Hey. Pull up at the corner.
Good afternoon, sir.
I'd like to see the boss. What'd you say his name is?
I didn't say. Cagey, huh?
Mr. Boot is the owner and publisher.
Okay. Tell Mr. Boot Mr. Tatum would like to see him.
Charles Tatum from New York.
Look, fan, just ask him how would he like to make himself a fast $200 a week.
What did you say you were selling... insurance?
I didn't say.
Now, isn't that something? Who said it?
Well, Mr. Boot said it, but I did the needlework. Oh.
Okay. I wish I could coin 'em like that.
If I ever do, would you embroider it for me?
Mr. Tatum? Yes, sir.
Go ahead. What is it? Well, Mr. Boot, I was passing through Albuquerque.
Had breakfast here. Read your paper.
Thought you might be interested in my reaction. You bet I am.
Well, sir, it made me throw up.
I don't want you to think I expected the New York Times.
But even for Albuquerque, this is pretty Albuquerque.
All right. Here's your nickel back.
Now, what's all this about my making $200 a week?
Apparently, you're not familiar with my name. Can't say that I am.
That's because you don't get the Eastern papers out here.
I thought once in a while somebody would toss one out of the Super Chief...
and you might have seen my byline.
Charles Tatum? Worked New York, Chicago, Detroit...
What about the 200? I was coming to that.
Mr. Boot, I'm a $250-a-week newspaperman.
I can be had for 50. Why are you so good to me?
I know newspapers backward, forward and sideways.
I can write 'em, edit 'em, print 'em, wrap 'em and sell 'em.
Don't need anybody right now. I can handle big news and little news.
And if there's no news, I'll go out and bite a dog.
Make it 45. What makes you so cheap?
A fair question, considering I've been top man wherever I've worked.
You'll be glad to know that I've been fired from 11 papers...
with a total circulation of seven million...
for reasons with which I don't want to bore you.
Go ahead. Bore me.
I'm a pretty good liar. I've done a lot of lying in my time.
I've lied to men who wear belts. I've lied to men who wear suspenders.
But I'd never be so stupid as to lie to a man...
who wears both belt and suspenders.
How's that again? You strike me as a cautious man...
a man who checks and double-checks.
So I'll tell you why I was fired.
In New York, a story of mine brought on a libel suit.
In Chicago, I started something with the publisher's wife.
In Detroit, I was caught drinking out of season.
In Cleveland... I get the picture.
Now then, I find myself in Albuquerque with no money...
a burnt-out bearing, bad tires and a lousy reputation.
Bad tires can be dangerous.
I have only one chance to get back where I belong...
to land a job on a small-town paper like yours...
and wait and hope and pray for something big to break...
something I can latch onto...
something the wire services will gobble up and yell for more.
Just one good beat... a Tatum special...
and they'll roll out the red carpet.
'Cause when they need you, they forgive and forget.
But until then, Mr. Boot, you'll get yourself the best newspaperman you ever had.
At 40 per. When do I start?
I hope I haven't scared you off. Well, I don't know.
I'm not afraid of a libel suit, because I'm a lawyer myself.
Check and double-check every word I print.
Sure. Belt and suspenders.
About that publisher's wife...You should know Mrs. Boot is a grandmother three times.
If you wanna start something with her, she'd be very flattered.
As for drinking... Do you drink a lot?
Not a lot. Just frequently.
We have a shop rule here. No liquor on the premises.
Uh, how about smoking? Of course.
And, uh, I pay 60 a week in this shop.
I'll take it.
Where's my desk? The one by the door.
You may be outta here by Saturday.
The sooner the better.
Thanks, Geronimo. Take these over to the engraver's.
What's this mess? They haven't got any chopped chicken liver.
I brought you some chicken tacos. Chicken tacos?
They're not gonna chop the livers anymore for you.
Nobody else'll buy them. And no more garlic pickles.
When the history of this sunbaked Siberia is written...
these shameful words will live in infamy:
"No chopped chicken liver."
No garlic pickles.
No Lindy's. No Madison Square Garden.
No Yogi Berra.
What do you know about Yogi Berra, Miss Deverich?
I beg your pardon? Yogi Berra!
Yogi? Why, it's a sort of religion, isn't it?
You bet it is... a belief in the New York Yankees.
You know what's wrong with New Mexico, Mr. Wendell?
Too much outdoors.
Give me those eight spindly trees...
in front of Rockefeller Center any day.
That's enough outdoors for me.
No subways smelling sweet-sour.
What do you use for noise around here?
No beautiful roar from eight million ants...
fighting, cursing, loving.
No shows. No South Pacific.
No chic little dames across a crowded bar.
And worst of all, Herbie...
no 80th floor to jump from when you feel like it.
Is this one of your long-playing records, Chuck?
Let's hear the other side.
All right. I'll play it for you.
When I came here, I thought this was gonna be a 30-day stretch, maybe 60.
Now it's a year.
It looks like a life sentence.
Where is it? Where's the loaf of bread with a file in it?
Where's that big story to get me outta here?
One year, and what's our hot news?
A soapbox derby.
A tornado... that double-crossed us and went to Texas.
An old goof who said he was the real Jesse James...
until they found out he was a chicken thief from Gallup...
by the name of, uh, Schimmelmacher.
I'm stuck here, fans. Stuck for good.