over the top edge of the cubicle, wagging a short pile of envelopes in the air. Looking up, Lisbeth knew that if she reached for the stack, he’d just pull it away, so she waited for the hand . . . and its owner . . . to turn the corner. “Morning, Vincent,” she said before he even appeared.
“Tell me you got something good today,” Vincent said, his salt-and-pepper mustache squirming like a caterpillar on his lip. He tossed the pile of mail on Lisbeth’s already oversubscribed desk. It wasn’t until it fanned out accordion-style in front of her that Lisbeth saw the tear in each envelope.
“You opened my mail?” she asked.
“I’m your editor. That’s my job.”
“Your job is opening my mail?”
“No, my job is to make sure your column is the best it can be. And when it is, and when every person in this town is whispering to their neighbors about whatever scandal you so cleverly unearthed, we usually get about twenty to thirty letters a day, plus the usual press releases and invitations. Know what you got this morning? Six. And that’s including the invites.” Peering over her shoulder and reading from the mostly empty grid on Lisbeth’s computer screen, Vincent added, “You spelled
DMV
wrong.”
Lisbeth squinted toward the screen.
“Made you look,” Vincent added, laughing his little huffing laugh. With his navy and red Polo-knockoff suspenders and matching bow tie, Vincent dressed like Palm Beach royalty on an editor’s salary.
Annoyed, Lisbeth pulled his left suspender back like a bowstring and let it snap against his chest.
“Ow . . . that . . . that actually hurt,” he whined, rubbing his chest. “I was making a point.”
“Really? And what was that? That I should find more stories about handjobs in hot tubs?”
“Listen, missy, that was a fun story.”
“
Fun?
I don’t want fun. I want
good.
”
“Like what? Like your supposed top-secret source who whispered all those promises in your ear, then jumped off the face of the earth? What was her name again? Lily?”
“Iris.” As Lisbeth said the word, she could feel the blood rush to her ears. Four months ago, a woman identifying herself only as Iris cold-called Lisbeth on the office’s main line. From the shakiness in Iris’s voice, Lisbeth could hear the tears. And from the hesitation . . . she knew what fear sounded like. For twenty minutes, Iris told her the story: about how, years ago, she used to do Thai massages at a local bathhouse . . . that it was there she first met the man she called Byron . . . and the thrill of secretly dating one of Palm Beach’s most powerful men. But what got Lisbeth’s attention was Iris’s graphic detail of how, on a number of occasions, he lashed out physically, eventually breaking her collarbone and jaw. For Lisbeth, that was a story that mattered. And that was what the letters on her wall were there for. But when she asked for Byron’s real name—and Iris’s, for that matter—the line went dead.
“She was yanking your ya-ya,” Vincent said.
“Maybe she was scared.”
“Or maybe she just wanted some attention.”
“Or maybe she’s now married, and therefore terrified her husband will dump her the instant he finds out his lovely wife used to be a bathhouse girl. Think, Vincent. Sources only stay quiet when they have something to lose.”
“Y’mean like their job? Or their career? Or their supposedly well read gossip column?”
Lisbeth stabbed him with a cold, piercing stare. Vincent stabbed her right back.
“Six,” he said as he turned to leave. “Six letters in the stack.”
“I don’t care if it’s one.”
“Yes, you do. You’re a great writer but a terrible liar, sweetie.”
For once, Lisbeth stayed silent.
“By the way,” Vincent added, “if a publicist calls for some art award for the John family . . . don’t be such a snob. Think Page Six. Good bold names are good bold names.”
“But if the story’s crap—”
“I hate to break it to you,
“Tell me you got something good today,” Vincent said, his salt-and-pepper mustache squirming like a caterpillar on his lip. He tossed the pile of mail on Lisbeth’s already oversubscribed desk. It wasn’t until it fanned out accordion-style in front of her that Lisbeth saw the tear in each envelope.
“You opened my mail?” she asked.
“I’m your editor. That’s my job.”
“Your job is opening my mail?”
“No, my job is to make sure your column is the best it can be. And when it is, and when every person in this town is whispering to their neighbors about whatever scandal you so cleverly unearthed, we usually get about twenty to thirty letters a day, plus the usual press releases and invitations. Know what you got this morning? Six. And that’s including the invites.” Peering over her shoulder and reading from the mostly empty grid on Lisbeth’s computer screen, Vincent added, “You spelled
DMV
wrong.”
Lisbeth squinted toward the screen.
“Made you look,” Vincent added, laughing his little huffing laugh. With his navy and red Polo-knockoff suspenders and matching bow tie, Vincent dressed like Palm Beach royalty on an editor’s salary.
Annoyed, Lisbeth pulled his left suspender back like a bowstring and let it snap against his chest.
“Ow . . . that . . . that actually hurt,” he whined, rubbing his chest. “I was making a point.”
“Really? And what was that? That I should find more stories about handjobs in hot tubs?”
“Listen, missy, that was a fun story.”
“
Fun?
I don’t want fun. I want
good.
”
“Like what? Like your supposed top-secret source who whispered all those promises in your ear, then jumped off the face of the earth? What was her name again? Lily?”
“Iris.” As Lisbeth said the word, she could feel the blood rush to her ears. Four months ago, a woman identifying herself only as Iris cold-called Lisbeth on the office’s main line. From the shakiness in Iris’s voice, Lisbeth could hear the tears. And from the hesitation . . . she knew what fear sounded like. For twenty minutes, Iris told her the story: about how, years ago, she used to do Thai massages at a local bathhouse . . . that it was there she first met the man she called Byron . . . and the thrill of secretly dating one of Palm Beach’s most powerful men. But what got Lisbeth’s attention was Iris’s graphic detail of how, on a number of occasions, he lashed out physically, eventually breaking her collarbone and jaw. For Lisbeth, that was a story that mattered. And that was what the letters on her wall were there for. But when she asked for Byron’s real name—and Iris’s, for that matter—the line went dead.
“She was yanking your ya-ya,” Vincent said.
“Maybe she was scared.”
“Or maybe she just wanted some attention.”
“Or maybe she’s now married, and therefore terrified her husband will dump her the instant he finds out his lovely wife used to be a bathhouse girl. Think, Vincent. Sources only stay quiet when they have something to lose.”
“Y’mean like their job? Or their career? Or their supposedly well read gossip column?”
Lisbeth stabbed him with a cold, piercing stare. Vincent stabbed her right back.
“Six,” he said as he turned to leave. “Six letters in the stack.”
“I don’t care if it’s one.”
“Yes, you do. You’re a great writer but a terrible liar, sweetie.”
For once, Lisbeth stayed silent.
“By the way,” Vincent added, “if a publicist calls for some art award for the John family . . . don’t be such a snob. Think Page Six. Good bold names are good bold names.”
“But if the story’s crap—”
“I hate to break it to you,
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