Printer’s Devil

Douglas Williams had ink in his veins, whiskey in his breath, and regret clinging to him like newsprint on a humid day. The Virginia City Chronicle was down to its last legs, and maybe one of them had termites.

The rival paper, The Nevada Territorial News, was running him out of business, printing in color and paying its reporters with something other than “IOUs” and free coffee. That evening, Doug sat alone in the print shop, staring at the silent linotype machine.

“Well, old girl,” he muttered, “it’s just you, me, and the end of the line.”

He poured another drink and took it to the bridge on the edge of town, the one that looked like it was waiting for a sad man to make a decision. He was halfway through his farewell to the moon when a voice said, “You always talk to yourself, or is tonight special?”

Doug jumped. A tall man in a fedora stood a few feet away, the glow of a crooked cigar lighting up a grin too wide for comfort.

“Name’s Lucy,” the stranger said, puffing. “Mr. Lucy, if we’re being formal. You look like a man who’s lost something.”

“Yeah,” Doug said, “a newspaper, a job, and my last ounce of pride. You seen any of those lying around?”

Lucy chuckled, low and gravelly. “Can’t say I have. But I might help you find one of ‘em, if you’ll give me a lift to town.”

Doug frowned but shrugged. “Sure. Why not? Car’s got room for two and I’m in no hurry to see tomorrow.”

At the Union Saloon, Lucy drank gin like it was holy water and talked faster than a telegraph line.

“You’re the editor of the Chronicle, right?” Lucy said, swirling his glass. “Fine paper. Shame about the competition. I might be just the man to turn things around.”

“You a reporter?” Doug asked.

Lucy grinned. “Reporter, writer, printer, typesetter, and an editor when I have to be. Let’s just say I know how to make words move.”

By morning, Lucy was at the linotype, sleeves rolled, eyes gleaming. The old machine hummed like it hadn’t in years. His fingers flew, letters clinking, metal hissing.

“Mercy,” Doug said, watching the copy roll out. “You some kind of magician?”

Lucy winked. “Trade secret. I like to say I work fast enough to make the devil jealous.”

By week’s end, The Chronicle was back on top. Lucy seemed to have a nose for news. If a mine caved in or a fire broke out, he was already on the scene, sometimes before it happened.

Bee, ever the sharp one, didn’t buy it.

“Doug,” she whispered one night, “that man gives me chills. The way he looks at people, like he’s taking notes in his head.”

Doug laughed. “You’ve been reading too many ghost stories, Bee. Lucy’s just efficient.”

A week later, over drinks, Lucy slid a contract across Doug’s desk. “Just a little inside joke between newspapermen,” he said. “Says I get your immortal soul in exchange for services rendered. A handshake deal, but written down for posterity.”

Doug snorted. “My soul, huh? You’ll have to fight the IRS for it.”

“Then sign,” Lucy said, that grin flickering like a bad lightbulb.

“Fine,” Doug said, scribbling his name. “There. Now you can haunt me legally.”

Things went downhill from there. Lucy made a pass at Bee, and she slapped him hard enough to send his cigar flying.

“Touch me again,” she hissed, “and I’ll run you through the press.”

Lucy only laughed, brushing off his coat. “I admire a woman with spirit. You sure you’re married to the right man?”

When Bee told Doug, he stormed into the office. “You’re finished here, Lucy. Get out before I…”

“Before you what?” Lucy said, lighting another cigar. “Shoot me? You’d be surprised how often that one comes up.”

“You think I won’t?” Doug said, pulling open a drawer.

Lucy smiled thinly. “I think you should sit down, Editor. We’ve got business.”

He slid a fresh story proof across the desk. The headline read: Local Woman Killed in Tragic Car Accident.

Doug froze. “What is this?”

“Tomorrow’s news,” Lucy said. “Unless you’d rather change it. You see, her fate’s not written yet. But yours, it’s sealed.”

“Go to hell,” Doug growled.

“Already been,” Lucy said, puffing smoke. “Didn’t care for the editor.”

Doug grabbed the gun and fired twice. The bullets passed through him like smoke through sunlight.

Lucy smirked. “Told you it wouldn’t work. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a deadline.”

Doug tore out of the office, desperate to find Bee. But Bee had gone back to make peace, thinking she’d been too harsh.

“Mr. Lucy,” she said, trembling. “Maybe we started off wrong.”

“Not at all,” he said smoothly. “Tell you what, give me a lift to the airport, and we’ll call it even.”

He slid into the driver’s seat.

Back at the office, Doug pounded the linotype keys, sweat dripping down his face. “You want news, Lucy?” he muttered. “Here’s your headline.”

He typed: Mr. Lucy resigned his position and departed Virginia City at 11:59 p.m. His contract is null and void.

At exactly 11:59, a crash echoed through the canyon. Lucy’s borrowed car was a smoking heap. Bee was shaken but unharmed. Lucy, naturally, was gone.

The next morning, Doug dragged the linotype out behind the shop. “No more deals, no more devils,” he told Bee.

She smiled faintly. “So what’ll we print now?”

Doug looked at the sunrise and said, “The truth, I reckon. Even if it doesn’t sell as well.”