Free Move to Strike by Sydney Bauer

interview into the May sweeps ratings stratosphere.’
    But Greenburg wasn’t biting – at least not yet.
    â€˜Look,’ she said at last, knowing she had only one chance to get the CEO’s green light. ‘I really don’t need your permission to chase a story, Allen, but I am calling out of respect, for you and for the network. You giveme the go-ahead and I promise you I will deliver one of the best two hours of news journalism this country has ever seen.’
    â€˜You think you can fill a two-hour?’ asked a now interested Greenburg, questioning her ability to provide an extra hour to her one-hour Friday night news magazine program, while no doubt counting the potential prime time share in his head.
    â€˜I’ll fill three if you fucking let me,’ returned Croft.
    And then, further silence.
    â€˜It’s already the twelfth of May,’ offered Greenburg after a time. ‘You have to deliver before the end of the month.’
    â€˜Don’t worry, Allen,’ said Croft, looking across at her husband with a smile. ‘You think I’d waste this gem out of sweeps?’ she asked. ‘This Friday or Friday week at the latest. The exclusive is all yours, Allen, all you have to do is . . .’
    â€˜Okay,’ said the network chief. ‘I’ll talk to de Castro. You have my blessing, Caroline, but I promise you, if you fail to deliver . . .’
    â€˜Have I ever let you down before?’ she asked, the honey now returning to her previous stinging tone.
    Greenburg did not reply.
    â€˜No, I didn’t think so.’

10
    D eputy Raul Delgado had seen many things in his years as a security guard at Boston’s county jails. He had been with the Sheriff’s Department for nearly thirty-five years, having started his career as a junior corrections officer at the now defunct Charles Street Jail (which, ironically, had been transformed into some fancy four star hotel) before moving to Nashua Street back in 1990 when the new and improved Suffolk County facility opened its double glass doors to some of the meanest sons-of-bitches in the city.
    But nothing –
nothing
– had prepared Delgado for the scene he was witnessing this afternoon as Asian Boyz head honcho Damien Chi, one of the meanest street gang leaders in the city, embraced the new white guy like he was his long-lost brother, before quietly starting to cry.
    â€˜What the hell is going on here?’ said Delgado’s fellow sixth floor deputy, a cold-hearted whippersnapper by the name of Snipe. Snipe, like Delgado, had seen Chi and his cronies approach the new guy and, like Delgado, he had assumed there was trouble afoot.
    â€˜Nothing,’ said the new inmate, the famous one with the chiselled jaw. ‘Mr Chi just asked me for some advice and I gave it to him. He was just showing me his appreciation, Deputy, and I am happy that I could be of some help.’
    Delgado looked at a teary Chi who, to his surprise, nodded in accord.
    â€˜All right then,’ said Delgado, whose wife swore by the advice dished out by the man now standing before him – and given the events of the last few minutes, he could certainly understand why. ‘No harm done now. Get back to your cells.’
    â€˜Of course,’ said Logan graciously, before gesturing a nod of encouragement towards the silent Chi. ‘I want you to think about what I said, Mr Chi, and if you like, I can assist you in sharing your misgivings with your friends. I am glad I could be of help, and like I said – if there is anything else I can do . . .’
    Chi nodded, and Delgado had to pinch himself on the back of his leg, just to prove this was not some merry fucking fairy tale in the lunatic land of louts.
    Flip
,
slide
,
turn
, thought Jeffrey Logan, as he relaxed back on his grey blanketed bunk. It was that easy.
    Jeffrey Logan had learned years ago that whenever you were confronted by an