reporter at the paper, Jinnah was seldom out of it. But Jinnah, in full fury, was not about to back down.
“I’ll meet you in Blacklock’s office at two o’clock and we’ll see who’s writing this story,” he said, throwing the gauntlet down at Grant’s feet.
Grant smiled.
“Fine. It’s up to the editor,” he said and, certain of his pending victory, went back to his desk to place some very important phone calls about the late Sam Schuster.
Unbeknownst to Jinnah and Grant, they were among the main topics of conversation at a lunch Blacklock was having with the Tribune’s new publisher. Blacklock had chosen the restaurant with great care. They were at the Teahouse in Stanley Park, an elegant eatery that looked out over the magnificence of Vancouver’s Outer Harbour. With snow-capped mountains spreading out on either side and the long, slender stretch of blue water in between gradually widening into the Strait of Georgia, the scenery was as spectacular as the cuisine. It was an establishment that never failed to impress and that was exactly what Blacklock was attempting to do. He felt it vital to define the limits of his personal empire and that meant explaining his management style to the new boss. Most reporters, had they been asked, would have described it as “neo-fascist,” but the editor-in-chief preferred a more gracious interpretation.
“I call it ‘Negative Energy Dynamics’ and it works remarkably well,” Blacklock said, his pudgy hands gripping his white coffee cup, slowly rotating it so the Publisher wouldn’t see the little brown coffee stains trailing down the lip.
The Publisher frowned.
“Negative Energy Dynamics? Is that sort of like Synergy or Employee Empowerment?”
Blacklock allowed himself a small, amused smile on his wide, beefy face, which was framed by greying brown curls and a sneer worthy of Charles Laughton.
“With due respect, sir, those sorts of management theory don’t work in a newsroom. Negative energy, on the other hand, produces results. Daily.”
“Really?”
The Publisher frowned again. Blacklock, seeing some further explanation was required, stared out at the mountains and the water. This was another advantage of the Teahouse: you could gaze out the window with a thoughtful look on your face for quite a while without your guest minding much or even suspecting you were searching your brain for the correct response. But now, Blacklock merely did it for dramatic effect. He’d rehearsed this speech carefully, he simply wanted to give it an air of spontaneity. He folded his hands together and continued to look out the window as he spoke.
“Negative Energy is rather like a battery: you need both positive and negative working together to create a spark. The reporters provide the positive charge, I serve as the negative pole.”
“I don’t quite follow you,” said the Publisher, a pleasant-looking man in his late fifties whose glasses were just a bit too large for his domed head.
Blacklock returned his gaze to the Publisher and found himself looking down. He smiled inwardly. A tall, stout man, he liked being physically overbearing. He calculated that he was a good six inches taller than his new superior.
“The reporters work very hard, putting their positive energies into producing stories,” explained Blacklock. “They seek my approval as a sort of surrogate father figure. However, I deny them my approval, giving back negative energy.”
The Publisher’s eyes widened.
“Meaning if they do a good job, you don’t give them a pat on the back?”
Blacklock had been taking a sip of coffee and he nearly choked. This fellow was much more astute than his rather bland little exterior would lead one to believe. He would have to be more careful.
“Not exactly,” he continued. “I may grudgingly acknowledge that they have done better than they normally do — marginally — and then perhaps opine that their standard of work is still far below that of a National Newspaper Award. That sort of thing.”
“Don’t they just fold the tent and stop working then?”
“Indeed not, sir. They generally redouble their energies, hoping that the next story will please me and gain my long sought-after approval.”
The Publisher’s frown returned. He was a good man, but he had risen through the ranks of the chain through the advertising and the business offices in Toronto. He had no idea of how to run a newsroom and reporters were a mystery to him. They certainly didn’t operate like advertising salespeople, who had a monetary incentive to work hard and succeed. Reporters got paid the same no matter how much — or how little — work they did. But then, people were people, even reporters, and the Publisher had always believed motivated employees who felt valued performed better than those who were terrorized.
“Well,” said the Publisher, resorting to Blacklock’s strategy of looking out the window. “I must say it sounds like a lot of work for you, being the sole negative spark.”
Blacklock let out a mental breath. He had not been sure if the Publisher would buy into his theory. He knew the man’s background, how the sales department had special events, parties, bonuses, and other methods of motivating their employees. Blacklock despised them. People like the Publisher made his job that much more difficult.
“Actually, although I am the primary power source, I am not the only negative pole,” admitted Blacklock modestly. “You see, the other facet of this theory is to create positive-negative energy between the reporters themselves — make them compete with each other.”
The Publisher took his eyes off the line of tankers and container ships sitting out in the harbour, waiting for their turn at the docks inside the Lions Gate Bridge.
“Compete with each other?” he said, eyes narrowing.
“Of course. That way, they form a positive-negative charge of their own, creating even more energy.”
“It sounds a bit like divide and conquer to me, Mister Blacklock,” said the Publisher with a hint of a smile. “Is it practical?”
“It has worked well for the Tribune thus far, sir,” said Blacklock, unruffled. “Take, for instance, the rather bizarre and untimely death of Sam Schuster this morning.”
“Sam Schuster?” asked the Publisher. “Who is he?”
Blacklock gave an inward shake of the head. In his rules of power-lunching, never admitting ignorance of any fact, no matter how small, was high on the list. Even if you were absolutely, unequivocally wrong, you never admitted it. How had this man risen to the state of Publisher with no concern, seemingly, for appearing not to be plugged-in? The fact the Publisher was new to Vancouver did not signify. Part of the trick of establishing your place in the pecking order of the information industry was to research these kinds of things in advance. He went on indulgently.
“A local and somewhat colourful stock promoter,” said Blacklock. “Found burned to a crisp beside his Cadillac last night. A bit of a shyster, but never convicted.”
“You’ll give that to Jinnah, of course,” said the Publisher.
Blacklock was somewhat impressed. At least the Publisher had bothered to scope out the staff before taking the job. Then again, he reflected ruefully, it was a woefully ignorant newspaper
