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gave me a heart attack, mate,” Nigel whispered, leaning over me. “I thought you were the crime guy. You like twisting the tiger’s tail, don’t you? The only reason Tal didn’t sack me was you kicked bum, big time. Thanks for that. I owe you. We will kick the
Daily Press
into next week.”
    “What’s The Wood?” I asked.
    “Front page story,” Nigel explained, “from the old days when they used wooden type instead of metal for the biggest headlines. In this case, that would be ‘NEIL PARMESAN.’”
    “Oh. Who’s Edgar’s sidekick?”
    “Donald Badger? He specializes in… um… investigative pieces. Works the computer. I’d steer clear of him, if I were you.”
    “His name is really Badger? I was close.”
    “Sorry?”
    “I thought he looked like a weasel.”
    “He does a bit but I wouldn’t say that to anyone else, Shep. You’ll be out of here like shit through a badger.”
    “So, he’s a boss?”
    “Technically? No. But yes. Have you really never done news before?”
    “Nope.”
    “Beginner’s luck, then?”
    “Maybe beginner’s stupidity.”
    “Where the fuck have you been?”
    “Away.”
    “Only one problem, though, mate.”
    “Which is?”
    “What do you do for an encore?”
    I hadn’t thought about that.
    “I’ll just go back to my pet column.”
    “Wouldn’t count on it, old son. The Editor is pleased. For now.”
    “That was pleased?”
    “Oh yes. Ecstatic. Julie Andrews. You wouldn’t want to see displeased, mate. You really are new here. Wife? Family?”
    “No. Not even a pet.”
    Nigel went back to work. I googled Tal Edgar on my iPhone and got a lot of hits about the infamous British tabloid editor whose approach to journalism seemed to be very proactive. The hard-drinking Londoner had shaken up news markets in Melbourne, Sydney, London, and Los Angeles, stomping the competition on behalf of his boss, New Zealand media billionaire Trevor Todd. One profile piece described Edgar as “The Man Who Makes News.” Competing rags did hatchet jobs, claiming he threatened to fire—or did fire—one person a day, in order to terrify the non-union staff into working around the clock. There had been nervous breakdowns, suicides, newsroom fistfights. It didn’t sound like
The Sound of Music
to me.
    Badger intercepted me on the way to the bathroom and brought me to what he optimistically called his office, a tiny glass-walled box the size of an elevator, just off the City Room. He shut the door and I squeezed into one of two chairs on opposite sides of a small desk piled with folders and printouts. The folder closest to me had my name on the tab. My employee file. Or had he whipped one up to intimidate me?
    “What happened to your face, old son? Punch-up in the pub?”
    I realized he was talking about my three facial scars but it took me a few seconds to realize he was asking if I got it in a bar fight.
    “Right,” I agreed. “Punch-up in a pub.”
    “I want you to listen to something, mate,” he said. The word “mate” sounded distinctly unfriendly. It was interesting how a word that sounded friendly in Neil Bantock’s Australian twang could be so mangled by Badger’s British consonants. His nasal voice dripped with the tone of an “I-outrank-you” school bully. Badger fiddled with his mouse and I heard the computer dialing a number. A sibilant male voice answered.
    “Hello. It’s Neil,” the dead man said. “Aubrey and I are having a food fight right now so please leave a message. Remember what Auntie Mame said: Life is a banquet and most poor suckers are starving to death. Tally Ho!”
    “You called Neil Leonardi’s phone,” I said, stating the obvious.
    “Quiet!” he said, typing fiercely.
    “Neil, I’m sorry,” Aubrey’s voice emerged from Badger’s computer. “I love you but you made me so mad. You make me crazy. If Skippy can forgive you, I can. Call me please, sweetheart.”
    The message ended with a beep.
    “You hacked into Neil’s cell