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trying to make Jimmy Wingconform to his idea of proper diligence. He had given up after two disastrous weeks during which Jimmy, in order to prove his point, had reported to the newsroom every day at nine and quit at five, and had done exactly what Borklund had told him to do.
    Jimmy Wing knew that the paper could not hope to acquire a man as perfectly suited to the job as he was. He had grown up in Palm City. He had an encyclopedic memory for past relationships and pertinent detail. He could transpose rough notes into solid and entertaining copy with a speed which dismayed the other reporters. When anything had to be ferreted out, he knew exactly whom to talk to. And he was able to report about 20 percent of what he learned.
    But, as Jimmy Wing knew, and Ben Killian knew, and presumably J. J. Borklund knew, it wasn’t the way he had planned it. For a time it had gone according to plan. He had worked for the paper during the summers while he was at Gainesville. After graduation he went onto the paper full-time, knowing he could use two or three years of that highly practical experience before moving along to a bigger city, a bigger paper. Gloria had agreed. And during those first two years he had begun to place minor articles with secondary magazines. That, too, was part of the master plan.
    In fact, he had actually resigned and had worked for seven weeks on the Atlanta Journal before Gloria had that first time of strangeness and the doctor in Atlanta had said she would be better off in the more familiar environment of Palm City. Ben Killian had been glad to get him back.
    During the bad years he had resigned himself to this smaller and less demanding arena than the one he had trained himself for. When the necessity to stay had been ended, he had remained. The strain of the bad years had somehow leached away his eagerness for a greater challenge. Now he could adjust his effort to theextent that it filled his days, amiably enough, with enough mild pressure to keep him from thinking about anything which might make him feel uneasy.
    He went into the cottage, took the wad of folded copy paper out of his hip pocket and tossed it onto the table beside the typewriter as he walked through the living room. He took off his shirt and slacks, threw them on the bed, went to the kitchen and took the last cold beer out of the refrigerator. He scrawled “beer” on his shopping list, carried the cold can out onto the screened porch off the kitchen and sat in a canvas sling chair. A blue heron stalked through the shallows near his narrow crooked dock with attentive caution. Forty feet beyond the end of the dock a mullet made its three leaps.
    He sipped the beer and looked out across the bay and thought about Kat, drifting from reality to erotic fantasy until finally he felt disgusted with himself. He went in and phoned the paper and asked for the city desk extension. Borklund had gone home. He would be back in at ten. Brian Haas was on the desk.
    “What’ll you break down and give us, lover?” Brian asked. “As always, old Jumping J. Jesus wants me to make it up so he can tear it down and make it up his way.”
    “Let me see. About twelve inches on the Zoning Board of Appeals turning thumbs down on Ganson’s trailer park.”
    “Boxed on page one?”
    “Depends on what else you’ve got.”
    “What else I’ve got is practically nothing so far.”
    “And I won’t be much help. I’ll puff what I’ve got. So make it six inches on the Sheriff’s car thief being wanted by Pennsylvania, six inches on the FHA squabble over Lakeview Village, four inches on opening the new parking lot behind Plummer Park and … one, two, three … five little filler-inners, five bits of lint from the public navel. Don’t forget I left off all the County Commissionstuff at two o’clock, Bri. Am I supposed to fill the whole sheet?”
    “But your prose style has such an aching beauty, Wingo.”
    “I know. It sings.” He looked at his watch.