Read Online Stone Cold Dead by James W. Ziskin - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: James W. Ziskin
Ads: Link
reach?”
I shook my head. “I can manage. But speaking of your help, I know the car you got for me was pulled out of the lake last August. Thanks a lot.”
He stared dumbly at me for several seconds. Then he got that trapped-animal look in his eyes.
“Sorry about that, Ellie,” he said finally. “I just couldn’t swing another. As it is, after you drove the first car into the tree, Artie wanted to take it out of your salary.”
“You make it sound as if I hit the tree because I was primping in the rearview mirror. Someone cut my brakes, Charlie. They were trying to kill me. Not like Fred ‘One for the Road’ Blaylock. What’s he driving these days, by the way? Something shiny and brand new, I’ll bet.”
“I told Artie it wasn’t your fault, but he’s old-fashioned. Doesn’t like the idea of women in the workforce, let alone behind the wheel. That’s why you’ve got to lie low and keep up with your other assignments.”
I pouted, dissatisfied with the car discussion. “Why can’t Georgie Porgie take some of what I’m doing? Local theater, for example. The Mohawk Valley Players are doing South Pacific this year. Give that to George. But don’t tell him how the war ends; you’ll spoil it for him.”
Charlie said nothing. He often indulged me, especially where George Walsh was concerned. George was Artie Short’s son-in-law and strutted around the newsroom like the cock of the walk. George’s antagonism toward me was well known to all at the paper. He routinely tried to insult me by talking down to me in meetings and asking me “to be a good girl” and fetch him some coffee. He stopped doing that once he noticed the coffee I’d given him had an odd taste.
But when it came to getting the better of George, it was mostly George who did the heavy lifting anyway. His miscues were legend at the paper, like the time in June of 1959 when his headline proclaimed, “Ingmar Bergman Knocks Out Floyd Patterson in the Fourth Round.” (He even got the round wrong.) Twice he referred to Pat Summerall as the placekicker for the San Francisco Giants, who don’t play football. And in general, his sports stories rang false; his shallow knowledge of the games and awkward grasp of their lexicon always bled through the ink. He wrote strange headlines like “Speed-Ball Ace Timmy Vardon Twirls Two-Hit Gem in New Holland Tilt.” Georgie’s articles had the mawkish, homespun feel of a Boys’ Life story from 1925.
Walsh and his father-in-law hated me, never more so than during the Jordan Shaw investigation just a month earlier when George tried to muscle in on my story. In the end, despite his aversion to me, Artie Short had to hold his nose and go with the girl reporter over his own son-in-law.
“I’ll try to get you another car,” said Charlie.
“Forget it. I love that car now, mildew and all. It’s mine.”
“There must be some help you could use. I can put Norma Geary at your disposal.”
“Norma? From the steno pool?”
“She’s smart, Ellie. And eager. She can make calls, run errands, get you coffee. Give her a chance.”
“But isn’t she a little old?”
Charlie frowned. “She’s younger than I am.”
“That’s not saying much. You’re Methuselah’s older, uglier brother, Pops.” I could get away with that remark because Charlie was the handsomest, most dignified gent in the city. Tall and trim in his broad-lapelled pinstripes, he looked like “Dad” in a pipe-cleaner ad, and he was proud of his full head of silver hair.
“I’m fifty-six,” he announced proudly. “And you’ll get here one day, so watch what you say. Poor Norma lost her husband last year and had to find a job. She’s got a retarded son to care for.”
He looked pathetic.
“Okay, spare me the waterworks. I’ll take her.”
Norma Geary was seated at a desk near the back of the steno pool, head cocked to the right, reading from a sheet of handwritten paper clipped to a stand. She tapped furiously on an
I shook my head. “I can manage. But speaking of your help, I know the car you got for me was pulled out of the lake last August. Thanks a lot.”
He stared dumbly at me for several seconds. Then he got that trapped-animal look in his eyes.
“Sorry about that, Ellie,” he said finally. “I just couldn’t swing another. As it is, after you drove the first car into the tree, Artie wanted to take it out of your salary.”
“You make it sound as if I hit the tree because I was primping in the rearview mirror. Someone cut my brakes, Charlie. They were trying to kill me. Not like Fred ‘One for the Road’ Blaylock. What’s he driving these days, by the way? Something shiny and brand new, I’ll bet.”
“I told Artie it wasn’t your fault, but he’s old-fashioned. Doesn’t like the idea of women in the workforce, let alone behind the wheel. That’s why you’ve got to lie low and keep up with your other assignments.”
I pouted, dissatisfied with the car discussion. “Why can’t Georgie Porgie take some of what I’m doing? Local theater, for example. The Mohawk Valley Players are doing South Pacific this year. Give that to George. But don’t tell him how the war ends; you’ll spoil it for him.”
Charlie said nothing. He often indulged me, especially where George Walsh was concerned. George was Artie Short’s son-in-law and strutted around the newsroom like the cock of the walk. George’s antagonism toward me was well known to all at the paper. He routinely tried to insult me by talking down to me in meetings and asking me “to be a good girl” and fetch him some coffee. He stopped doing that once he noticed the coffee I’d given him had an odd taste.
But when it came to getting the better of George, it was mostly George who did the heavy lifting anyway. His miscues were legend at the paper, like the time in June of 1959 when his headline proclaimed, “Ingmar Bergman Knocks Out Floyd Patterson in the Fourth Round.” (He even got the round wrong.) Twice he referred to Pat Summerall as the placekicker for the San Francisco Giants, who don’t play football. And in general, his sports stories rang false; his shallow knowledge of the games and awkward grasp of their lexicon always bled through the ink. He wrote strange headlines like “Speed-Ball Ace Timmy Vardon Twirls Two-Hit Gem in New Holland Tilt.” Georgie’s articles had the mawkish, homespun feel of a Boys’ Life story from 1925.
Walsh and his father-in-law hated me, never more so than during the Jordan Shaw investigation just a month earlier when George tried to muscle in on my story. In the end, despite his aversion to me, Artie Short had to hold his nose and go with the girl reporter over his own son-in-law.
“I’ll try to get you another car,” said Charlie.
“Forget it. I love that car now, mildew and all. It’s mine.”
“There must be some help you could use. I can put Norma Geary at your disposal.”
“Norma? From the steno pool?”
“She’s smart, Ellie. And eager. She can make calls, run errands, get you coffee. Give her a chance.”
“But isn’t she a little old?”
Charlie frowned. “She’s younger than I am.”
“That’s not saying much. You’re Methuselah’s older, uglier brother, Pops.” I could get away with that remark because Charlie was the handsomest, most dignified gent in the city. Tall and trim in his broad-lapelled pinstripes, he looked like “Dad” in a pipe-cleaner ad, and he was proud of his full head of silver hair.
“I’m fifty-six,” he announced proudly. “And you’ll get here one day, so watch what you say. Poor Norma lost her husband last year and had to find a job. She’s got a retarded son to care for.”
He looked pathetic.
“Okay, spare me the waterworks. I’ll take her.”
Norma Geary was seated at a desk near the back of the steno pool, head cocked to the right, reading from a sheet of handwritten paper clipped to a stand. She tapped furiously on an
Similar Books
