"Thank you very much."
"Don't be bitter. A man in the newspaper business is top-dog these days, see? I don't have to tell you. We're not passive receptors. We control things. We make things happen. We play God, but we've got competition. You've got to take the good with the bad, that's all. See what I mean?" All the while they had spoken, Overman had not moved from where he had perched his small frame on his desk, but his nervous legs had walked miles, his scrawny, sleeve-rolled arms had waved, flapped and gesticulated, his wide, bulging eyes had darted about the frenzied confusion of the great room where news was created and missed nothing. It was Overman's passion, McLeod knew, his alpha through omega. He suddenly wished it were that simple for himself. Less than half an hour ago, it would have been.
"We'll have our obituary people compose something tender for Crippens," Overman said. "Keep me informed, Darius."
"I haven't told you I'd do it."
"Whose obit would you rather see them write?"
"You could protect me instead."
But Overman jerked his head side to side again. "It's the same as politics. Much simpler to make news than to prevent it. The one sure way to protect you, provided you don't foul things up with Crippens."
"Well, I don't—"
"One of you makes the obituary page next week. The World's already seen to that. Take your choice, Darius."
"Yeah ... sure."