In late April, David Flynn had entered Emil Rosenberg’s office just before lunch and helped himself to a chair in front of his editor’s desk. Rosenberg had his back turned and spun around when he heard the creak of the leather chair. “Make yourself at home, why don’t you?” he said to Flynn. “Is there something I can do for you? Coffee? Coke? How about a sandwich?” He shot a rubber band at Flynn’s chest.
“I have a story,” Flynn said, somewhat breathlessly. “It could be a blockbuster, Emil. Maybe another Pulitzer, I don’t know. But it’s big, man. It’s really big.”
Never one to hold back, this was the way Flynn approached every story he pursued, but Rosenberg thought something seemed different this time. He’d never seen Flynn quite this excited before. He sat back in his chair, clasped his hands behind his head and looked Flynn up and down before he spoke. “Another Pulitzer, you say,” he said to Flynn. “You really think you’ve got the kind of story that will win us another prize?”
“I do,” Flynn said. And then he unfolded the story to his boss.
No comments:
Post a Comment