Officer Jones by Derek Ciccone

same creaky door I remembered from my youth. In fact, the whole place looked exactly as it did when I was growing up. Rockfield was one big time-capsule.
    I immediately spotted the person I’d come to see. But as usual, he beat me to the draw. “Well, looky here,” Murray greeted me from behind the counter. Always an impeccable dresser, he wore red suspenders over his button-downed Oxford.
    He was in the neighborhood of eighty, although nobody was really sure—the old journalist never revealed his sources on that one. His hair and mustache had turned much grayer since the last time I’d seen him, but he still had the same youthful twinkle in his eye.
    I limped behind the counter to give him a hug. He was always rail-thin, and I could feel the bones in his spine as we embraced.
    After releasing, Murray looked me up and down, focusing on my cane. “Looks like I’m still getting around better than you these days, John Pierpont.”
    A horrified look came over Christina’s face, and she mouthed in my direction, “Pierpont?”
    Murray’s focus switched to her. “John Pierpont keeps getting older, but his girlfriends keep staying the same age.”
    Christina begged to differ. “I don’t know what you’ve heard but…”
    “Young lady, are you questioning my sources?”
    “I think it’s time for some new sources, grandpa, because if you think JP and I...”
    “I wouldn’t doubt his sources,” I cut in with a chuckle. “I heard Deep Throat is his bridge partner at the senior center.”
    Christina, now understanding she was being hustled, flashed the look of a teenager who was embarrassed of her parents.
    It seemed like a good time to make the introductions. “Murray, this is my chauffeur and future world renowned journalist, Christina Wilkins. Christina, this is my mentor, and the most over-qualified cashier in history, Murray Brown.”
    “If I’m his mentor, I didn’t do a very good job,” Murray remarked.
    “So you taught this guy to go off to places that make Hades look like the Club Med?” Christina asked.
    “Oh no, young lady. I taught him the art of journalism. I thought he should have stuck with it, but instead he decided to join the circus.”
    I pointed to the newspaper with the large headline: Fair Opens Tonight! “Murray covered the Nixon White House for the New York Globe , but always believed that local news most affected people’s lives. So he came back here and started the Gazette. ”
    Murray smiled at his premature eulogy. “All important politics are local. Your father and I didn’t agree on a lot, JP, but that we agreed on. How is his health doing?”
    “I believe he is much more likely to die from boredom than the cancer. You seem to have taken much better to retirement than him.”
    “I learned that the best way to enjoy retirement is to never retire. My retirement is based more in myth than reality. I still stay involved with the paper’s management, and write a Sunday editorial, but I did acquiesce to my wife’s demands and hire someone to run the day to day. Which left me with too much idle time on my hands, so I took the job here. If you’re going to write about a community, you better know that community, and what better place to learn about the people of Rockfield than the Village Store,” he said with a smile, while simultaneously waiting on a customer.
    “Once a journalist, always a journalist,” I added.
    “I agree with that sentiment. But the question is—will you prove your theory correct, and return to your journalistic roots?”
    “I’m currently unemployed, so I guess I’m open to anything.”
    Murray smiled like he was up to something. He usually was. “It’s never too late to do what you were born to do. Perhaps you should think about the Gazette . We couldn’t pay your superstar wages, but we have a great new editor who I think you would work well with. She came from New York, perhaps you may have heard of her.”
    “What’s the