tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4877881702352775713.post4656850217511733947..comments2023-04-21T11:11:25.591-06:00Comments on A Bordello Pianist: Our Man for All SeasonsThomas Warkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11953195197253264621noreply@blogger.comBlogger2125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4877881702352775713.post-34225000429947729122016-12-07T14:29:49.527-07:002016-12-07T14:29:49.527-07:00Running the show as only he could. Ex-editors who...Running the show as only he could. Ex-editors who had semi-retired to academia gravitated to the paper and reported for duty while Derick cleared the decks and rushed an ace reporter to catch the next flight to Dallas.Thomas Warkhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/11953195197253264621noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4877881702352775713.post-11716968382946859952016-12-07T13:53:57.616-07:002016-12-07T13:53:57.616-07:00So many stories. In all of them Derick was either ...So many stories. In all of them Derick was either the great editor or the great lover -- sometimes both. In one I remember, pandemonium broke out in the Free Press newsroom shortly after noon on Nov. 22, 1963, when a flash came over the wires that Kennedy had been shot in Dallas. "Where's Derick?" everyone was asking. I was the only one who knew. Earlier in the day Derick had asked to borrow the key to my apartment; without explaining, I knew it was for a lunchtime liaison. Quietly I went to a corner phone and dialed my home number. On the fourth ring he picked up. "Put your pants on, Derick. The president's been shot." Twenty minutes later he was in the office, running the show.<br /><br />Lois Warknoreply@blogger.com