Read Online Seduction of the Innocent by Max Allan Collins - Free Book Online
Authors: Max Allan Collins
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patient. That you can tell me.”
Still, she thought for a moment. The waitress came over and refilled Sylvia’s coffee. The girl asked me indifferently if I wanted another Coke and I said I didn’t. I asked her how she liked that Craze comic book she was reading and she said it was okay. But she quickly returned to it like a seminary student reading “The Song of Solomon.”
That had given Sylvia enough time to think, and she said, very evenly, “I am not a fan of Dr. Frederick’s work on juvenile delinquency as it relates to comic books.”
“Why?”
“I’d rather not say anything negative about a man who I otherwise admire. He spends much of his time working with underprivileged children, and his examination of the effects of segregation upon Negro youth is brave work, important work.”
“Have you ever met him?”
“No. I would like to. I might enjoy arguing the case for comic books in child development.”
“Well, I’d like to ask you to table that particular discussion.”
“Why?”
“Because you might be working with Dr. Frederick.”
She straightened and her smile was unguardedly enthusiastic. “Really? How is that, Jack?”
“Well, I’ll tell you, Syl—right after I take you out for supper. How does El Chico sound?”
It sounded fine. But it wasn’t until much later when we’d necked on her couch in her hundred-buck apartment for maybe half an hour that I sprung the idea on her of ghosting the doc’s advice column.
I said I did some of my best work on couches.
The morning was overcast and cold, not terrible weather but hardly the best spring might offer Manhattan. I’d left the top up on my snazzy little white Kaiser-Darrin when I escorted Bob Price to the federal courthouse at Foley Square. At the Entertaining Funnies office on Lafayette Street, his partner Hal Feldman declined to come along.
“I’ve tried to talk him out of testifying,” Feldman had said. He looked like a cop who’d been trying for hours to talk a jumper in off a ledge. “He won’t hear it.”
“I know,” I said. “I tried, Maggie tried, even his shrink tried.”
“Stubborn jackass,” he said, his Brooklyn-tinged baritone ragged. “Well, I can’t watch it. I don’t go to public executions. Somebody oughta shoot that damn Dr. Frederick.”
Normally Hal was a dapper guy, but this morning his tailored blue suit seemed rumpled, his John Garfield-ish mug hadn’t seen a razor yet, and his wavy dark hair was like a squirmy nest of black snakes. In his mid-twenties, Feldman clearly had been sitting up all night. With a sick friend, as it turned out.
He sighed, grinned wearily, clasped my shoulder. “I’m just glad Bob’s got you to babysit him now, Jack.”
“Happy to, Hal. Just so everybody understands I don’t change diapers.” I checked my watch. “We ought to head out.”
The editor shook his head. “He’s still working on that goddamn opening statement.”
I frowned. “Hell, I thought sure he’d be finished by now. Hasn’t he been working on it for days?”
“More like weeks.” Feldman lighted up a Camel. His eyes were bloodshot. “All night, he’s been alternating NoDoz and that diet medication of his.”
“Dexedrine, you mean?”
Feldman nodded wearily. “He’s eager to go down there, Jack, into that lions’ den, can you buy it? Thinks he’s doing the right thing, the noble thing. Says he’s a friendly witness, and certainly these senators, as good patriotic Americans, will wanna do what’s right, too. You know, listen to reason.”
“That isn’t the way things work in real life.”
“Jesus,” Feldman said, rolling his eyes, “that ain’t even the way it works in our comic books.”
Not surprisingly, I’d found Bob Price at his desk, typing away, wadded balls of discarded typewriter paper overflowing his trash can, cigarette stubs overflowing his ashtray, desktop littered with empty paper coffee cups.
“Time, Bob,” I said.
Fingers flying at the
Still, she thought for a moment. The waitress came over and refilled Sylvia’s coffee. The girl asked me indifferently if I wanted another Coke and I said I didn’t. I asked her how she liked that Craze comic book she was reading and she said it was okay. But she quickly returned to it like a seminary student reading “The Song of Solomon.”
That had given Sylvia enough time to think, and she said, very evenly, “I am not a fan of Dr. Frederick’s work on juvenile delinquency as it relates to comic books.”
“Why?”
“I’d rather not say anything negative about a man who I otherwise admire. He spends much of his time working with underprivileged children, and his examination of the effects of segregation upon Negro youth is brave work, important work.”
“Have you ever met him?”
“No. I would like to. I might enjoy arguing the case for comic books in child development.”
“Well, I’d like to ask you to table that particular discussion.”
“Why?”
“Because you might be working with Dr. Frederick.”
She straightened and her smile was unguardedly enthusiastic. “Really? How is that, Jack?”
“Well, I’ll tell you, Syl—right after I take you out for supper. How does El Chico sound?”
It sounded fine. But it wasn’t until much later when we’d necked on her couch in her hundred-buck apartment for maybe half an hour that I sprung the idea on her of ghosting the doc’s advice column.
I said I did some of my best work on couches.
The morning was overcast and cold, not terrible weather but hardly the best spring might offer Manhattan. I’d left the top up on my snazzy little white Kaiser-Darrin when I escorted Bob Price to the federal courthouse at Foley Square. At the Entertaining Funnies office on Lafayette Street, his partner Hal Feldman declined to come along.
“I’ve tried to talk him out of testifying,” Feldman had said. He looked like a cop who’d been trying for hours to talk a jumper in off a ledge. “He won’t hear it.”
“I know,” I said. “I tried, Maggie tried, even his shrink tried.”
“Stubborn jackass,” he said, his Brooklyn-tinged baritone ragged. “Well, I can’t watch it. I don’t go to public executions. Somebody oughta shoot that damn Dr. Frederick.”
Normally Hal was a dapper guy, but this morning his tailored blue suit seemed rumpled, his John Garfield-ish mug hadn’t seen a razor yet, and his wavy dark hair was like a squirmy nest of black snakes. In his mid-twenties, Feldman clearly had been sitting up all night. With a sick friend, as it turned out.
He sighed, grinned wearily, clasped my shoulder. “I’m just glad Bob’s got you to babysit him now, Jack.”
“Happy to, Hal. Just so everybody understands I don’t change diapers.” I checked my watch. “We ought to head out.”
The editor shook his head. “He’s still working on that goddamn opening statement.”
I frowned. “Hell, I thought sure he’d be finished by now. Hasn’t he been working on it for days?”
“More like weeks.” Feldman lighted up a Camel. His eyes were bloodshot. “All night, he’s been alternating NoDoz and that diet medication of his.”
“Dexedrine, you mean?”
Feldman nodded wearily. “He’s eager to go down there, Jack, into that lions’ den, can you buy it? Thinks he’s doing the right thing, the noble thing. Says he’s a friendly witness, and certainly these senators, as good patriotic Americans, will wanna do what’s right, too. You know, listen to reason.”
“That isn’t the way things work in real life.”
“Jesus,” Feldman said, rolling his eyes, “that ain’t even the way it works in our comic books.”
Not surprisingly, I’d found Bob Price at his desk, typing away, wadded balls of discarded typewriter paper overflowing his trash can, cigarette stubs overflowing his ashtray, desktop littered with empty paper coffee cups.
“Time, Bob,” I said.
Fingers flying at the
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