Nugent waved this aside. "It's your manner." He pushed a glossy eight by ten print toward the photographer. "You play up the grisly, the macabre."
Joey stared down at the picture. A slow smile narrowed his eyes. "I photograph what I see. I figure it's what your readers want to see, too."
Nugent sat heavily. "We had a hundred phone calls about that picture. Brutal ... sadistic ... morbid."
The print fell face up before Nugent. He turned it over. Joey laughed. "Sure. It's all those things. And they loved it." He leaned very close to Nugent. "You didn't have to print it."
"It was the only shot I had. It was print it or be scooped on one of the big stories of the year."
Joey's outward nonchalance failed to mask entirely his inner tension. "When I take a picture, they remember it."
"There's a difference between memorable photography and cheap sensationalism." The editor picked up the memo with Ewing's address. "All things considered," he said, "I think you'd better get this interview for me."
Joey stared at Nugent for an insolent second. Then, he took the memo. He checked the address, jammed the paper into his pocket, and moved quickly to the door. Hand on the knob, he paused.
"Oh, Nugent," he called, "if you can't see the story I bring back, just remember: it's in another dimension."
He slammed the door on Nugent's anger.