October 18, 2026

By Arthur H. Gunther III

thecolumnrule.com

(SETTING: I now live in Nyack, N.Y., between the former homes of two literary ex-newspapermen, Ben Hecht and Charles MacArthur, who wrote “The Front Page,” the famous 1928 Broadway comedy play adapted for several screen versions. It is about shoe-leather, irreverent, ink-stained, cynical reporters on the police beat in a Chicago courts pressroom covering the planned execution of an innocent man. Complete with stereotyping from old newspaper days, crooked politicians and dark humor, “The Front Page” is a jewel as bright as a news camera flashbulb.

By profession, I remain one of the irreverent scribes, a retired newspaperman out of Nyack, where I toiled up Broadway from Hecht and MacArthur. In tribute to those gifted playwrights and my old gig, I wrote the following fiction in similar vein as “The Front Page” but obviously far-removed from their talent. Indulge if you wish, and thanks.)

GIMME REWRITE!

SCENE: 1936, the city room of the Gotham Journal tabloid just after first deadline. Usual newspaper characters are in place. The room is filled with cigarette smoke, multiple phones are ringing, and reporters, some still hung over from nightly high mass at the HiHo bar, are hunting and pecking at typewriters. City Editor Joe Marsico is bellowing in the organized madness of the daily birth.

Marsico: “Copy boy! Give me the first edition.” He scans the front page in a millisecond and yells to the slotman updating for replate: “I want a better headline on the lead story. Make it sing, something like “Headless Torso Found in Topless Bar.” He screams at photog Art: “Get your backside down to Chancy Street. The cops are hauling in Tony ‘Bananas’ this morning. Get him smiling. He’s a goner for the chair.”

Second deadline passes, and the never-quiet city room tones down a bit, the usual pause as both presses and newspaper stiffs recharge for the inevitable explosion of tears, joy, insanity and humanity for the next day’s report to readers.

Bob Nichols, the businessman-like managing editor, meets with Marsico over staff needs. The city editor tells him reporter Frank L. has to go, adding, “This guy wrote better in third grade.” Nichols answers that Frank is the only one with a job in his family during the current Depression. “Put him on the streets as a leg man,” says Marsico. He can get the facts and call into rewrite where the real Pulitzers are composed. Those guys can make even a man-bites-dog piece sing.”

Marsico is reluctant as Frank hits the streets, but both he and Nichols don’t know that the reporter who can’t write grew up on the sidewalks, in the neighborhood. He’s trusted as one of the local guys. If anyone can get the dirt on someone, Frank the leg man can. He just can’t string words.

Frank is assigned to Councilman Donald Jones’ upcoming fund-raiser at the Social Club. Jones is running for mayor on the “End the Freeloading Ticket,” with the message that taxpayer money is being spent on giveaway social services. He’s leading in the polls.

“Hey, Harry,” Frank says to his boyhood friend, who he meets in the neighborhood. “We knew Donnie when he was collecting rent for his father, the big landlord. He didn’t like the ordinary folk even then.” Harry answers, “Yeah, but he’s into the big time now. No paltry rent. Donnie’s raking the cash.”

“We gotta have a drink. I need details,” says Frank. “Let’s go to the HiHo.

Two scotches and a shared pack of Chesterfields later, the facts at hand are that Harry is the janitor at the local Social Club. He tells Frank that every Tuesday at 10:30 a.m., he opens the basement door for a guy, the same fellow each week, who gives him a wrapped package to put in Donnie’s desk at the club. “Here’s the weekly delivery,” the guy always tells Harry.

“I have been doing that for a year now, ever since Donnie said he was running for mayor,” says Harry.

Frank asks, “They trust you?” “Yeah,” answers Harry. “They think I’m stupid and wouldn’t look at a package marked ‘Ink Supplies.’ “

“How did you find out the package held cash?” asks Frank. “I dropped one of the boxes, and bundles of $100 bills fell out,” says Harry.

“Wow,” Frank says. “What’s up?” “Hey, we knew Donnie was no good when we were kids. Remember when he used to shake down Billy for baseball cards, threatening him with a beating?”

“Where’s the money coming from?” asks Frank. Harry says, “Charlie ‘Fats’ gang. Those guys are taking over Tony Bananas’ territory. Guess they think Jones will be elected mayor, and they will have an in with the new administration.”

Frank runs to the bar phone and calls City Editor Marsico. He tells him he has a scoop. Marsico rings his brother-in-law Sheehan, who is captain of the local precinct and makes a deal. He tells Sheehan, “If you wait, my man Frank and Harry the janitor will meet your officers next Tuesday at 10:30 a.m. at the social club when the “Ink Supplies” delivery guy shows up. I’ll have Art my photog in the wings. Ok?”

The deal is set. Come Tuesday just as Councilman Jones is at a press conference in the social club telling the adoring public that “Welfare guys are gonna lose their Cadillacs when we win,” Capt. Sheehan is raiding the basement.

Frank runs to a phone, calls the Gotham Journal and asks for Rewrite. Richie takes the call and starts taking down the facts. Art the photog is already on his way to process the film and make prints of the cops grabbing the delivery guy, opening up another package of $100 bills and Jones’ desk. The main photo is handcuffs on Donnie at the podium while still spewing falsehood to his believers.

Rewrite Richie puts the story together with poetic touch. Frank gets the byline.

City Editor Marsico yells “Stop the presses” to replate the front page. The second edition hits the streets with the four-inch wooden-type headline: “Mayoral Hopeful Jones Arrested in $$ Shakedown.”

Postscript: The $100 bills are traced to a mob robbery in Jersey. Donald Jones says he was framed. Frank the legman gets a raise.

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