THE BIG SCOOP
1. Summer, 1925. As a cub reporter for a big metropolitan newspaper, I was eager for my big break. I wanted to make my mark on the world of journalism ... win a Pulitzer, perhaps ... but after four years on the paper, nothing good had happened. Rather, I had come glumly to the conclusion that journalism was a man's world ... the juicy big scoops always went to the guys
That morning I was in early, as usual, sitting at my desk, scanning the obituaries, when one of my male colleagues sauntered up. He took a long drag on his cigarette and exhaled smoke through his nose. The arrogant fool looked me up and down thoughtfully, affecting an exaggerated leer ... as though he was God's gift to women ... before grunting, "The Chief wants to see you in his office Moore, like yesterday!"
"Could it be?" I thought to myself, but quickly dismissed the idea. I figured the lecherous old curmudgeon, who was the paper's editor-in-chief, probably just wanted to send me out for donuts again.
I stood up, straightened the pleated skirt on my low-waist dress, the hem of which came fashionably to just above my knees, patted my hair into place, strode confidently across the newsroom, tapped lightly on the Chief's office door and let myself in.
He looked up at me over his half-lensed glasses, motioned absently toward the straight-back chair in front of his desk and growled, "take a load off, Moore."
"Call me Barbara," I replied as I sat, crossed my legs, tugged at my skirt and looked up at him expectantly.
"Right, Moore. I called you in here because I have a special assignment for you."
"Barbara," I corrected, smiling at him serenely.
"Moore, how long have you been on the paper?" he asked, pushing back in his wheeled desk-chair to light a fat cigar.
"Going on four years, sir."
"Well then you must be thinking you are ready for something big, right Moore?"
"Well, yes. I think I've paid my dues, sir."
"Alright Moore," he said as he rose to his feet and began to pace back and forth, puffing furiously on his cigar, "Here's the thing. Readership has been flat lately. We need something newsworthy, exciting ... some real investigative "muckraking-style" reporting ... to stimulate interest and drive up advertising revenues."
"yessir."
"As you know, our local Mafia family has been getting rich and powerful. Prohibition was the best thing to happen to them ... they are raking it in running speakeasies and bootlegging, not too mention prostitution, white slaving, racketeering, and corruption. They own city hall and most of the the cops too. What this paper needs is an eye-opening 'inside story' on their operations ... in close and personal ... daring, maybe a little risqué ... a 'worm's eye view' of the underworld, so to speak."
"And so ..." I offered, eyes bright with expectation, urging him to continue. For good measure, I nonchalantly allowed the hem of my skirt to ride halfway up my thigh.
"And so, Moore, I want you to get inside their organization, go undercover, see what is going on close up, and write a story that will knock our socks off!"
"And how do you propose I do that, Chief?"
At that point he came closer, knelt down in front of me, rested a warm hand firmly on my thigh, and said in a hushed conspiratorial tone, "we have a source on the inside ... let's just call him 'Al' ... takes a little money now and then to toss a few newsy tips our way ... word from Al is that the mob is looking for some good-looking girls to work as hostesses at the big speak-easy over on 34th Street ... Al says interviews are at 10 am today, about half an hour from now."
"You want me to go undercover as a barmaid in a speakeasy?"
"It's a start; see where it goes from there. Al says to go around back, knock on the alley door twice, wait one minute, then knock six times. They'll let you in. Oh, and Al said 'hostess', not 'barmaid'. I think there is a difference, if you get my drift. So try to look the part, Moore."
"Well I ... I ... I dunno," I stammered, gently removing his hand, which had slipped under the hem of my skirt and gotten noticeably hotter.
"Come on, Moore. You can do it; you got the looks. Just flaunt it. Remember, this is your big chance. Don't throw it away. Take the assignment."
"Alright, Chief. I'll do my best. But wait! What happens if things get rough and I get in trouble?"
"Just tell Al; he'll get word to us and we'll figure out a way to rescue you."
And it was done. I got to my feet, shook his hand, and backed out of his office.
With no time to lose, I rushed to the lady's room to freshen up my makeup, swung by my desk to grab my bag and my little cloche hat, ran down the stairs to ground level of the newspaper building, sprinted out on the pavement and hailed a cab.
"Where to, gorgeous?" said the cabbie as I slid into the back seat.
