Chapter 23: Detective Comics
In this era, the media are the true "uncrowned kings."
Understanding this, Colin's desire to change the direction of The Messenger Newspaper grew even stronger.
Tap, tap...
As noon approached, the sound of Old John's typesetting gradually died down.
Stretching his sore shoulders, he finished the last row of text and repeatedly checked the layout for errors. Only then did Old John breathe a sigh of relief and stand up from the typesetting machine.
Nearby, a ravenous Little John took out the lunch he had prepared earlier.
Due to the snow, he couldn't go out to gather stories and had to stay at the newspaper agency to help Old John.
He sliced the pink bread with a small knife, spread a bit of peanut butter on it, and paired it with a coffee made with hot water. A simple staff meal was ready.
"Boss, your lunch."
Setting aside a slice with the most peanut butter, Little John brought it and the coffee to Colin's desk.
"Thanks."
Colin glanced at the lunch and thanked him casually.
Putting down the old newspaper, he opened a drawer and took out a can of salad that was only a third full. He poured half of its contents onto a plate. Just like that, his lunch now had meat, vegetables, and bread.
Sighing silently, he stuffed the bread into his mouth.
The pink bread slices had a very strange texture. It was both sandy and delicate, with the occasional aroma of beans or grains. But after chewing for a while, the faint, fishy taste of organ meat came through—a flavor that no amount of peanut butter could mask.
For a small slice of bread to have such a complex and peculiar taste was, of course, closely related to its ingredients.
Liver bread, also called liver loaf or liver cake.
It was a type of savory bread made by mashing pork liver into a paste, adding ingredients like beans, oats, and ketchup, then baking it in a long, loaf-shaped mold. It was also the source of the "meat" in Colin's lunch.
During the Great Depression, the price of offal was cheap, so liver bread became the top choice for families who couldn't afford regular meat like pork, beef, or chicken.
It had also become a standard part of the lunch fare at The Messenger Newspaper agency.
Pinching his nose, he stuffed the rest of the liver bread into his mouth and washed it down with coffee. The strange aftertaste made him shudder.
"Maybe I should have Old John take liver bread off the lunch menu. This stuff is a culinary disaster."
With a pained expression, he looked over at Old John and his son in the newspaper agency.
The two were eating their bread calmly, with no particular reaction on their faces.
For people living through the Great Depression, filling their stomachs was the most important thing. Taste and texture were luxuries only the rich could afford to consider.
While eating his liver bread, Little John spread out a newspaper and flipped through it until he found the section he had been looking forward to, immediately becoming engrossed.
The fifteen-minute lunch break felt particularly long for Colin.
He drank the last of his coffee, tidied up the meager cutlery on his desk, and took his plate over to the stove used for boiling water. The rest was Little John's job.
That was one good thing about being the boss—you didn't have to bother with trivial matters.
Especially during the Great Depression, workers became exceptionally diligent, terrified that a moment's carelessness would cost them a precious job.
It was common for workers during this era to keep their heads down and not cause trouble. To hold on to their vital source of income, they learned to accept low wages and unjust working conditions.
At the same time, bosses would often remind their workers that if they slacked off, there were plenty of others willing to take their place.
If the economy weren't so terrible, perhaps the Great Depression would have been an era all capitalists yearned for.
He shook his head, clearing the strange thought from his mind.
Picking up the coffee pot from the stove, he refilled his empty cup. Holding his coffee, Colin walked past where Old John and his son were sitting, and his eyes inadvertently fell on the newspaper.
What Little John was reading wasn't a news report, as he had assumed, but a series of comic strips with the distinct style of the era.
Old John swallowed the last piece of his liver bread. Seeing Colin stop behind Little John, he blinked behind his brass-rimmed reading glasses and was about to say something.
"Shh."
Colin put a finger to his lips, stopping Old John. He looked at the comic in Little John's hands.
The comic's plot wasn't complicated; it was a detective story about fighting crime.
The protagonist was dressed in standard private detective attire and would shoot at criminals at the slightest disagreement, a stark contrast to the traditional image of a detective who relied on their wits to solve cases.
"What is this comic?"
As he quickly scanned the comic strip's plot, an idea flashed in Colin's mind, and he quickly asked Little John.
"Dick Tracy..."
Hearing the question from behind him, Little John answered subconsciously.
Only then did he belatedly realize what was happening. He looked up at Old John, who was shaking his head at him from across the room. With a stiff movement, he turned to look at Colin standing behind him. With a stunned expression, he stammered, "...S-Sorry, boss. I didn't mean to be reading... I didn't know you were there..."
"Don't worry, it's your lunch break."
Looking at the flustered young man, Colin reassured him, then pointed to the newspaper, which was now crumpled in his nervous hands. "I'm just curious about the comic you're reading. Can you tell me what it is?"
Hearing that Colin wasn't going to reprimand him, Little John couldn't help but let out a sigh of relief. Nearby, Old John, who had been holding his breath, also relaxed.
Following Colin's finger, Little John glanced at the wrinkled newspaper in his hands and quickly smoothed it out. "It's Dick Tracy. It's a detective comic strip that just started running in the paper recently. It tells the story of the protagonist, Dick Tracy, fighting criminals and bringing them to justice..."
"A serialized comic."
Colin repeated the words to himself. He looked at the black-and-white comic printed on the page and asked the key question he was most concerned about.
"So, is Dick Tracy popular?"
"Well..."
Faced with Colin's question, Little John glanced down at the comic's protagonist before replying in an uncertain tone.
"I guess it's popular. Otherwise, Dick Tracy wouldn't still be running in the paper..."
(end of chapter)