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,,Everybody knows what an investigative reporter is. He''s the guy with the dangling cigarette, the grim visage, the belted trench coat, and the snap-brim fedora. He slings in and out of phone booths, talks out of the side of its mouth, and ignores other, lesser reporters.
He never had to learn his trade. He was born to it. He sprung from his mother''s womb clutching a dog-eared address book and his real father''s birth certificate. He has an interminable list of contacts. His job consists largely of calling the contacts and saying ,,Gimme the dope." The contacts, of course, always have the dope at their fingertips and are only too glad to part with it. He has all the time in the world to pursue sleazy characters through seamy intrigues. He appears in the city room only every two or three months to drop his copy on the desks of his astonished editors, mumble a few words, and disappears again in the night." (Peter Benjaminson/David Anderson)
He never had to learn his trade. He was born to it. He sprung from his mother''s womb clutching a dog-eared address book and his real father''s birth certificate. He has an interminable list of contacts. His job consists largely of calling the contacts and saying ,,Gimme the dope." The contacts, of course, always have the dope at their fingertips and are only too glad to part with it. He has all the time in the world to pursue sleazy characters through seamy intrigues. He appears in the city room only every two or three months to drop his copy on the desks of his astonished editors, mumble a few words, and disappears again in the night." (Peter Benjaminson/David Anderson)