Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 39, No. 5, November 1976

No Story by Fred J. Curran

Angie was crazy to get her first big story. Or was it because Angie was just plain crazy?

McGraw glanced at the clock after he checked a final piece of copy and then tossed it over to Swanson, the night news editor.

Usually he edited the city side stories himself as he figured where they might fit in the final edition. Tonight he was tired and was looking forward to a quick trip home to his apartment and a couple of beers before turning in.

“Hope that’s the last,” he said to Swanson. “Anything brewing on the wire?”

Swanson shrugged sloping shoulders and mumbled, “The usual. Nothing to get excited about.”

“No last minute gory murders, families wiped out, bodies scattered all over?” The voice was low, intense.

McGraw turned to a nearby desk and raised heavy eyebrows. That girl — well, woman actually — but to father-image McGraw she was still a girl. One of those summertime part-timers he had to put up with. This one, Angie, was something. She was eager enough — too eager, in fact — and always pestering him for bigger assignments. Tougher ones were what she wanted. He wished she’d take her long legs out of the office. Nice legs, but—

“Keep your pants on, Angie,” he said. “We’re about ready to—”

A scratchy voice on the police radio interrupted him. “...reports man on roof of Belmont Hotel. Looks like a jumper. Squad—”

“Jeez!” Angie cried. “Can I go?”

McGraw eyed the clock again. So did Swanson.

“Got a little hole on page two,” Swanson said. “Or I can pull that Senator Haskins story. He’s always yakking about something. Want to hold?”

As night city editor, McGraw had authority to ignore deadlines if the stories were worth it. He seldom used that authority — privilege, he called it — because of the repercussions that went through the plant all the way from the mechanical departments to the business manager and the circulation director when the paper was late. Once he had held too long and the resulting delay in delivery had raised hell.

“Tell ’em we might,” McGraw said, watching the second hand of the clock in its constant circle. “Never can tell who it might be.”

Swanson took the final copy and started for the door. “Lemme know soon as you can. You know how they’ll bitch on holding.”

“Can I go, can I?” Angie’s wide eyes pleaded with McGraw. “It’s only a few blocks from here and I can—”

“Joe’s at the police station and we can pick up enough from there,” McGraw said. His eyes still were on the clock but his ear was bent toward the police radio.

Al Davis, his night photographer, thrust his head into the room. “I heard,” he said, pointing to the police radio. “On my way.”

“Okay,” McGraw called after him. “No time for any pix tonight, but maybe we could use it tomorrow. Worth the overtime.”

“Please, McGraw, can’t I just run over there? And it won’t cost any overtime. Please!”

McGraw’s eyes switched from the clock to Angie. He rubbed his brow and his shaggy hair. She was eager, all right, like a young colt. She even looked like one. She was always eager, but violent stories especially excited her.

“Here’s a good one,” she’d cry. “Family of four wiped out. Jeez!”

Now she was even more excited. A strange look lay in her eyes. McGraw surveyed the room. His only other reporter, Bartell, was struggling over a feature. And that damn clock!

His phone rang and he was ready. “Yeah, Joe, we know. Got anything on him yet?”

“Nothing much. You going to hold?”

McGraw glanced at the clock. “Yeah, for a bit. To see who he is. You cover it from there okay?”

“Sure. Call you soon as I have anything. Got someone for rewrite?”

“Yeah, Angie here—” McGraw stopped. Angie had gone. Damn that girl, or woman! “No, I’ll take it myself when you have anything.” He shook his head as he saw Bartell still struggling at his typewriter.

Swanson returned and both he and McGraw sat watching the clock and listening to the police radio relaying activity of police and fire units.

“Think they’ll get him?” Swanson asked.

“Hope so. Hard to tell.”

They sat and watched and listened. Bartell kept typing, slowly. It was hard to tell. The police radio did it.

“He’s gone over!” The voice over the radio was hoarse, tragic.

“Jesus!” Swanson slapped his desk. “How high is it there, nine stories?”

“Yen,” McGraw said and grabbed the ringing phone. “Yeah, Joe, we heard. How long before ident? I see. Let me know.”

He turned to Swanson. “You holding both page one and two? We’ll see who it is and then decide. Shouldn’t be long.”

It wasn’t too long before Angie rushed in, her eyes wild, her long black hair flowing.

“Jeez! Jeez! What a story! You should have seen—”

“We heard,” McGraw said. “And keep your pants on. We haven’t time—”

“But it’s such a great one — my first big one. I was up there, clear to the roof, right there when he—”

She was turning copy paper into her typewriter, rubbing her hands and starting to type when the photographer entered.

“Get it?” McGraw asked.

Davis stared at Angie and then shook his head strangely.

“I got it all right. Really something. Wait’ll you see the prints. Something. I’ll talk to you about it later.”

He took another look at Angie, then rushed out.

Angie talked to herself as she typed. McGraw got up and bent over her shoulder to see what she had written. He got only as far as I just saw a man die... when his phone rang and he turned back to his desk.

“Okay, Joe, I’ll take it.”

He cradled the phone on his shoulder and typed swiftly, pausing a couple of times to ask questions. Finally he said, “That should do it. About all we have room for — or time.”

He checked through the copy and then handed it to Swanson. “Put it on page two.”

Angie looked up, her face strained. “You mean you’re not going to use my story, my first big story?” The wail sounded as if it would prime tears.

“No time, Angie, and no room. We’re late as it is. Anyway, I want to see those prints and talk to Al. He sounded sort of funny. Never seen him like that.”

“Couldn’t you use my story tomorrow, sort of as a follow — after all, I was there, and I—”

“We’ll see. We’ll see.”

Swanson returned. “All okay,” he said. “Of course they bitched, but let ’em. Should be rolling soon.”

A dispirited Angie pecked at the typewriter as McGraw and Swanson waited for the final edition to roll. They glanced at the struggling Bartell and shook their heads.

They looked up as Davis hurried in, carrying wet prints. “Better come over here and see these,” he said as he laid the prints on an empty desk.

The three stared at the prints.

“Don’t you see?” Davis’s voice was low, tense. “Look, clear as can be. There she is. Look at her face, the contortion. You can almost hear her saying what she did say — and I heard — and that was, ‘Jump, you son of a bitch!’ So he did.”

McGraw picked up the prints, tore them into tiny pieces and scattered them in a large wastebasket. Then he walked slowly back to his desk, inserted some copy paper and typed out a name and address.

“Just lucky none of the cops up there heard her,” Davis said.

“Angie,” McGraw said, his voice barely under control. “I have an assignment for you tomorrow.” He handed her the folded copy paper. “I want you to see this man and have a talk with him. I’ll call him beforehand so he’ll know what it’s all about. Now, you’d better head home — take a cab and charge it — and get some rest.”

The three watched her go, then Davis said to McGraw:

“You’re not going to give her any more assignments after that, are you?”

“Not an assignment, really,” McGraw said. “More like an appointment. With the best psychiatrist I know.”