Walker Taylor clasped his hands. “I’ve already got a man working on that. Outside man—thought it best not to be formally involved. Doesn’t care to know what we discuss at these meetings. Assures me he can operate with more latitude—legally speaking—from the periphery.”

“We should suggest he form a merchants’ committee. Chaired by a man who shares our views. Doesn’t need to know about Group Six.”

“Exactly,” Walker Taylor said, smoothing a hand over his bald scalp. “A man we can trust completely. A man who knows how to keep secrets. George Rountree.”

Sam Jenks reported to the Messenger office early. It was easy to get to work early these days. Without the cobwebs of a hangover in his eyes and a hammering headache between his ears, the world was clear and pleasant. There was a lucidity about things.

Sometimes, during a long day, there might be moments of panic, when he’d have to duck somewhere and force himself to breathe deeply once, twice, three times. But then he would be in control again. They’d warned him about the panic. Focus on one thing at a time, the doctor had said. Avoid conflicting responsibilities. Don’t go looking for confusing choices. Steer clear of contradiction. It was not a question of whiskey but of character—so the doctor claimed.

Harry Calabash was nowhere around. Clawson stalked out of his glass cubicle and thrust a sheaf of loose papers into Sam’s hand. “Night man brought these in a couple of hours ago. He was drunk. Give me something by noon.” He was back behind glass before Sam had a chance to wish him good morning.

Sam sloughed off his wool coat. Today, he’d visit a tailor.

He put his feet up on his desk, the nearest one to Harry Calabash’s alcove, and went through the papers. Police reports. Scrawled, half-legible. So now he was a police reporter. One report seemed to be about a break-in—a posse of white neighbors had tracked down a colored man for stealing chickens and silverware. Chickens and silverware? Make up your mind, Sam thought.

Another report said that a Negro deputy sheriff, Ed Bryant, had drawn his gun and threatened a streetcar motorman rather than pay the fare. To Sam, it seemed far-fetched—who would risk losing one of the best jobs in town over a nickel fare? But stranger things had happened. That’s what journalism was, a record of outlandish things that really happened. The whole point was to dare the reader’s credulity: you thought we told you some stupid, crazy, outrageous things yesterday? Well, what do you think of this?

While Sam was still reading, Clawson strode up behind him. “One more thing,” he said. Sam turned his head but did not get up. “There’s a rumor that Manly’s back in town. That he plans to publish again.”

“I’ll check on it.”

“Find out where he is. I want to talk to him.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Clawson.”