"He didn't tell me anything," Qwilleran said, "except that he wants human interest stuff on artists."

"Well, he sent up a pink memo suggesting a story on a guy called Cal

Halapay."

"So?"

"Here at the Flux we have a color code. A blue memo means For Your Information. Yellow means Casual Suggestion. But pink means Jump, Man, Jump."

"What's so urgent about Cal Halapay?"

"Under the circumstances it might be better if you didn't know the background. Just go out there cold, meet this Halapay person, and write something readable. You know all the tricks."

"Where do I find him?"

"Call his office, I suppose. He's a commercial artist and head of a successful agency, but he does oil paintings in his spare time. He paints pictures of kids. They're very popular. Kids with curly hair and rosy cheeks. They look apoplectic, but people seem to buy them…. Say, do you want lunch? We could go to the Press Club."

Qwilleran's moustache sprang to attention. Once upon a time press clubs had been his life, his love, his hobby, his home, his inspiration.

This one was across the street from the new police headquarters, in a sooty limestone fortress with barred windows that had once been the county jail. The stone steps, bowl-shaped with age, held the evidence of an unseasonable February thaw. In the lobby the ancient woodwork gleamed red under countless coats of varnish.

"We can eat in the bar," Arch said, "or we can go upstairs to the dining room. They've got tablecloths up there."

"Let's eat down here," Qwilleran said.

It was dim and noisy in the bar. Conversation was high-key, with confidential undertones. Qwilleran knew it well. It meant that rumors were circulating, campaigns were being launched, and cases were getting solved unofficially over a beer and a hamburger.

They found two empty stools at the bar and were confronted by a bartender wearing a red vest and a conspiratorial smile that brimmed with inside information. Qwilleran recalled that some of his best story tips had come from Press Club bartenders.

"Scotch and water," Arch ordered.

Qwilleran said, "Double tomato juice on the rocks."

"Tom-tom on the rocks," said the bartender. "You want a squeeze of lime and a shot of Worcestershire?"

"No, thanks."

"That's the way I fix it for my friend the mayor when he comes in here." There was more of the authoritative smile.

"No, thanks."

"How about a drop of Tabasco to give it a bite?"

"No, just pour it straight."

The bartender's mouth turned down at the comers, and Arch said to him, "This is Jim Qwilleran, a new staffer. He doesn't realize you're an artist…. Jim, this is Bruno. He gives his drinks a lot of personal expression."

Behind Qwilleran an earsplitting voice said, "I'll take less expression and a bigger shot of liquor. Hey, Bruno, make me a martini, and leave out the garbage. No olive, lemon twist, anchovy, or pickled unborn tomato."

Qwilleran turned and faced a cigar clamped between grinning teeth, its size vastly out of proportion to the slender young man who smoked it. The black cord hanging from his breast pocket was obviously attached to a light meter. He was noisy. He was cocky. He was enjoying himself. Qwilleran liked him.

"This clown," Arch said to Qwilleran,

"is Odd Bunsen from the Photo Lab…. Odd, this is Jim Qwilleran, old friend of mine. We hope he's joining the Flux staff."

The photographer extended a quick hand. "Jim, glad to meet you. Care for a cigar?"

"I use a pipe. Thanks just the same."

Odd studied Qwilleran's luxuriant moustache with interest. "That shrubbery's getting out of hand. Aren't you afraid of brush fires?"

Arch said to Qwilleran, "The black string hanging out of Mr. Bunsen's pocket is what we use to tie his head on. But he's a useful man. He has more information than the reference library. Maybe he can fill you in on Cal Halapay."

"Sure," said the photographer. "What do you want to know? He's got a sharp- looking wife, 34-22-32."

"Who is this Halapay, anyway?" Qwilleran asked.

Odd Bunsen consulted his cigar smoke briefly. "Commercial artist. Runs a big ad agency. Personally worth a few million. Lives in Lost Lake Hills. Beautiful house, big studio where he paints, two swimming pools. Two, did you get that? With water being so scarce, he probably fills one with bourbon."

"Any family?"

"Two or three kids. Gorgeous wife. Halapay owns an island in the Caribbean and a ranch in Oregon and a couple of private planes. Everything money can buy. And he's not tight with his dough. He's a good joe."

"What about these pictures he paints?"

"Sharp! Real sharp," said Odd. "I've got one hanging in my living room. After I photographed Halapay's wife at a charity ball last fall, he gave me a painting. Couple of kids with curly hair…. Well, I've got to go and eat now. There's a one o'clock assignment on the board."

Arch drained his drink and said to Qwilleran, "Talk to Halapay and size up the photo possibilities, and then we'll try to assign Odd Bunsen. He's our best man. Maybe he could try some color shots. It wouldn't hurt to do this layout in color."

"That pink memo has you straining a bit, hasn't it?"

Qwilleran said. "What's the connection between Halapay and the Daily Fluxion?"

"I'm having another drink," Arch said. "Want another tomato juice?"

Qwilleran let the question drop, but he said, "Just give me one straight answer, Arch. Why are they offering me this art beat? Me, of all people."

"Because that's the way newspapers do things. They assign baseball experts as drama critics and church news writers to the nightclub beat. You know that as well as I do."

Qwilleran nodded and stroked his moustache sadly. Then he said, "What about this art critic you have on the staff? If I take the job, do I work with him? Or her, as the case may be."

"It's a guy," Arch told him. "He writes critical reviews, and you'll be doing straight reporting and personality stories. I don't think there'll be any conflict."

"Does he work in our department?"

"No, he never comes to the office. He does his column at home, puts it on tape, and sends it down by messenger once or twice a week. We have to transcribe it. It's a fat nuisance."

"What keeps him away? Doesn't he like pea green?"

"Don't ask me. That's his arrangement with the front office. He has a neat contract with the Flux."

"What's the fellow like?"

"Aloof. Opinionated. Hard to get along with."

"That's nice. Is he young or old?"

"In between. He lives alone — with a cat, if you can picture that! A lot of people think the cat writes the column, and they may be right."

"Is his stuff any good?"

"He thinks so. And the brass evidently thinks so." Arch shifted around on the bars tool while he weighed his next remark. "There's a rumor that the Flux has the guy heavily insured."

"What's so valuable about an art critic?"

"This one's got that certain magic that newspapers love; he's controversial! His column pulls hundreds of letters a week. No, thousands!"

"What kind of letters?"

"Angry ones. Sugary ones. Hysterical ones. The arty readers hate his guts; the others think he's the greatest, and they get to brawling among themselves. He manages to keep the whole city stirred up. Do you know what our last survey showed? The art page has a bigger readership than the sports section! Now you know and I know that's an unnatural situation."

"You must have a lot of art buffs in this town," Qwilleran said.

"You don't have to like art to enjoy our art column; you just have to like blood."

"But what do they fight about?"

"You'll find out."

"I can understand controversy in sports and politics, but art is art, isn't it?"

"That's what I used to think," said Arch. "When I took over the feature desk, I had this simpleminded notion that art was something precious — for beautiful people who had beautiful thoughts. Man, did I lose that dream in a hurry! Art has gone democratic. In this town it's the greatest fad since canasta, and anybody can play. People buy paintings instead of swimming pools."