“No excuses, Mrs. Turner. You’re supposed to be in the office by eight thirty. You may have forgotten this condition of your employment, but I can assure you
I haven’t. And if you think-”
Pomeroy’s tongue-lashing was interrupted when Harvey Crockett barrelled out of his office and came huffing up to the front of the workroom. “I’m going to the barber,” he told me, maneuvering his stubby legs and bulging belly over to the coat rack. He unhooked his cream-colored Panama and anchored it on his large hoary head. “After that I’m going to lunch with a new paper supplier at the Quill. If anybody calls, tell ’em I’ll be back at two thirty.”
“Yes, Mr. Crockett,” I said to his back as he bustled up to the door and left.
Mike and Mario were just a few steps behind. (They always go out to lunch together, and they always leave within two or three minutes of Mr. Crockett’s departure.) Grabbing their hats and jackets off the coat tree, they nodded to Pomeroy, leered at me, muttered a joint “see-ya-later,” and disappeared through the door. Even after the door had swung all the way shut, I could hear them laughing out in the hall. (It never fails. Whenever I get in trouble with Pomeroy, Mike and Mario get in a giddy good mood.)
As soon as they were gone, Pomeroy went back to bullying me. “You seem to think you can come to work whenever you please, Mrs. Turner,” he said, taking up where he’d left off. “But you are greatly mistaken. We expect you to work a full eight-hour day, with just one hour off for lunch, and anything short of that is totally unacceptable. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Mr. Pomeroy.”
“Good. Because I have the power to fire you, you know, and that’s exactly what I’ll do if you don’t obey the rules.”
“Yes, Mr. Pomeroy.”
“And conduct yourself in a proper manner.”
“Yes, Mr. Pomeroy.”
“And complete all the work that’s assigned to you.”
“Yes, Mr. Pomeroy.”
(Before you throw up, please let me explain my nauseating obsequiousness: I really,
really needed to keep my job. The few dime-store mystery novels I’d published hadn’t earned me enough to pay my Sears and Roebuck bills, much less my rent. And a single working woman needs clothes as well as a place to live, don’t you know.)
Pomeroy rose to his feet and gave me a withering look. Then he picked something up from his desk, and stepped across the aisle to mine.
“Did you know this man?” he asked, putting the stack of news clips about Gray Gordon down in front of me and spreading them out like a fan. “He was murdered, last Saturday, in his apartment down in the Village. You live in the Village, too, so I was wondering if you ever met him.”
“No, I didn’t,” I said.
At least not while he was alive. I was astonished that Pomeroy was discussing a murder case-especially this murder case-with me. Such conversations were always reserved for Mike, since he was the one who would be getting the story assignments.
“Did you ever hear any talk about him?” Pomeroy went on. “Any gossip or anything?”
“Uh, no,” I said, reluctant to answer Pomeroy’s questions until I knew why he was asking them. “But I did see an article about him in the Saturday
Times,” I added, feeling the need to offer something. “He was an actor-an understudy-and when the star of his show was overcome by heatstroke, Gray Gordon stepped in to play the lead. He made his Broadway debut in last Friday night’s performance of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, and the Times theater critic said he was brilliant-that he was going to be a big star.”
“I saw that article, too,” Pomeroy admitted, “and all the murder reports in the papers the next day. That’s why I came in early today; I wanted to see what the new reports would say.”
“They don’t say much of anything.”
“Right,” Pomeroy replied. “The police obviously don’t want any details about their investigation getting out. They must have asked the papers to lay off the story until the killer is caught.”
“Yes, that’s probably what happened.”
“So there isn’t enough information for Mike to write a clip story.”
“No, I guess there isn’t.”
“Which is why I’m assigning the Gray Gordon story to you.”
What?! Are my ears working right? Did Pomeroy just say he was giving me the Gray Gordon assignment? He must be sick or something.
“Since you live in the Village,” Pomeroy went on-actually speaking to me in a civil tone!-“it’ll be easy for you to poke around the area, talk to the locals, listen to rumors, and gather intelligence about the murder. Perhaps you’ll even dig up some clues for the police. At the very least, you’ll be collecting details and descriptions for your story’s background.”
“Oh, thank you, Mr. Pomeroy!” I said, jumping to accept the assignment before he could change his mind. “I appreciate your confidence in me, and I’ll do the very best I can. In fact, I’ll start my investigation this evening, just as soon as I get off work.”
“See that you do,” he said, brusquely turning away from my desk and marching up to the front of the workroom. He took his linen jacket off the coat rack and put it on. “I’m going out to lunch now, Mrs. Turner. You will stay here in the office and do all the work you should have completed this morning. I expect you to be finished by the time I get back.” His civil tone had vanished completely.
“Yes, sir,” I said, wearing a frozen smile and holding my breath till he disappeared through the door. Then I spun around to face Lenny, thrust my fist in the air, and shouted, “Yahoo!”
Chapter 25
“ I DON’T BELIEVE IT,” LENNY SPUTTERED, scooting up to the front of the workroom and sitting down in the guest chair near my desk. His cheeks were flushed and his glasses were crooked. “The creep finally broke down and gave you a
real story-not just a lousy clip job!” He leaned closer and slapped his hand down on the desktop. “I never thought I’d live to see the day! What do you think happened to him? He must’ve had a three-martini morning.”
“I don’t think so, Lenny,” I said, still elated about the unexpected assignment, but beginning to question Pomeroy’s motives. “He seemed perfectly sober, if you want to know the truth. And he came to work so early! And he said himself that it was all because of this particular murder story.” As surprised as I was that my misogynistic boss had given
me an important (i.e., lurid and sensational) homicide to cover, I was even more shocked that it was the Gray Gordon homicide. Did Pomeroy have some knowledge of my personal interest in the case, or was the whole thing just a crazy coincidence?
“The man must have grown a new brain,” Lenny said with a sniff. “But it sure took him long enough. I mean, how many exclusive, exciting, and
true behind-the-scenes murder stories does a person have to write before Pomeroy gets the message?
If it hadn’t been for Mr. Crockett, your three big inside stories never would have been printed in
Daring Detective. And they certainly wouldn’t have been featured on the cover! And then those three editions would have had the same lousy forty-two-percent sales all the other DD issues seem to have, instead of selling seventy-four to seventy-eight percent of a much larger print run. God, Paige! Pomeroy should be shot for keeping you down the way he does. The way he treats you is a crime.”
See why I love Lenny Zimmerman so much?
“He probably treats all women the same way,” I mused. “I bet he hates his mother.”
Lenny’s eyes widened in disbelief. His own parents were so wise and wonderful, he couldn’t imagine hating either one of them. “Speaking of mothers,” he said, mouth stretching into a wholesome grin, “mine made a big batch of potato pancakes yesterday. And she put about six of ’em in my lunch today, along with some homemade applesauce and my usual salami sandwich. Are you hungry?”