the san fransisco chronicle - august 1972
It was no secret by now that Paul was a heavy, heavy drinker. He started drinking early in the morning and didn't stop until late into the night (or until he passed out, whichever came first). It also wasn't a secret that he'd developed a certain attraction to drugs and cigarettes. An ashtray was almost constantly at his elbow when it was allowed, and he made no effort to hide the fact that he'd perfected the art of chain smoking. As for the small tube of pills on his desk, people just pretended not to notice.
The editors tolerated his behavior, but only because Paul was a brilliant writer. If he had been a reporter of any less caliber than he was, he'd have been fired a long time ago.
However, for any measure of brilliance, people still have their limits.
"Paul. You wrote the Justice Department asking to be put in charge of the Zodiac investigation?" The editor was leaning across his desk, arms set on the table, Paul's letter in his hands. Paul, on the opposite side of the desk, was staring at the various papers on the desk, determined not to meet the editor's eyes. He was slumped forward, dark circles under his eyes. He looked much worse than he had just a couple of years ago.
"I... I merely suggested --"
"On our letterhead?"
"-- that those with intimate knowledge of the case create an information clearing house in order to exchange a free flow of ideas --"
"And that you run it?"
"Well, who better than me?"
Paul paused, turning his head to look off into the distance, then growling, "A marked man."
The editor leaned back in his chair, shaking his head.
"Paul, if you wanna work here, I need three things: one, stop boozing. Two, stop... doing whatever else it is you're doing --" by this point, Paul had leaned back in his own chair, a cruel sort of sarcasm marking his features "-- and three," the editor enunciated, pointing at the paper, "Cut. This. Nonsense. Out."
"Sweetest of Templetons," Paul said gently, "if at any time you feel my excellent work is no longer in step with this trashy, provincial rag..." he got up, heading towards the door, tone still as even as ever, "I will more than happily, more than happily, decamp --" he opened the office door, already making his way out, "-- for greener pastures."
"Paul, I mean it!"
However, Avery didn't even bother looking back, slamming the door shut behind him and raising up a fist.
Virtually everyone in the office turned as they heard the loud slam, some staring for longer than others. Paul, striding across the floor, made for his desk. Pulling a kleenex from one of the drawers, he picked up the bottle of pills, wrapping it up in a poor attempt to be inconspicuous.
"Paul?"
Avery looked up to see Graysmith, who was now hovering by his desk in a worried manner. Cocking an eyebrow, Paul wiped off his hands, tucking the pills in his jacket pocket.
"Yup?"
"What was that?"
"Ah, an editorial tete-a-tete," he replied, "Wanna grab a drink?"
"It's ten in the morning," Robert said slowly.
"Late... breakfast. Early luncheon --"
"Paul?"
Graysmith took a couple of steps closer, eying Paul in a wary manner.
"Are you okay?"
There was a single beat before Avery replied, "No."
He narrowed his eyes briefly, giving Graysmith a remarkably piercing look. For that single moment, he seemed sober, back to the razor-sharp reporter of old. No longer the druggie, no longer the alcoholic, no longer the smoker.
"Thank you for asking."
Patting Robert on the arm, he turned and began walking off.
"Shorty!" Paul called, to one of the men, "Let's go out for one."
"Paul, where're you going?"
Still on his way out, Paul put up his right hand in the direction of the editor asking the question, middle finger raised.
That was the last that most of the Chronicle staff would ever see of Paul Avery.
The editors tolerated his behavior, but only because Paul was a brilliant writer. If he had been a reporter of any less caliber than he was, he'd have been fired a long time ago.
However, for any measure of brilliance, people still have their limits.
"Paul. You wrote the Justice Department asking to be put in charge of the Zodiac investigation?" The editor was leaning across his desk, arms set on the table, Paul's letter in his hands. Paul, on the opposite side of the desk, was staring at the various papers on the desk, determined not to meet the editor's eyes. He was slumped forward, dark circles under his eyes. He looked much worse than he had just a couple of years ago.
"I... I merely suggested --"
"On our letterhead?"
"-- that those with intimate knowledge of the case create an information clearing house in order to exchange a free flow of ideas --"
"And that you run it?"
"Well, who better than me?"
Paul paused, turning his head to look off into the distance, then growling, "A marked man."
The editor leaned back in his chair, shaking his head.
"Paul, if you wanna work here, I need three things: one, stop boozing. Two, stop... doing whatever else it is you're doing --" by this point, Paul had leaned back in his own chair, a cruel sort of sarcasm marking his features "-- and three," the editor enunciated, pointing at the paper, "Cut. This. Nonsense. Out."
"Sweetest of Templetons," Paul said gently, "if at any time you feel my excellent work is no longer in step with this trashy, provincial rag..." he got up, heading towards the door, tone still as even as ever, "I will more than happily, more than happily, decamp --" he opened the office door, already making his way out, "-- for greener pastures."
"Paul, I mean it!"
However, Avery didn't even bother looking back, slamming the door shut behind him and raising up a fist.
Virtually everyone in the office turned as they heard the loud slam, some staring for longer than others. Paul, striding across the floor, made for his desk. Pulling a kleenex from one of the drawers, he picked up the bottle of pills, wrapping it up in a poor attempt to be inconspicuous.
"Paul?"
Avery looked up to see Graysmith, who was now hovering by his desk in a worried manner. Cocking an eyebrow, Paul wiped off his hands, tucking the pills in his jacket pocket.
"Yup?"
"What was that?"
"Ah, an editorial tete-a-tete," he replied, "Wanna grab a drink?"
"It's ten in the morning," Robert said slowly.
"Late... breakfast. Early luncheon --"
"Paul?"
Graysmith took a couple of steps closer, eying Paul in a wary manner.
"Are you okay?"
There was a single beat before Avery replied, "No."
He narrowed his eyes briefly, giving Graysmith a remarkably piercing look. For that single moment, he seemed sober, back to the razor-sharp reporter of old. No longer the druggie, no longer the alcoholic, no longer the smoker.
"Thank you for asking."
Patting Robert on the arm, he turned and began walking off.
"Shorty!" Paul called, to one of the men, "Let's go out for one."
"Paul, where're you going?"
Still on his way out, Paul put up his right hand in the direction of the editor asking the question, middle finger raised.
That was the last that most of the Chronicle staff would ever see of Paul Avery.