that the patients were impoverished victims of a notorious ghetto.”
I handed the magazine back to her. “So Mr. and Mrs. Caucasian America will assume their innocent boys and girls might be turned evil by comic books, too.”
Disgusted, Maggie tossed the magazine to one side—she would have to calm down before it again joined a neat stack. “I don’t know whether that misrepresentation is the magazine’s doing or Dr. Frederick’s. But it smells bad.”
“Hey, it stinks. Are we sure we want to get in bed with this guy?”
Maggie arched an eyebrow. “Actually, we’d probably be getting in bed with Dr. Winters, who I’m sure will do most or all of the work.”
“Would it be too easy if I said I was fine with getting in bed with Dr. Winters?”
She didn’t get the chance to answer that, because Bryce leaned in to say, “Your ten o’clock is here.”
Today Sylvia wasn’t in one of her sweater-and-slacks combos. She’d be having lunch at the Waldorf, after all, and taking an important business meeting with Dr. Frederick. A rhinestone brooch winked at me, as she traveled the distance from Bryce’s door to the desk, her light blue suit sporting a slightly flaring skirt—the effect shapely yet businesslike.
That would please Maggie, whose own gray suit was similar. In fact, Maggie stood and shook hands with Sylvia. I was standing, too. I’m not a complete lummox. But I didn’t shake hands with the lovely shrink, just nodded and traded transparently secret smiles with her.
Sylvia’s manner had a touch of shy respect in it. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Miss Starr.”
On the phone yesterday they had a preliminary discussion about her contract, which would be with the Starr Syndicate, though her salary came out of Dr. Frederick’s end. But this was their first face-to-face.
“We have every intention,” Maggie said, “of making this a successful column, a profitable business enterprise for all concerned. But you do know that we have a hidden agenda.”
Sylvia nodded. “I’ve gathered that. And I’ve been open to Mr. Starr about my own negative feelings about Dr. Frederick’s unscientific approach to his comic-book research.”
Maggie reached for a neat pile of folded newspapers, the same pile from which the Collier’s had been plucked. “I’m sure you’re probably aware that my previous profession was in show business.”
“Yes, Miss Starr.”
I had to grin, but didn’t risk a wisecrack. How could Maggie say that with a straight face, in an office with a wall of movie and theatrical posters plastered with her mug and chassis? Or that giant framed Rolf Armstrong pastel of Maggie in feathers and rhinestones, looking down on Sylvia and me, like God with a great figure?
“Well,” Maggie said, “these are what we call in the trade the next-morning reviews.”
She tossed the papers toward the front of the desk, where we could see the headlines.
Bob Price had made the front page of the Times: NO HARM IN HORROR, COMICS SELLER SAYS . The New York Post screamed GORE IN GOOD TASTE under the smaller headline SAYS COMIC ROOK KING . And the Daily News shouted, AXE MURDER FINE FOR KIDS, CLAIMS COMICS PURLISHER .
I sighed, looking at the News with its juxtaposition of the falling-woman Suspense Crime Stories cover with a sweaty-looking, five o’clock-shadowed Price. Worst of all, every story had a paragraph on Bob threatening to murder Dr. Frederick, the “noted anti-comics crusader.” At least that hadn’t been the lead....
“We’re in negotiations with Mr. Price,” Maggie said to Sylvia, “to bring out a comic strip property of his. After this, I don’t even know if we can get away with that.”
I said, “I’m hoping Frederick’s new campaign, against TV violence, will make this yesterday’s news.”
“Well, right now it’s today’s news,” Maggie said. Then to Sylvia, “Dr. Winters, none of this directly affects you. But I don’t want you to go into this under
I handed the magazine back to her. “So Mr. and Mrs. Caucasian America will assume their innocent boys and girls might be turned evil by comic books, too.”
Disgusted, Maggie tossed the magazine to one side—she would have to calm down before it again joined a neat stack. “I don’t know whether that misrepresentation is the magazine’s doing or Dr. Frederick’s. But it smells bad.”
“Hey, it stinks. Are we sure we want to get in bed with this guy?”
Maggie arched an eyebrow. “Actually, we’d probably be getting in bed with Dr. Winters, who I’m sure will do most or all of the work.”
“Would it be too easy if I said I was fine with getting in bed with Dr. Winters?”
She didn’t get the chance to answer that, because Bryce leaned in to say, “Your ten o’clock is here.”
Today Sylvia wasn’t in one of her sweater-and-slacks combos. She’d be having lunch at the Waldorf, after all, and taking an important business meeting with Dr. Frederick. A rhinestone brooch winked at me, as she traveled the distance from Bryce’s door to the desk, her light blue suit sporting a slightly flaring skirt—the effect shapely yet businesslike.
That would please Maggie, whose own gray suit was similar. In fact, Maggie stood and shook hands with Sylvia. I was standing, too. I’m not a complete lummox. But I didn’t shake hands with the lovely shrink, just nodded and traded transparently secret smiles with her.
Sylvia’s manner had a touch of shy respect in it. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Miss Starr.”
On the phone yesterday they had a preliminary discussion about her contract, which would be with the Starr Syndicate, though her salary came out of Dr. Frederick’s end. But this was their first face-to-face.
“We have every intention,” Maggie said, “of making this a successful column, a profitable business enterprise for all concerned. But you do know that we have a hidden agenda.”
Sylvia nodded. “I’ve gathered that. And I’ve been open to Mr. Starr about my own negative feelings about Dr. Frederick’s unscientific approach to his comic-book research.”
Maggie reached for a neat pile of folded newspapers, the same pile from which the Collier’s had been plucked. “I’m sure you’re probably aware that my previous profession was in show business.”
“Yes, Miss Starr.”
I had to grin, but didn’t risk a wisecrack. How could Maggie say that with a straight face, in an office with a wall of movie and theatrical posters plastered with her mug and chassis? Or that giant framed Rolf Armstrong pastel of Maggie in feathers and rhinestones, looking down on Sylvia and me, like God with a great figure?
“Well,” Maggie said, “these are what we call in the trade the next-morning reviews.”
She tossed the papers toward the front of the desk, where we could see the headlines.
Bob Price had made the front page of the Times: NO HARM IN HORROR, COMICS SELLER SAYS . The New York Post screamed GORE IN GOOD TASTE under the smaller headline SAYS COMIC ROOK KING . And the Daily News shouted, AXE MURDER FINE FOR KIDS, CLAIMS COMICS PURLISHER .
I sighed, looking at the News with its juxtaposition of the falling-woman Suspense Crime Stories cover with a sweaty-looking, five o’clock-shadowed Price. Worst of all, every story had a paragraph on Bob threatening to murder Dr. Frederick, the “noted anti-comics crusader.” At least that hadn’t been the lead....
“We’re in negotiations with Mr. Price,” Maggie said to Sylvia, “to bring out a comic strip property of his. After this, I don’t even know if we can get away with that.”
I said, “I’m hoping Frederick’s new campaign, against TV violence, will make this yesterday’s news.”
“Well, right now it’s today’s news,” Maggie said. Then to Sylvia, “Dr. Winters, none of this directly affects you. But I don’t want you to go into this under
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