TO BE CONTINUED
1. Summer, 1925. As a cub reporter for a big metropolitan newspaper, I was eager for my big break. I wanted to make my mark on the world of journalism ... win a Pulitzer, perhaps ... but after four years on the paper, nothing good had happened. Rather, I had come glumly to the conclusion that journalism was a man's world ... the juicy big scoops always went to the guys
That morning I was in early, as usual, sitting at my desk, scanning the obituaries, when one of my male colleagues sauntered up. He took a long drag on his cigarette and exhaled smoke through his nose. The arrogant fool looked me up and down thoughtfully, affecting an exaggerated leer ... as though he was God's gift to women ... before grunting, "The Chief wants to see you in his office Moore, like yesterday!"
"Could it be?" I thought to myself, but quickly dismissed the idea. I figured the lecherous old curmudgeon, who was the paper's editor-in-chief, probably just wanted to send me out for donuts again.
I stood up, straightened the pleated skirt on my low-waist dress, the hem of which came fashionably to just above my knees, patted my hair into place, strode confidently across the newsroom, tapped lightly on the Chief's office door and let myself in.
He looked up at me over his half-lensed glasses, motioned absently toward the straight-back chair in front of his desk and growled, "take a load off, Moore."
"Call me Barbara," I replied as I sat, crossed my legs, tugged at my skirt and looked up at him expectantly.
"Right, Moore. I called you in here because I have a special assignment for you."
"Barbara," I corrected, smiling at him serenely.
"Moore, how long have you been on the paper?" he asked, pushing back in his wheeled desk-chair to light a fat cigar.
"Going on four years, sir."
"Well then you must be thinking you are ready for something big, right Moore?"
"Well, yes. I think I've paid my dues, sir."
"Alright Moore," he said as he rose to his feet and began to pace back and forth, puffing furiously on his cigar, "Here's the thing. Readership has been flat lately. We need something newsworthy, exciting ... some real investigative "muckraking-style" reporting ... to stimulate interest and drive up advertising revenues."
"yessir."
"As you know, our local Mafia family has been getting rich and powerful. Prohibition was the best thing to happen to them ... they are raking it in running speakeasies and bootlegging, not too mention prostitution, white slaving, racketeering, and corruption. They own city hall and most of the the cops too. What this paper needs is an eye-opening 'inside story' on their operations ... in close and personal ... daring, maybe a little risqué ... a 'worm's eye view' of the underworld, so to speak."
"And so ..." I offered, eyes bright with expectation, urging him to continue. For good measure, I nonchalantly allowed the hem of my skirt to ride halfway up my thigh.
"And so, Moore, I want you to get inside their organization, go undercover, see what is going on close up, and write a story that will knock our socks off!"
"And how do you propose I do that, Chief?"
At that point he came closer, knelt down in front of me, rested a warm hand firmly on my thigh, and said in a hushed conspiratorial tone, "we have a source on the inside ... let's just call him 'Al' ... takes a little money now and then to toss a few newsy tips our way ... word from Al is that the mob is looking for some good-looking girls to work as hostesses at the big speak-easy over on 34th Street ... Al says interviews are at 10 am today, about half an hour from now."
"You want me to go undercover as a barmaid in a speakeasy?"
"It's a start; see where it goes from there. Al says to go around back, knock on the alley door twice, wait one minute, then knock six times. They'll let you in. Oh, and Al said 'hostess', not 'barmaid'. I think there is a difference, if you get my drift. So try to look the part, Moore."
"Well I ... I ... I dunno," I stammered, gently removing his hand, which had slipped under the hem of my skirt and gotten noticeably hotter.
"Come on, Moore. You can do it; you got the looks. Just flaunt it. Remember, this is your big chance. Don't throw it away. Take the assignment."
"Alright, Chief. I'll do my best. But wait! What happens if things get rough and I get in trouble?"
"Just tell Al; he'll get word to us and we'll figure out a way to rescue you."
And it was done. I got to my feet, shook his hand, and backed out of his office.
With no time to lose, I rushed to the lady's room to freshen up my makeup, swung by my desk to grab my bag and my little cloche hat, ran down the stairs to ground level of the newspaper building, sprinted out on the pavement and hailed a cab.
"Where to, gorgeous?" said the cabbie as I slid into the back seat.
TO BE CONTINUED
....just say'n.
)