Chapter 8
Green Ice
IT WAS TWELVE TWENTY when I got out of a cab a square from the Post-Dispatch building. There was a café near the paper, and I looked in cautiously, hoping that I’d see Phil Dobe eating some pie and downing some java. I had a bag checked up in his office, and I wanted to get it without a lot of talk. But I didn’t see him.
He was at his desk when I came into the editorial room, his feet propped up in front of him. He was reading a book and chewing something. A few reporters were around, but it looked a lot as though “thirty” had come in. I got around behind him and peeped at the book’s title: Extraordinary Women. While I was looking at it Phil spoke.
“You lying bum— what was the game you were playing up at Duquesne?”
I sat down on the desk surface, shoving his feet o
