Джон Макдональд - A Flash of Green

“I understand that, Jimmy, and the others will too. What I called about, I was talking to Carol Killian, and she said something interesting, about why Ben is going to be in favor of the fill this time.”

“I can think of a lot of plausible reasons.”

“She said it was something about zoning, something to do with his boat works, about taxes and nonconforming. Would you know what she was talking about?”

“I think I do. He’s got a very nice chunk of land there, just south of the Hoyt Marina, about three hundred feet of bay front adjacent to the channel. When the county was zoned four years ago, I think the commercial zoning extends down from the causeway onto Sandy Key to include the Hoyt Marina. But it doesn’t include Gulfway Marine Designs. So that makes it nonconforming. Actually I think it’s in Residential B.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means he can’t expand, and if it burned he couldn’t rebuild it, and if he sold it, he’d have to sell it as nonconforming. But he’s got all the buildings he wants there, and it isn’t likely to burn down, and he certainly doesn’t want to sell. Actually, it’s fine for him the way it is. It was probably one of those favors local government does for newspaper publishers. He pays taxes on a Residential B basis. He loses money on that operation anyway, so the lower taxes are a help.”

“How much help, Jimmy?”

“All I can do is guess. Three hundred feet. I’d say if they zoned him commercial it would cost him about eighteen hundred to two thousand a year more. His land goes all the way through to Bay Highway.”

“That isn’t enough to bother him, is it?”

“Not that alone. I wouldn’t think so. Probably Carol didn’t get the whole picture. He’s got a lot of little things scattered around, and he’s probably getting the best possible break on all of them. If they went into rezoning and reassessment on all of them, they probably could bruise him pretty good. And he couldn’t use the paper to fight back because all he would be doing would be disclosing the fact he had been getting some breaks.”

“Carol said he was complaining about being pushed around.”

“He probably was a little slow making up his mind, so they leaned on him. They’re not taking any chances, Kat.”

“But isn’t it something you can use, Jimmy?”

“What do you mean?”

“Can’t you sort of... track down what happened and let people know these Palmland people have blackmailed the paper?”

“Kat, are you comfortable? Can you listen to a lecture?”

“I’m stretched out across my bed,” she said, “but don’t you want to dry off?”

“I brought my towel along. Feet on my desk. Cigarettes handy. Now listen carefully, dear. You’re an intelligent woman. I went into journalism out of a sort of idealism. I fell in love with a glamorous gal called the newspaper game, and after I’d lived with her a few years I found out she’s a whore. She talks big sometimes, but she’s bone-lazy, cynical, greedy and perfectly satisfied with herself. Do I sound like a college sophomore?”

“Maybe... a little.”

“So let’s look at the facts. I think these figures are close. There are seventeen hundred and sixty-one daily newspapers in this country. Sixty-one of them are in cities with more than one newspaper. The other seventeen hundred are monopoly papers. The Record-Journal is a monopoly paper. Now here is the crazy thing about a monopoly paper. It is the only form of monopoly not subject to regulation. Regulation would be interference with the freedom of the press. The A.N.P.A. would never let that happen. So, in seventeen hundred cities of America, including this one, the publisher decides exactly what he will give the public. We present the cheapest, dullest possible coverage of national and international news, and all the bargain syndicate items. In contrast, our local news coverage is maybe a little better than average. But the publishers — Ben Killian included — look on news as a tiresome but necessary evil, and they resent the public for expecting it. It’s the only game in town, Kat, and its main, basic, primary, unchangeable purpose is to sell advertising and make money. Follow me?”

“Yes,” she said hesitantly.

“Actually this is a better paper than the average, because Ben Killian doesn’t have any particularly strong opinions. Our political stance is conservative Democrat on a local level, Republican on national issues, which precisely reflects the point of view of the advertisers. Suppose, as is true in many unhappy areas, Ben Killian was a confirmed John Bircher, a witch-hunter, an oppressor of every variety of liberal thought and viewpoint. Then, with no regulatory checkrein, no holds barred, he could make happen here what has been happening in, for example, Boulder, Colorado. He could have an outraged citizenship, indomitably ignorant, purging their community of everything which did not fit their standards of mediocrity. But Ben and Borklund have merely the simple touching desire to make the maximum amount of money with the minimum fuss. To do this, the paper must go along with the viewpoints of the advertisers. So, if Ben showed any sign of deviation, it is natural that the advertisers would arrange to move against him in the direct way of cutting their budgets for newspaper advertising as much as they dare. Because they can’t cut it completely and survive themselves, they move against him in other ways, through the pressure they can generate through their indirect control of the agencies of local government. Clear?”

“It sounds so... cut and dried.”

“It is. The only thing about that zoning thing which surprises me is that Ben hesitated so long they had to use it. And there’s nothing there I can use, certainly. I work for Ben Killian. I am an agent of his policy. What if I want to expose this whole mess? What do I do? Go on the air? He owns thirty percent of WKPC. And the men who own WEVT in the south county are certainly not interested in giving me a platform. I can’t use Ben’s paper to expose him. I couldn’t get it past Borklund. Can I quit and go someplace else and expose the whole conspiracy? The next town I go to would have another monopoly publisher, and a readership vastly uninterested in what happens in Palm County. Do I start my own paper here? I don’t have the million dollars required, and if I did have it and did get a paper going, neither paper would be profitable because the shopping area is too small. Do I still sound sophomoric?”

“No, Jimmy.”

“So it’s a little late for me to change professions, Kat. I have to go right on living with this lady I thought was so exciting. I’m an assistant advertising salesman. If I call myself a pimp, I sound too dramatically cynical, I guess. Put it this way. She isn’t what I thought she was, but I’m used to living with her now. I’m good at what I have to do. If somebody else did it, it wouldn’t be done as well, and the lady would be that much worse off. But don’t ask for crusades, Kat. No lance, no armor, no horse. We come out strongly in favor of motherhood once a year, in May. We’re in favor of peace, education, public health, the right to work, church-going, weak unions, lower taxes...”

“And filling Grassy Bay.”

“You have the picture.”

“If you’d tried to depress me, I don’t think you could have done a better job, darn it.”

“You won’t be really depressed until you see tomorrow’s paper.”

“I can hardly wait. The thing that gets me, Jimmy, there’s just no way to... to present the other side of this to the people.”

“Not when the other team controls the communications.”

“I hear the kids coming. Thanks for the lecture, Jimmy.”