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owning the bank and most of the profitable businesses in Billet gives me a unique insight into the lives of its citizens.” Mudd pushed his glasses up on his nose, reading from a paper on the desk. “My sources say you’re not exactly living the high life right now. In the last month you sold your gold watch, your car, you even pawned your Underwood — I’m not sure how a reporter is supposed to make a living without a typewriter.”
    “I’m not sure what you’re after, Mr. Mudd, but I think we’re done.” Alan swallowed his anger and picked up his hat, preparing to leave. “I only came because my old boss at The Daily Register said you had some work for a reporter.”
    “Pride will get you nowhere, Mr. Roth, especially when you haven’t earned it. Now, have a seat.”
    The big man rose from his chair, signifying the wisdom in assenting and, bereft of options, Alan obeyed.
    “Apparently, I’ve gotten on your bad side somehow. I’ve been out of work for three months, during that time I haven’t written anything more scathing than an obituary. We definitely don’t move in the same social circles unless you have a secret pension for slumming it with the cheap whiskey crowd. What could I possibly have done to offend someone like you?”
    “You haven’t done anything, Mr. Roth.” Mudd let his glasses slip down his thin nose again. “I don’t discuss problems, I solve them.”
    “Then why bring me here?”
    “You’re a newsman, Mr. Roth.”
    “I used to be.”
    Mudd knitted his fingers under his chin. “How would you like to return to the business? I just bought a controlling interest in The Philippi Courier and I’m looking to make some changes.”
    “You didn’t have to bring in a knee-breaker to make a job offer.”
    “Perceptive, that’s a good trait in a newsman.” Mudd maintained his stare. “As I said earlier, I’m a staunch opponent of the soulless worms who would undermine this great country. I plan on resolving the problems at Sycamore Ridge today and I want to be sure the papers accurately reflect the facts.”
    “You mean you want the paper to give your side of the story,” Alan countered.
    Mudd shrugged. “Call it what you will.”
    “Sycamore Ridge.” Alan searched his memory. “As I recall, over two hundred of your men were laid off when that coal seam ran out.”
    “And now it’s an exploratory operation for the company, a place for special employees.” Mudd leaned forward. “Do you accept my terms or not?”
    “Somehow, I doubt that you or your doorman will take kindly to my turning down this glorious opportunity.”
    “It’s a free country, Mr. Roth. Nobody’s going to force the smart, or healthy, thing on you.”
    Alan glanced at the Cro-Magnon guarding the door. Even if he managed to escape, where could he go? He barely had bus fare, definitely not enough money to go into hiding. Besides, he needed the job. It wouldn’t be sacrificing any high ideals. He’d given up on the white knight routine years ago; to be any good as a reporter, you had to get in bed with seedier sources than Steven Mudd.
    “Alright, I’m game.”
    “Good, I’ll need you to compose a simple press release. I’ll dictate the contents and you take it to your former boss at the Register and convince him to publish it in tomorrow’s morning edition.”
    “Mr. Mudd, I’m your man, but I’m going to accompany you on this little errand.” Alan pulled a rumpled pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket and patted his pockets for his lighter. “Consider me an uninvolved observer.”
    “It will be ugly.” The businessman sat back in his massive chair, the admission not registering in his blotched face as approaching morally troubling.
    “I can do ugly. Besides,” pulling the lighter from his vest pocket, Alan lit the cigarette that dangled from his lips and spoke through the cloud of smoke he exhaled, “it will help me write the copy, give me ideas.”
    “Alright, Mr. Roth.” The old