Mister Jinnah Mysteries 3-Book Bundle. Donald J. Hauka
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experience, which had been akin to a suit of armour, slip from his breast. He felt naked and exposed. Especially after the Publisher once again praised Crystal and promised her a letter of commendation for her brilliant actions. For there had been no newsfinder video on any of the noon news broadcasts and if there was one institution the electronic media loved to bash, it was their poor cousin and competitor, the Tribune. He practically felt the warm tide of burgeoning affection emanating from the Publisher wash over the receptionist whose hide he had just recommended be pinned to the door.
“Thank you, Crystal,” the Publisher said, showing her to the door. “We must really do lunch some day soon.”
“I’m free Friday,” Crystal said.
“Tell Jackie outside to put you in for Friday noon,” the Publisher beamed and closed the door.
Blacklock was quite thankful he hadn’t had lunch himself yet, for he would have surely lost it all over the Publisher’s taupe shag carpeting.
“Well, that puts a different complexion on things, don’t you agree, Connie?”
“Oh, absolutely, sir,” Blacklock replied with a meaning that the Publisher had yet to grasp — but he would, Blacklock vowed, he would before long …
“Well, almost time for the meeting,” the Publisher said, looking pointedly at the clock above one of his prized prints.
“Meeting, sir?” Blacklock replied, voice carefully neutral.
“You do read your e-mail, don’t you, Connie?” The Publisher looked slightly amused. “I sent it around a half an hour ago.”
“I have been slightly preoccupied by events. I apologize.”
Blacklock chose the expedient of the out-and-out lie. Ever the techno-peasant, he never checked his e-mail. Anyone who needed to communicate with him went through his secretary or wrote him good, old-fashioned memos.
“Then get your game face on. I’m addressing the newsroom in five minutes.”
If Blacklock had been slightly alarmed before, he was at that moment such a mass of contradictory emotions that both words and faith failed him. His management mask, so carefully crafted over the years, slipped. He couldn’t hide his look of astonishment.
“Do you mean to say, sir,” he said in as even a voice as he could muster. “That you intend to address the newsroom staff directly? In person?”
“Well, they are my employees after all, Connie.”
Blacklock felt perhaps a little like the Pope had when Gallileo matter-of-factly informed him that the earth did not orbit the sun nor was it the centre of God’s universe. His entire managerial cosmos was in chaos.
“My dear sir!” he cried. “You can’t mean it!”
The Publisher pushed back his chair and put his hands on top of his head.
“Do you have a problem with that, Connie?”
Despite his shocked state, Blacklock noted the apparent off-handed choice of words. “Problem” was bad enough, but more importantly, “do you have?” was attached to the dreaded phrase. He looked at the Publisher uncomprehendingly. How did you presume to tell God what His proper role was? For that is what Blacklock had always considered a publisher at a newspaper to be: a deity, apart, aloof.
He cleared his throat and tried to explain.
“Sir, there is a certain school of thought,” he began, coughing into his hand. “That sees the Publisher as above such petty broils. Pronouncements from on high should come via a trusted messenger, so to speak, thus giving you the latitude you need in shifting your policy and trusting me with the responsibility of ensuring your wishes are carried out to the letter.”
The Publisher actually smiled and for a brief second, Blacklock thought he might have pushed his argument home. But the hands came down off the head and were placed carefully on the table, clasped together, thumbs twiddling — Blacklock hated twiddling thumbs.
“So you are Moses on Mount Sinai to my Jehovah, is that it?” he asked.
The analogy was precise and Blacklock was about to agree to it wholeheartedly, but the twiddling thumbs alerted him to the Publisher’s ill-disguised thought: “Don’t waste my time.”
“Not exactly,” Blacklock retreated. “More like a Poindexter to your Reagan.”
The Publisher laughed, said what a card Blacklock was, and stood up, slinging his jacket casually over his shoulder.
“Come on, Connie,” he said. “Let’s fire up the troops.”
Blacklock followed with a due sense of dread and disgust. Also with the conviction that his policy of victory by attrition would not work with this publisher. He would have to take the man down by whatever means were necessary. His own survival dictated it.
The conviction gathered strength as Blacklock and the Publisher entered the newsroom. The editor-in-chief had never had occasion to call everyone together before — that sort of thing was, in his lexicon, reserved for events like massive layoffs or closing newspapers entirely — and he was curious to see how the Publisher handled this. To Blacklock’s horror, the Publisher handed him his jacket, climbed up onto the central desk of city desk and whistled sharply, like some carnival carney.
“Okay people, gather ‘round and listen up!” he bellowed.
Blacklock was mortified. Had the man no sense of dignity at all? Everyone slowly took up positions around the desk: reporters from business, the entertainment section, even the jocks from sports. The process of putting the paper out had stopped entirely. They were all looking up at the Publisher, curious, wondering what this little man in rolled-up shirtsleeves and no jacket had to say to them. He’s about to get a taste of newsroom surliness, thought Blacklock. Just as well.
“Okay,” said the Publisher, hands on his hips. “This morning there was a shocking breach of security on this floor. It was inexcusable and as your publisher, I want to personally take responsibility and apologize to you, the employees. You deserve better.”
Blacklock felt his gorge rise. Apologize? Take responsibility? One did not take responsibility, one pinned it on someone else. As for apologizing — that was tantamount to admitting an error and in Blacklock’s experience, managers who did that did not last long. He waited for the catcalls and snide remarks. Surprisingly, none came.
“I have personally looked into this incident in a preliminary way and I am satisfied of two things: one, no individual is to blame for what happened and two, the staff of this newsroom operated coolly and professionally in the face of extreme provocation. I would like to single out Crystal Wagner over there at reception as having been especially alert. I think she deserves a round of applause.”
Blacklock held his breath. Surely these tired, cynical old hacks wouldn’t fall for this, this … carnival act, would they? He was stunned by the ovation that burst upon his ears and disgusted by Crystal’s maidenly blush.
“Changes will be made to ensure there is no repeat performance,” the Publisher said as the applause died down. “Security at the front desk has been doubled. It has come to my attention that several of these demonstrators sneaked in the rear entrance posing as couriers. For now, we will place a security desk there. Couriers seeking entrance to the building will be escorted. As a more lasting deterrent, I have asked for a report on the cost of installing an employee security card access system that will minimize your inconvenience. I am assured such a system can be in place within two weeks. My people deserve a secure workplace to perform in. Are there any questions?”
Blacklock felt physically ill. His people? This rabble? And a secure workplace? Didn’t the short-assed ad-taker know how hard he’d worked to make everyone feel as insecure as possible in order to boost their performance, keep them fighting for their jobs? He glared at his employees. They were lapping it up. He saw something approaching the glow of affection in their eyes. I must crush him like a bug, Blacklock