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.”

Manly back in town? After they’d evicted his newspaper? After Mike Dowling, the Red Shirts’ leader, had vowed to kill him if he ever showed his face again? Now, that was a story worth pursuing. And why did Clawson want to speak to Manly? He couldn’t quite peg Clawson. He was an educated, reasonable man. Negro baiting wasn’t his style. So why was he still running that Manly editorial every day on page one?

Sam rooted through Calabash’s desk until he found a city directory. It listed Manly as residing on McRae Street, up in Brooklyn. But Manly wouldn’t be careless enough to go home. He’d be hiding out in one of those shacks, among his own people, a screen of hard men around him.

The sergeant behind the booking desk said, “Eddie Bryant may be colored, but that don’t make him dumb enough to draw down on a streetcar driver.” He had a laugh full of phlegm that came up from an impressive belly. Sam had seen cops in Chicago use their bellies as a muscle, bouncing little criminals into brick walls. This fellow looked as if he’d bounced a punk or two.