writing his column at the Daily
Times exactly twenty years, and he'd been
saying that a long time. Back when he'd started it, it may have even
been true.
He was twenty years into it now, and the people
hadn't said anything he wanted to listen to for at least half that
long. And he hadn't said anything he wanted to listen to in that time
either. He picked up the phone and called Billy.
Billy Deebol was his legman. He'd grown up in the
Northeast, and he'd grown up wanting to work for the Daily
Times . Shellburn often told people that he
didn't care if Billy never went to Columbia to learn New Journalism,
he cared something about the city, which was more than you could say
for all the kids they brought in on their way to the Washington
Post or the New York
Times . Or on their way to other Davenport
newspapers, to be city editors.
If you weren't enough of an asshole for that yet,
Philadelphia was where the chain brought you to learn.
Billy answered the phone on the second ring. He
always answered on the second ring, he was an absolutely reliable
kid. Kid Billy Deebol was thirty-seven years old and two-thirds bald,
and he had a wife and six kids of his own.
Billy had less imagination than the door to the
office, but in a strange kind of way he understood what went into
Shellburn's writing. He knew what kind of detail worked and what
didn't, he knew what would fit into eight hundred words. It was funny
he'd never thought of writing a column himself. And he hadn't,
Shellburn would have seen it.
When Richard Shellburn wrote about rats and
burned-out shells and naked children in North Philadelphia, it was
Billy who went out and saw it. And he was the one who talked to
grieving widows and mothers, and he was the one who went over the
things that had happened every day in the city and told Shellburn
what was out there.
And the one who typed Shellburn's copy into the
computer system. Shellburn knew he cleaned it up—like when he wrote
drunk—but he didn't know how much. Shellburn never read the paper.
And Billy never wanted anything for it except to be
paid, and to be allowed to do it again. The thing Shellburn liked
best about Billy was that he didn't want anything else. "Billy,
my boy," he said, "what's going on in the City of Brotherly
Love?"
"It's a funny thing, Richard," he said.
"Nothing. Nobody killed in three days, nobody important got
mugged. There wasn't even a parade, all weekend long." Shellburn
hated parades and often wrote about them.
"Nothing?" Shellburn let himself sound
disappointed.
There was nobody who wouldn't get lazy if you let
them. He didn't tell him he'd already written half a column for
Tuesday, on the subject of his twentieth anniversary at the Daily
Times . The phone was quiet for a few seconds.
Shellburn said, "Death takes a holiday, huh?"
"Well," Billy said, "almost. I mean,
there was an accident this morning down at Holy Redeemer.
Twenty-four-year-old construction worker named Leon Hubbard was hit
by a crane or something."
"White or black?"
"From the address, it has to be white,"
Billy said. "Yeah, it's God's Pocket." He waited while
Shellburn thought it over.
"Is it any good?"
Billy said, "Not that I saw. The guy's a union
bricklayer, lived with his mother. Unless you want to do something
with the hospital end, you know, irony or something."
"No. The mother crippled? Did he support her?"
Billy said, "I could run over there tomorrow and
take a look if you want me to. I could go over there tonight if
you're hung up for a column .... "
Shellburn let the line go quiet again. "No,"
he said finally, "I'll scare something up. By tomorrow, they'll
be something better. Don't worry about it, my boy."
"You sure? I could run over there."
"Don't bother. The mother's probably asleep
anyway." He looked at his watch. Quarter to six. "Take the
night off."
Billy said, "I'll make another check with the
police before I put you in the system .... "
Shellburn said, "Whatever you think. I'll be
here." He
Times exactly twenty years, and he'd been
saying that a long time. Back when he'd started it, it may have even
been true.
He was twenty years into it now, and the people
hadn't said anything he wanted to listen to for at least half that
long. And he hadn't said anything he wanted to listen to in that time
either. He picked up the phone and called Billy.
Billy Deebol was his legman. He'd grown up in the
Northeast, and he'd grown up wanting to work for the Daily
Times . Shellburn often told people that he
didn't care if Billy never went to Columbia to learn New Journalism,
he cared something about the city, which was more than you could say
for all the kids they brought in on their way to the Washington
Post or the New York
Times . Or on their way to other Davenport
newspapers, to be city editors.
If you weren't enough of an asshole for that yet,
Philadelphia was where the chain brought you to learn.
Billy answered the phone on the second ring. He
always answered on the second ring, he was an absolutely reliable
kid. Kid Billy Deebol was thirty-seven years old and two-thirds bald,
and he had a wife and six kids of his own.
Billy had less imagination than the door to the
office, but in a strange kind of way he understood what went into
Shellburn's writing. He knew what kind of detail worked and what
didn't, he knew what would fit into eight hundred words. It was funny
he'd never thought of writing a column himself. And he hadn't,
Shellburn would have seen it.
When Richard Shellburn wrote about rats and
burned-out shells and naked children in North Philadelphia, it was
Billy who went out and saw it. And he was the one who talked to
grieving widows and mothers, and he was the one who went over the
things that had happened every day in the city and told Shellburn
what was out there.
And the one who typed Shellburn's copy into the
computer system. Shellburn knew he cleaned it up—like when he wrote
drunk—but he didn't know how much. Shellburn never read the paper.
And Billy never wanted anything for it except to be
paid, and to be allowed to do it again. The thing Shellburn liked
best about Billy was that he didn't want anything else. "Billy,
my boy," he said, "what's going on in the City of Brotherly
Love?"
"It's a funny thing, Richard," he said.
"Nothing. Nobody killed in three days, nobody important got
mugged. There wasn't even a parade, all weekend long." Shellburn
hated parades and often wrote about them.
"Nothing?" Shellburn let himself sound
disappointed.
There was nobody who wouldn't get lazy if you let
them. He didn't tell him he'd already written half a column for
Tuesday, on the subject of his twentieth anniversary at the Daily
Times . The phone was quiet for a few seconds.
Shellburn said, "Death takes a holiday, huh?"
"Well," Billy said, "almost. I mean,
there was an accident this morning down at Holy Redeemer.
Twenty-four-year-old construction worker named Leon Hubbard was hit
by a crane or something."
"White or black?"
"From the address, it has to be white,"
Billy said. "Yeah, it's God's Pocket." He waited while
Shellburn thought it over.
"Is it any good?"
Billy said, "Not that I saw. The guy's a union
bricklayer, lived with his mother. Unless you want to do something
with the hospital end, you know, irony or something."
"No. The mother crippled? Did he support her?"
Billy said, "I could run over there tomorrow and
take a look if you want me to. I could go over there tonight if
you're hung up for a column .... "
Shellburn let the line go quiet again. "No,"
he said finally, "I'll scare something up. By tomorrow, they'll
be something better. Don't worry about it, my boy."
"You sure? I could run over there."
"Don't bother. The mother's probably asleep
anyway." He looked at his watch. Quarter to six. "Take the
night off."
Billy said, "I'll make another check with the
police before I put you in the system .... "
Shellburn said, "Whatever you think. I'll be
here." He
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