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bookie." He looked at Nick as if wary of his
youth.
    "They take my fruita, too. I see dem taka da money
froma da bookie, den dey taka da fruita."
    "Who?"
    "Da cops." The little man continued. "I
tella dem, 'Taka da appla, or oranga. That'sa okay.' Buta dey taka away da
bushela full. I say, 'Looka, I donna wanna no troubla.' Buta dey laugha. I say,
'Looka, you getta money froma da bookie, so paya me something. I gotta twelva
kids.' Dey laugha. Luigi's justa dumb wop. I foola dem. I writa down da badge
numbera. Here." He dipped his shattered hand into a tattered pocket of his
stained pants and pulled out a scrap of brown paper bag. Nick smoothed the
paper on his knees, looking at the long line of primitive numbers. He felt the
man's frustration, his outrage.
    "I say, 'You stopa taka da fruita or I tella.' One big
cop, he coma and smasha da melons witha da club. I bega dem on da life of da
virgin to stopa. Dey coma every day for a week and breaka upa da fruita."
Nick felt the man's anger and his craving for justice. "I writa down da
badge numbera," the little man repeated proudly. "Then dey burna me
down."
    "Why haven't you gone to the precinct to talk to the
Captain?"
    The Italian looked at him and snarled, "You
crazy?" Nick felt foolish. He looked at the scrap of brown paper on his
knees, finding a special meaning for himself, the power to redress a wrong.
Perhaps this explained his compulsion to be a journalist; his belief in the
power of the word, the inked word that brought truth and forced justice.
    "You sit there," he told the little Italian,
surprised at the authority of his command. He walked back into the city room,
and sitting down at a typewriter desk, slid the pulpy paper in the roller. The
lead had etched itself into his mind fully composed before his fingers reached
the keys.
    "The promise of America died on the pyre of Luigi
Petrucci's fruit store last night," the story began. Nick pondered the
grey words, then ripped the paper out of the typewriter. Would they laugh at
his passion? He put another paper in the typewriter, remembering the discipline
of the newspaper's style.
    "An immigrant Italian fruit merchant today accused the
police of burning down his store.
    "In an allegation, stemming from his observation of
police pay-offs by bookmakers, Luigi Petrucci, whose store is located at 231
West 21st Street, claimed that he was threatened repeatedly by the police when
he attempted to protect his produce from their greed." Nick knew greed was heavy, unacceptable, but he let it stand.
    The story went on to mention the list of badge numbers and
alluded to Luigi's fear of further reprisals. When he had finished, Nick put
the story under the nose of Baldwin, one of the deskmen, who chuckled as he
read it, then tossed it over to O'Hara. After a quick glance, O'Hara squinted
over his glasses. Nick slouched on the copy bench, watching him, his arms
folded belligerently over his chest. Deny that's news, he said to himself
angrily. He heard O'Hara scream for a copy boy and watched the story make its
way toward McCarthy's desk. Nick had slugged the story
"Gold-Corruption" in the upper left-hand corner.
    "Gold!" he heard McCarthy's voice boom. Something
in its timbre frightened him; his stance of anger softened like ice melting in
a midsummer sun. With a pounding heart he made his way to McCarthy's desk.
    "Gold?" McCarthy looked at him as a butcher might
observe a fly on a hindquarter.
    "Yessir."
    "You wrote this shit?"
    "Yessir." Only it's not shit, he wanted to say,
but couldn't find the courage, his throat constricting.
    "You believe the guinea?"
    "Yessir," Nick whispered.
    McCarthy pondered the story a moment.
    "The dumb wop," he said. Nick remembered Luigi's
words. McCarthy reached for the phone at his side and dialed a number.
    "Hello, you old bastard," he hissed into the
phone, watching Nick as he spoke. He paused, absorbing a voice at the other end
of the line. "Meet me at Shanley's. Yeah, about eleven." He hung up
and