “That’s good. Because if you do, maybe I won’t have to rewrite this manual.”
    “I don’t think that will be necessary.”
    “Excellent.” He leaned back in his chair. “Good day, Mr. Walker.”
    I understood what that meant, too, so I got up and walked out of the office, and as I headed for the elevator, thought I’d rather take my chances with those guys in the Annihilator than have another run-in with Bertrand Magnuson. The guys in the Annihilator didn’t have control over my paycheck, and with a