The Chief sat behind his plywood desk, sopping sweat from his greasy forehead with a Dunkin’ Donuts napkin. The man was a wet cookie dough sausage with a pushbroom moustache and a bulldog’s temper.
He slammed a doughy fist down and pointed his index hot dog right in my face.
“You’re going to do this story for me, Ace. You’ll do it, or you’ll never work in this town again.”
“I’m done with this town and done with the paper and done with you,” I told him. “I’ve seen too much filth and eaten too much grit out of the gutters of these mean streets to see this thing through to the bitter end.”