"Aw, it's the imagery that's important, Cab. The utter humiliation of this gentle man. Sodomized or not, can you deny that he was horribly humiliated by this crime?"

''Your concern for the late Mr. Harper's dignity is touching," Mulcahy said. He turned his attention to a stack of newspaper clippings on another corner of his desk. Wordlessly he riffled through them. Wiley knew what they were: more columns.

"Here we go," Mulcahy said, holding up one. "On the subject of B. D. 'Sparky' Harper, this is what you wrote a mere three months ago: 'If there has ever been a more myopic, insensitive, and avaricious cretin to lead our Chamber of Commerce, I can't recall him. Sparky Harper takes the cake—and anything else that isn't nailed down. He is the Sultan of Shills, the perfect mouthpiece for the hungry-eyed developers, hoteliers, bankers, and lawyers who have made South Florida what it is today: Newark with palm trees.' "

"I remember that column, Cab. You made me apologize to the New Jersey Tourist Bureau."

Mulcahy leaned back and gave Skip Wiley a very hard look.

Wiley squirmed. "I suppose you want to know why I crucified Harper a few months ago and made a hero out of him today. It's simple, Cab. Literary license. You wouldn't understand."

"I've read a book or two. Try me."

"I did it to dramatize the crime problem," Wiley said. "The Harper murder symbolizes the unspeakable mayhem in our streets. Don't you see? To make people care, I needed to bring Sparky Harper and his killer to life. Don't look at me like that, Cab. You think I'm a hypocrite? Sure, Harper was a fat little jerk. But if I put that in the paper, no one would care about the murder. I wanted to give 'em goose bumps, Cab."

"Like the old days," Mulcahy said with a sigh.

"What's that supposed to mean? I get more goddamned letters than I ever did. People read the hell out of my column. You should see the mail."

"That's the trouble, Skip. I dosee the mail. People are starting to hate you, I mean reallyhate you. Not just the usual fruitcakes, either."

Not true, Wiley said to himself. The people who counted were on his side.

"So you've been taking some heat, eh?"

Mulcahy looked away, out the window toward the bay.

"A few ad cancellations, perhaps? Like maybe the Richmond Department Store account—"

"Skip, that's one of about forty things on my list. It isn't funny anymore. You're fucking up on a regular basis. You miss deadlines, you libel people, you invent ludicrous facts and put them in the paper. I've got a lawyer downstairs who does nothing but fight off litigation against your column. We've had to print seven retractions in the last four months—that's a new record, by the way. No other managing editor in the history of this newspaper can make that claim."

Wiley was starting to feel a little sorry for Mulcahy, whom he had known for many years. Cab had been the city editor when Wiley had come to work at the Sun.They had been drinking buddies once, and used to go bass fishing together out in the Everglades.

It was a shame the old boy didn't understand what had to be done, Wiley thought. It was a shame the newspaper business had gotten such a frozen grip on his soul.

"The public defender's office called me this morning," Mulcahy continued. "Mr. Cabal's lawyer didn't appreciate your description of his client as 'yellow-bellied vermin culled from the stinkpot of Castro's jails for discharge at Mariel's harbor of shame.' The Hispanic Anti-Defamation League sent a telegram voicing similar objections. The League also notes that Senor Cabal is not aMariel refugee. He arrived in this country from Havana with his family in 1966. His older brother later received a Purple Heart in Vietnam."

"Perhaps I got a little carried away," Wiley said.

"Hell, Skip." Mulcahy's voice was tired and edged with sadness. "I think we have a big problem. And I think we're going to have to do something. Soon."

This was a conversation they had been having more often, so often that Wiley had stopped taking it seriously. He got more mail than any other writer, and the publisher counted mail as subscribers, and subscribers as money. Wiley knew they wouldn't lay a glove on him. He knew he was a star in the same way he knew he was tall and brown-eyed; it was just something else he could see in the mirror every morning, plain as day. He didn't even notice it anymore. The only time it counted was when he got into trouble. Like now.

"You aren't going to threaten to fire me again, are you?"

"Yes," Mulcahy said.

"I suppose you want me to apologize to somebody."

Mulcahy handed Wiley a list.

"I'll get right on it—"

"Sit down, Skip. I'm not finished." Mulcahy stood up, brandishing the stack of columns. "You know what makes me sad? You're such a damn good writer, too good to be turning out shit like this. Something's happened the last few months. You've been slipping away. I think you're sick."

Wiley winced. "Sick?"

Mulcahy was a slim man, gray and graceful. Before becoming an editor, he had had a distinguished career as a foreign correspondent: he had covered two wars and a half-dozen coups, and had even been shot at three times. Wiley had always been envious of this; in all his years as a journalist he had never once been shot at. He had never dodged a real bullet. But Cab Mulcahy had, and he had written poetically about the experience. Wiley admired him, and it hurt to have the old boy talk like this.

"I took all your columns from the last four months," Mulcahy said, "and I gave them to Dr. Courtney, the psychiatrist."

"Jesus! He's a wacko, Cab. The guy has a thing for animals. I've heard this from seven or eight sources. Ducks and geese, stuff like that. The paper ought to get rid of him before there's some kind of scandal—"

Mulcahy waved his hands, a signal for Wiley to shut up.

"Dr. Courtney read all these columns and he says he can chart your illness, starting since September."

Wiley clenched his teeth so tightly his fillings nearly cracked. "There's nothing wrong with me, Cab."

"I want you to see a doctor."

"Not Courtney, please."

"The Sunwill pay for it."

Well, it oughtto, Wiley thought. If I'm nuts, it's this place that's to blame.

"I also want you to go to an internist. Courtney says the mental degeneration has occurred so rapidly that it could be pathological. A tumor or something."

"A guy who screws barnyard animals says that I'mpathological."

Mulcahy said, "He's paid for his opinions."

"He hates the column," Wiley said. "Always has." He pointed at the stack of clippings. "I know what's in there, Cab. The one I did six weeks ago about shrinks. Courtney's still mad about that. He's trying to get back at me."

Mulcahy said, "He didn't mention it, although it was a particularly vile piece of writing. 'Greedy, soul-sucking charlatans'—isn't that what you said about psychiatrists?"

"Something like that."

"If I'd been here that morning, I'd have yanked that column," Mulcahy said evenly.

"Ha!"

"Skip, this is the deal. Go see the doctors and you can keep your column, at least until we find out what the hell is wrong. In the meantime, every word you write goes through me personally. Nothing that comes out of your terminal, not even a fucking obituary, gets into this newspaper without me seeing it first."

Wiley seemed stunned. He shrank into the chair.

"Jeez, Cab, why don't you just cut off my balls and get it over with?"

Mulcahy walked him to the door. "Don't write about the Harper case anymore, Skip," he said, not gently. "Dr. Courtney is expecting you tomorrow morning. Ten sharp."

Brian Keyes read Skip Wiley's column as soon as he got back to the office. He laughed out loud, in spite of himself. He had become amazed—there was no other word for it—at how much Wiley could get away with.