It used to be, when I got a phone call from Mickey Flacks, I cringed. “Oh, God,” I’d say to myself, “What did I do wrong now?” To find out, Mickey and I would meet over a cup of coffee somewhere. And she’d tell me. No one ever accused Mickey of being shy. Her beef with me — at least in the beginning — was typically the same. “You’re getting cynical,” she’d object. “Don’t get cynical. We don’t need cynical. We need real reporting.” Mickey didn’t mind if I disagreed with her. But she had no patience with cynicism.
We all need guardian angels. And with warnings like that, Mickey Flacks was one of mine.