is the way I heard it.

It was cold in Manhattan.

The way it often gets in the early part of December when the wind whips across Central

Park and down the streets and avenues of the Upper West Side.

Larry, however, was filled with a warm glow, partly because he was inside, sipping some

better than average bourbon, and partly because his name was on the cover of Esquire magazine.

His first cover story, an exhaustive 5,000-word expose, was in newsstands all over the city,

a delightful reminder on every block that his future as a journalist was all but guaranteed.

Another bourbon, sir?

Why not, said Larry.

Why not indeed?

Larry glanced down at the magazine he'd brought with him and had to admit he loved seeing

his name in print.

It was just above the iconic photo of his famous subject, a rapacious capitalist if there

ever was one, and just below an enormous headline that posed the question, where are you?

Yes, it did feel good to see his words in print, and yes, he had been hard on his subject

very hard, but not unfair.

Besides, what was he supposed to do?

The subject refused to be interviewed, refused even to return his calls.

Larry explained all of this to the reader in the first few paragraphs of his story.

Quote, the search for my subject had come down to false leads, dead ends, and witnesses

no more credible than a hair restoration ad.

...