Mickey actually got the position, but with a ninety-day probation period.

He took his new job seriously, probation or not. And that did not go unnoticed.

After his probation period expired, he came to be mentored by the ink-stained assistant city desk editor, who dumped on Mickey more and more of the research assignments-drudge work that no one else wanted to do. Before Mickey knew it, the research he was turning in was becoming actual articles, albeit short ones, printed under the credit "Staff Roundup."

Then, late one Friday afternoon-he clearly remembered it as if it had happened yesterday, not nearly two decades earlier-he'd been summoned to the managing editor's office. The office had a huge glass window overlooking the entire newsroom, and as Mickey approached he saw that the managing editor was looking at a copy of that afternoon's front page. The assistant city desk editor was in there, too, looking his usual deeply introspective self.

Mickey O'Hara, days shy of turning eighteen, was convinced that this was the end of his newspaper days. Clearly, his mentor had been caught abusing his official duties by helping develop the questionable skills of a lowly copyboy.

And now said copyboy was about to lose his job and be sent back to the streets.

O'Hara figured that if he was lucky they might let him pedal around town slinging papers at stoops again.

But, of course, that had not happened.

After an initial awkward exchange of pleasantries, the managing editor had tossed the afternoon paper that he was holding to Mickey. Mickey had glanced at it, recognized the headline he'd written, then under that seen his name-his byline there on the front page.

As Mickey O'Hara, speechless, looked between the two men, the managing editor said, "Congratulations, Mickey. Nice work. This is usually the part of the interview process when I ask, 'When can you start?' but it would appear that you already have."

O'Hara rose rapidly in the hierarchy of the Bulletin city room, eventually writing "Follow the Money," the hard-hitting series of articles on graft and gross incompetence in the city's Child Protective Services. It was the series that won him a Pulitzer Prize for public service.

O'Hara had thought that he was on top of the world, particularly considering how far he'd come from the day Monsignor Dooley had shown him the door. He was being paid, he'd thought, damned decently for something he enjoyed doing. And, he believed, the stories that helped better the lot of kids trapped in the hell that was CPS was alone worth it all.

But then his childhood buddy, Casimir Bolinski, showed up in town and told him he was a fool. His exact words: "Face it, Mickey, those bastards are screwing you."

"Those bastards" being the Bulletin's management.

O'Hara was told that they were not paying him his due. Mickey listened to his buddy, especially when Bolinski offered to represent him as a small token of appreciation-"I can never adequately repay you"-for taking the fall at West Catholic High.

"If you'd ratted me out to Dooley the Drooler as your fellow numbers runner," Casimir said, "I'd have been out on my ass, too. There'd have been no 'The Bull' Bolinski, no all-American trophy, no scholarship to Notre Dame, no career with the Green Bay Packers. And without the cushion from the Packers, both the pay and off-season time, I'd probably never have considered law school, and certainly not become a sports agent after retirement."

And as an agent, The Bull proved every bit as effective off the field as he'd been on it.

Players liked The Bull personally, but the athletes really liked what he could do for them financially. And The Bull wound up making more money by repping the sports world's top players-football, basketball, golf, et cetera-than he had earned actually playing the game.

Negotiating Mickey O'Hara's new contract with the Bulletin had been no challenge compared to the high-pressure worlds of sports and product endorsements.

And as happy as O'Hara had been with his new benefits-from more pay and holiday time to a new lease car every year-The Bull showed his brilliance by including an exit clause in the contract. It was brilliant because the Bulletin signed off on it, and because everyone believed Mickey, happy with the contract terms, would write for the paper forever.

Everyone including Mickey.

But then came the newsroom brawl, in which Mickey punched the city editor. Roscoe G. Kennedy was no great fan of O'Hara-though he did grudgingly admit that Mickey could be a helluva writer despite not having attended the glorified University of Missouri School of Journalism, as Kennedy had. And there was no question that Kennedy resented the money and perks that the unschooled O'Hara enjoyed thanks to his buddy, The Bull, squeezing the newspaper management.

Kennedy thought that Mickey O'Hara had become a prima donna in his expensively furnished office, someone who had the audacity to demand more space in the newspaper for his articles and photographs than the boss-J-school grad Kennedy-felt he deserved.

O'Hara, who'd been at the Italian restaurant La Famiglia the night that Matt Payne put down the two robbers who'd beaten up a couple in the parking lot, had written a long article for Page 1A. He'd also delivered the photograph he'd taken of Payne in his tuxedo standing over one robber lying on the ground. Payne had his cell phone in his left hand and his Colt.45 Officer's Model in his right.

What had set Mickey O'Hara off-and it happened in the presence of The Bull and his wife, Antoinette Bolinski-was Kennedy wanting to put a smart-ass headline on the photograph: MAIN LINE WYATT EARP 2, BAD GUYS O IN SHOOT-OUT AT THE LA FAMIGLIA CORRAL. Kennedy justified it by saying that Payne looked like a goddamn gunslinger who obviously liked shooting people.

O'Hara put up his dukes, then dodged Kennedy's swinging fists, putting him down with a left punch to the nose followed by a right jab to the abdomen. Casimir J. Bolinski, Esq., then grabbed his client and-with Kennedy disparaging O'Hara before the entire newsroom staff, then declaring him fired-dragged him out of the city room, never to return.

The Bull that day pulled out O'Hara's contract-the signatures barely dry-and easily negotiated with the Bulletin management a thirty-day cooling-off period with pay for Mickey, plus public apologies from Kennedy for the city editor's treatment of a Pulitzer Prize winner before newsroom colleagues.

O'Hara decided to use his downtime to research a book on Fort Festung-a despicable shit from Philly who had been found guilty of murdering his girlfriend and stuffing her body in a steamer trunk, where she'd been found mummified.

Mickey convinced Matt to accompany him to France in hopes of finding the fugitive-if only for a current photograph for the book.

And, toward the end of their time in France, they finally tracked down the arrogant Festung, long-haired and goateed, living comfortably on wine and cheese with a new girlfriend in a French village.

Mickey got his photograph-and it was of Philadelphia Police Department Sergeant Matthew M. Payne collaring the fugitive.

And only weeks after their return to Philadelphia, Casimir J. Bolinski, Esq., ever diligent in delivering for his clients, presented Michael J. O'Hara with the contract for his new position as chief executive officer and publisher of CrimeFreePhilly.com.

Mickey, after signing the contract in mid-September, called Matt's cell and told Matt to meet him at Liberties Bar for some good news.

As O'Hara slid in the booth across the table from Payne, he said, "You may kiss my ring, Matty, as I'm now a triple-dipper. Say, 'Congrats, Mick.'"

Matt looked at the blue T-shirt Mickey wore. In white, it bore a representation of a pair of dangling handcuffs and lettering that read MAKE HIS DAY: KISS A COP AT CRIMEFREEPHILLY.COM.