The Bottom by Howard Owen Read Free Book Online Page A

editorials, no matter how big an SOB they are. They might wish you to burn in hell, but they’ll never disrespect your title.)
    Jesus. For once editorial and I are on the same page, and somehow they managed to fuck it up. If only we had copy editors. Those mossbacks of my youth, whom I despised for their persnickety arrogance but also because they were almost always right, never would have let that one get through. Somebody in editorial didn’t do due diligence.
    Wheelie does the hummina-hummina and then says we’ll certainly run a retraction. I’m pretty sure that isn’t going to be enough for Wat Chenault, who must have a pretty good hard-on for us for helping him ruin his political career all those years ago.
    When our large guest isn’t appeased, Wheelie counters by offering a correction on A1. Fuck it, I want to tell my editor and erstwhile publisher. You and I both knew what Chenault wants. And it’s a damn sight more than a little groveling on the front page.
    The fat man does not disappoint.
    “What I want,” he says, drumming his thick right forefinger on the desk for emphasis and lowering his voice like he thinks the walls might be bugged, “is for you all to leave me the fuck alone.”
    He means, of course, turn a blind eye to Top of the Bottom, even come out foursquare in favor of the thing we were against the day before.
    To Wheelie’s credit, he doesn’t cave instantly. He says we could certainly do a feature on Chenault. It’s understood that this would be a puff piece, one of those “Catching up with . . .” pieces our features department does from time to time on somebody who used to be somebody. I’m thinking that, if I were Wat Chenault, I might not exactly want people catching up with me.
    Chenault shakes his head.
    “Not good enough, Wheelie.”
    “Even if we did, uh, back off our opposition to your project, Mr. Chenault, we can’t tell the editorial department what to do.”
    Shit, Wheelie, I’m thinking, don’t call him Mr. Chenault when he’s calling you by your nickname. Don’t cede ground you don’t have to. Makes you look like a little boy called to the principal’s office.
    Chenault isn’t buying what Wheelie’s selling.
    “Hell, man,” he says, raising his voice enough that Sandy McCool, the administrative assistant, can probably hear him through the walls, “you’re the goddamned publisher. Show some balls.”
    My estimation of Chenault’s IQ just dropped below freezing. Like a lot of guys who aren’t totally, completely sure of their power, Wheelie does not relish having his manhood challenged in front of others. In the past, I have made the same mistake Wat Chenault’s just made.
    Wheelie stands up. He isn’t up to eggplant, but he’s a nice shade of pink.
    Chenault begins to haul his considerable avoirdupois out of his chair, not sure what’s going on.
    “I think our conversation is over, Mr. Chenault,” Wheelie says. “We have our newspaper to run, and you have your priorities. We will run a correction on A1. We will, if you desire, do a nice story on your, er, comeback. Beyond that, I can promise you nothing.”
    “You will be hearing from my lawyer,” Chenault says. I step out into the hallway so he can get past. He barely squeezes through the door.
    “I expect we will,” Wheelie says with a sigh. He doesn’t bother to say good-bye or walk Chenault to the elevator. When our ex-senator walks past me, he stops for a second while he fishes a cigar out of his coat pocket, one he’s probably going to light up on the elevator of our no-smoking building.
    “You and I,” he says, lowering his voice again and wagging the stogie at me, “we aren’t through yet.”
    I walk back into the office to congratulate Wheelie for doing the exact thing Wat Chenault wanted him to do: show some cojones. My boss doesn’t look nearly as satisfied as I would have been in his shoes.
    “Damn, Willie,” he says, “the suits are going to have my butt when this gets