Ricky Bloodworth’s story began like this:
A local private investigator was stabbed and left for dead along an Everglades highway Sunday.
Police said Brian Keyes, 32, was attacked and dumped on the Tamiami Trail about fifteen miles east of Naples. Keyes was spotted by a passing bus driver and transported to Flagler Memorial Hospital, where he was listed in stable condition following surgery.
Keyes, a former Miami newspaper reporter, told the Sun that he was on a canoe trip when he was abducted, robbed, and stabbed by two Slavic men wearing wigs and Halloween masks.
Bloodworth finished typing and took the story to Cab Mulcahy’s office. Mulcahy sat behind the desk, dictating letters, trying to conceal his wretchedness. He wore an expensive knit sports shirt—a classy lemon pastel, not a crease anywhere.
The old boy never came in on weekends; Bloodworth wondered what was up.
“You said you wanted to see this?”
“Yes, Ricky, have a seat.” Mulcahy took the story and read it. It took him a long time; he seemed to read each sentence twice.
“Is it the byline?” Bloodworth asked worriedly.
Mulcahy glanced up. “What?”
“My byline. I changed it.” Bloodworth walked around the desk and pointed over the editor’s shoulder. “See? Richard L. Bloodworth. Instead of Ricky.”
“Oh yes.”
“I think it looks better,” Bloodworth said. “More professional.”
What had really happened was this: Ricky Bloodworth had eaten breakfast with a correspondent from the New York Times, who explained that the Times simply didn’t hire people named Ricky. How about just plain Rick? Bloodworth had asked. Well, Rick was a swell name for a Little League coach, the reporter had said, as kindly as he could, but it was hardly appropriate for a world-class journalist. Bloodworth was devastated by this revelation because he’d spent half his adult life sending resume’s to Abe Rosenthal without even a postcard in reply. Now he knew why. He pressed the Times man for more tips and the fellow told him that everybody on the Times used middle initials in their bylines because surveys showed that middle initials enhanced credibility twenty-three percent among newspaper readers.
Ricky Bloodworth thought this was a great idea, and he’d quickly fallen in love with the way Richard L. Bloodworth looked on the screen of his word processor.
“So, you like it?” he asked Mulcahy.
“It’s fine,” Mulcahy said, paying no attention whatsoever. Personally he didn’t care if Bloodworth called himself Richard L. Douchebag. Mulcahy was more concerned about Brian Keyes.
“What else did he say?”
“Not much. They gave him a shot at the hospital and he got real spacey,” Bloodworth said. “Kept asking for Jenna.”
Mulcahy groaned inwardly. “Did he mention anyone else?”
“No. It sure is a strange tale. What do you suppose he was doing way out there in a canoe?”
“I’ve got no idea.” Mulcahy handed Bloodworth the story. “Good job, Richard L. The new byline looks splendid.”
“Thanks,” Bloodworth said, beaming. “I’m gonna use it on the column, too.”
Cab Mulcahy’s ulcer quivered. “Ricky, I meant to tell you: the column’s been put on hold for now. We need you on general assignment.”
“Sure, Cab,” Bloodworth said in a wounded voice. Then, rebounding: “Tell you what. I’m gonna go see Brian again tomorrow. Try to get a blow-by-blow.”
Mulcahy shook his head. “Let him rest.”
“But it’d be a terrific second-day feature—”
“The man just got his thorax stitched back together. Give him a break, okay? Besides, somebody gets stabbed every thirty seconds in Miami. It’s not news anymore. Maybe in Spudville, Iowa, but not here.”
Not news. That was all Ricky Bloodworth needed to hear.
He retreated to his desk and practiced typing his new byline. He even experimented with different middle initials, just to gauge the effect: Richard A. Bloodworth, Richard B. Bloodworth, Richard C. Bloodworth and so on. There was something about having a vowel for a middle initial that struck Bloodworth as impressive, and he wondered if his mother would get upset if he changed his middle name from Leon to Attenborough.
Bloodworth was still mulling the notion an hour later when an editor handed him a police bulletin about some old lady who’d turned up missing from her Broward condominium. As he skimmed the police report about Mrs. Kimmelman’s disappearance, Ricky Bloodworth suddenly remembered something else Brian Keyes had whispered from his Demerol fog on the stretcher, something even odder than the business about the Slavic kidnappers.