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Unformatted text preview: and said, "She's asleep." "I'll go check it out," I said. "And I'll call if it's anything important." Mr. Youry's street was alive with the red and blue lights of a dozen police cars. Traffic was heavy as the other curious fought to get near the scene. I saw Buster's car parked in a shallow ditch, and when I found him a few minutes later he told me the story. "Coupla kids," he said. I found it funny, but I was in the distinct minority. Chapter Forty-One In the nine years since I'd bought theTimes, I had never left it for more than four days. It went to press every Tuesday, was published every Wednesday, and by every Thursday of my life I was facing a formidable deadline. One reason for its success was the fact that I wrote so much about so many in a town where so little happened. Each edition had thirty-six pages. Subtracting five for classifieds, three for legals, and about six for advertisements, I was faced each week with the task of filling approximately twenty-two pages with local news. The obits consumed at least one page, with me in charge of every word. Davey Bigmouth Bass took two pages for sports, though I often had to help with a summary of a junior high football game or an urgent story about a trophy buck shot by some twelve-year-old. Margaret put together one page for Religion and one page for Weddings and another for classifieds. Baggy, whose production nine years earlier had been feeble at best, had succumbed almost completely to booze and was now good for only one story each week, which, of course, he always wanted on the front page. Staff reporters came and Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html went with frustrating regularity. We usually had one on board, sometimes two, and they were often more trouble than they were worth. I had to proofread and edit their work to the point of wishing I had simply done it myself. And so I wrote. Though I'd studied journalism, I had not noticed a p...
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- Spring '10