silent until it stopped, at her order, in front of the Macfadden Building.
Cuddles looked up and made a grim deduction. “You made an appointment for me in Personnel.”
No serious editor wanted to work here. In the world of print, Bernarr Macfadden, the frizzily pompadoured czar of Macfadden Publications—crazy with crusading belief in exercise, eugenics, free love, and cole slaw; just as ululant against booze, tobacco, andcensorship—made Joe Harris look more buttoned-up than Coolidge. But Becky said nothing as she maneuvered Cuddles through the lobby and into an elevator car.
He pointed to the white-gloved operator and feigned calm: “So where’s the indoor aviator taking us?”
The car rose to the floor for
Physical Culture
, at which two muscle-men got off and three got on. It continued upward past
True Romances
, the magazine at which Becky sometimes feared
she
would wind up, should Joe Harris lose his war with Jimmy Gordon. Finally, the elevator stopped at the floor for the New York
Evening Graphic
. Becky tugged Cuddles forward.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph Smith,” he whispered. “The Ninth Circle itself.”
For the past four years the
Graphic
had been Macfadden’s tabloid orgy of tub-thumping and titillation. Electric fans blew a sickly sweet smell toward Cuddles and Becky as they advanced, like Hansel and Gretel, onto the floor where it was produced. The
Graphic
had not entirely recovered from its experiment with perfumed ink, and even now persisted in publishing itself each night on pink newsprint. At the far end of the newsroom—a term even the most loyal employee here used only loosely—Cuddles could recognize Emile Gauvreau, the respectable, constantly agonized managing editor Macfadden had hired to run the rag. Limping back and forth between two desks, tugging on his black forelock, Gauvreau was trying to decide which story to lead with tonight. Would the
Graphic
’s distinctive vertiginous headline, each letter a skinny skyscraper unto itself, go to a missing Smith College co-ed or to the sixty-year-old Episcopal rector with marriage on his mind?
“She’s five-five, a hundred and thirty. Busty,” said the reporter arguing the Smith girl’s case.
“The rev’s temptress is thirty years old, half the geezer’s age,” came the opposing point of view. “And she’s Catholic.”
“The Smithie’s father’s a broker. They’re Social Register. Up in Northampton they’ve got Boy Scouts
dragging a pond
, for Christ’s sake.”
It was a tough call for Gauvreau; Becky looked at the clock and decided there was no time to wait for him to make it. She pushed Cuddles along toward their final destination here. The
Graphic
had no foreign desk to block their way, but the two of them did have to pass the health-foods editor and the columnist who analyzed readers’ handwriting before they reached the Photo Department.
“Mr. Wender, please,” said Becky.
“Hey, Jerry!” shouted a boy at the department’s first desk. “You gotta goil here!”
“Becks!” cried a slender fellow who, as he came running, looked not much older than the boy who’d summoned him. “Watch out for my hands,” he said, managing to keep Becky free from inkstains while he gave her a hug. Cuddles, bewildered about his business here, made a jealous pout.
Jerry Wender, Becky explained, was a townie she used to date in Aurora, New York, when she was going to Wells. “He’s the Composograph man,” she announced. Jerry swelled with professional pride: the
Graphic
’s notorious composite photographs, their fakery disclaimed in four-point type under the caption, were the tabloid’s major draw.
“My masterpiece,” said Jerry, rushing back to his desk to fetch a print. “At least until now.”
The photo he brought out depicted Daddy Browning and Peaches Heenan, the city’s most famous, if recently estranged, sugar daddy and gold digger. The once-happy couple were wearing what looked like harem outfits and
Cuddles looked up and made a grim deduction. “You made an appointment for me in Personnel.”
No serious editor wanted to work here. In the world of print, Bernarr Macfadden, the frizzily pompadoured czar of Macfadden Publications—crazy with crusading belief in exercise, eugenics, free love, and cole slaw; just as ululant against booze, tobacco, andcensorship—made Joe Harris look more buttoned-up than Coolidge. But Becky said nothing as she maneuvered Cuddles through the lobby and into an elevator car.
He pointed to the white-gloved operator and feigned calm: “So where’s the indoor aviator taking us?”
The car rose to the floor for
Physical Culture
, at which two muscle-men got off and three got on. It continued upward past
True Romances
, the magazine at which Becky sometimes feared
she
would wind up, should Joe Harris lose his war with Jimmy Gordon. Finally, the elevator stopped at the floor for the New York
Evening Graphic
. Becky tugged Cuddles forward.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph Smith,” he whispered. “The Ninth Circle itself.”
For the past four years the
Graphic
had been Macfadden’s tabloid orgy of tub-thumping and titillation. Electric fans blew a sickly sweet smell toward Cuddles and Becky as they advanced, like Hansel and Gretel, onto the floor where it was produced. The
Graphic
had not entirely recovered from its experiment with perfumed ink, and even now persisted in publishing itself each night on pink newsprint. At the far end of the newsroom—a term even the most loyal employee here used only loosely—Cuddles could recognize Emile Gauvreau, the respectable, constantly agonized managing editor Macfadden had hired to run the rag. Limping back and forth between two desks, tugging on his black forelock, Gauvreau was trying to decide which story to lead with tonight. Would the
Graphic
’s distinctive vertiginous headline, each letter a skinny skyscraper unto itself, go to a missing Smith College co-ed or to the sixty-year-old Episcopal rector with marriage on his mind?
“She’s five-five, a hundred and thirty. Busty,” said the reporter arguing the Smith girl’s case.
“The rev’s temptress is thirty years old, half the geezer’s age,” came the opposing point of view. “And she’s Catholic.”
“The Smithie’s father’s a broker. They’re Social Register. Up in Northampton they’ve got Boy Scouts
dragging a pond
, for Christ’s sake.”
It was a tough call for Gauvreau; Becky looked at the clock and decided there was no time to wait for him to make it. She pushed Cuddles along toward their final destination here. The
Graphic
had no foreign desk to block their way, but the two of them did have to pass the health-foods editor and the columnist who analyzed readers’ handwriting before they reached the Photo Department.
“Mr. Wender, please,” said Becky.
“Hey, Jerry!” shouted a boy at the department’s first desk. “You gotta goil here!”
“Becks!” cried a slender fellow who, as he came running, looked not much older than the boy who’d summoned him. “Watch out for my hands,” he said, managing to keep Becky free from inkstains while he gave her a hug. Cuddles, bewildered about his business here, made a jealous pout.
Jerry Wender, Becky explained, was a townie she used to date in Aurora, New York, when she was going to Wells. “He’s the Composograph man,” she announced. Jerry swelled with professional pride: the
Graphic
’s notorious composite photographs, their fakery disclaimed in four-point type under the caption, were the tabloid’s major draw.
“My masterpiece,” said Jerry, rushing back to his desk to fetch a print. “At least until now.”
The photo he brought out depicted Daddy Browning and Peaches Heenan, the city’s most famous, if recently estranged, sugar daddy and gold digger. The once-happy couple were wearing what looked like harem outfits and
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