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Authors: Amanda Matetsky
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list it carried) so tight to my breast you’d have thought it was full of money (my purse, not my breast). When the doors snapped open at my stop, I was off the train, up the stairs, down the block, and around the corner in a wink. And just a couple of minutes after that, I was bursting into the Daring Detective office, feeling like Brenda Starr on a life-or-death mission, but probably looking like Imogene Coca on a bug-eyed bender.
To my great astonishment and relief, Pomeroy wasn’t there.
Mike said he’d gone out about 12:30 and wouldn’t be back until 4:30—in time to make sure that Mario and Lenny met the art deadline.
“Mr. Crockett isn’t here, either,” Mike grumbled, leaning back in his chair, lighting a Lucky, and spewing the smoke straight up at the ceiling. “He went from lunch to the typesetter, or the distributor, or someplace like that. Won’t be back today. Said he’d see us at nine sharp in the morning.” He plunked one penny-loafered foot on top of his desk. “And where the hell have you been, sweetheart?” he asked, taking another drag on his weed. “Sticking your snoot in the sewer again?”
Mike was a coward, you should know, and he deeply resented the fact that I wasn’t. Like almost all crime writers in the detective magazine field, he wrote only clip stories—long, florid, trumped-up accounts of the grisliest, most sensational murders, pieced together from previous reports and composed totally in-house. He had never been to a real murder scene in person, or investigated a killing on his own, and you could bet your bottom dollar he never would. All Mike had the courage to do was razz and belittle me.
“You look kind of ragged, doll,” he said, with a smirk. “What’s the scoop? All that digging in the garbage dump got you down?”
“Not likely,” I said, giving him an ugly smirk in return. “In fact, I’m flying sky-high! I’m working on something really, really big,” I added, just to upset him (and to try out my Ed Sullivan impression). “It’s a very juicy and important story, but please don’t ask me any questions about it. I can’t discuss it with anybody. It’s top-secret.”
Mike’s jaw dropped (as I’d known it would), and then he quickly dropped the conversation, too. He didn’t want to hear about my important exploits. Enjoying Mike’s shamefaced silence to the hilt, I hung up my beret and jacket, hid my purse under some papers in the bottom drawer of my desk, and then ventured to the back of the workroom to see how Lenny was doing.
Mario didn’t even look up when I passed his desk. He was so focused on finishing the cover paste-up, he was barely aware of his surroundings. He’s in a real panic, I told myself, chuckling under my breath, glad that the crushing art deadline had kept him from noticing my late return from lunch. I’d never seen Mario work so hard before.
Lenny was working hard, too—just to stay conscious.
“You look awful, Len,” I said, feeling his forehead. His fever was raging and his skin was clammy to the touch. “You shouldn’t be here. You should be in bed.”
“Er, ah . . . yeah . . . ” he mumbled, struggling to straighten the caption under a photo of a bloody, bullet-ridden corpse. His fingers were shaking, his eyes were bulging, and his nose was swollen and red. There was a huge glob of rubber cement stuck in his hair. “I, ah . . . can’t leave, though,” he said. “The boards . . . aren’t done.”
“Who cares about the stupid boards?!” I cried, overcome with concern for my friend. “I only care about you.” I picked up his scissors, snipped the gummy ball of glue out of his hair, chucked it in the wastebasket, and then screwed his rubber cement jar closed. “C’mon, let’s get your stuff together,” I said. “You’re going home.” I felt I had to get Lenny out of there before Pomeroy came back and forced him to work late, making him even sicker than he already was.
As I helped Lenny to his
To my great astonishment and relief, Pomeroy wasn’t there.
Mike said he’d gone out about 12:30 and wouldn’t be back until 4:30—in time to make sure that Mario and Lenny met the art deadline.
“Mr. Crockett isn’t here, either,” Mike grumbled, leaning back in his chair, lighting a Lucky, and spewing the smoke straight up at the ceiling. “He went from lunch to the typesetter, or the distributor, or someplace like that. Won’t be back today. Said he’d see us at nine sharp in the morning.” He plunked one penny-loafered foot on top of his desk. “And where the hell have you been, sweetheart?” he asked, taking another drag on his weed. “Sticking your snoot in the sewer again?”
Mike was a coward, you should know, and he deeply resented the fact that I wasn’t. Like almost all crime writers in the detective magazine field, he wrote only clip stories—long, florid, trumped-up accounts of the grisliest, most sensational murders, pieced together from previous reports and composed totally in-house. He had never been to a real murder scene in person, or investigated a killing on his own, and you could bet your bottom dollar he never would. All Mike had the courage to do was razz and belittle me.
“You look kind of ragged, doll,” he said, with a smirk. “What’s the scoop? All that digging in the garbage dump got you down?”
“Not likely,” I said, giving him an ugly smirk in return. “In fact, I’m flying sky-high! I’m working on something really, really big,” I added, just to upset him (and to try out my Ed Sullivan impression). “It’s a very juicy and important story, but please don’t ask me any questions about it. I can’t discuss it with anybody. It’s top-secret.”
Mike’s jaw dropped (as I’d known it would), and then he quickly dropped the conversation, too. He didn’t want to hear about my important exploits. Enjoying Mike’s shamefaced silence to the hilt, I hung up my beret and jacket, hid my purse under some papers in the bottom drawer of my desk, and then ventured to the back of the workroom to see how Lenny was doing.
Mario didn’t even look up when I passed his desk. He was so focused on finishing the cover paste-up, he was barely aware of his surroundings. He’s in a real panic, I told myself, chuckling under my breath, glad that the crushing art deadline had kept him from noticing my late return from lunch. I’d never seen Mario work so hard before.
Lenny was working hard, too—just to stay conscious.
“You look awful, Len,” I said, feeling his forehead. His fever was raging and his skin was clammy to the touch. “You shouldn’t be here. You should be in bed.”
“Er, ah . . . yeah . . . ” he mumbled, struggling to straighten the caption under a photo of a bloody, bullet-ridden corpse. His fingers were shaking, his eyes were bulging, and his nose was swollen and red. There was a huge glob of rubber cement stuck in his hair. “I, ah . . . can’t leave, though,” he said. “The boards . . . aren’t done.”
“Who cares about the stupid boards?!” I cried, overcome with concern for my friend. “I only care about you.” I picked up his scissors, snipped the gummy ball of glue out of his hair, chucked it in the wastebasket, and then screwed his rubber cement jar closed. “C’mon, let’s get your stuff together,” I said. “You’re going home.” I felt I had to get Lenny out of there before Pomeroy came back and forced him to work late, making him even sicker than he already was.
As I helped Lenny to his
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