You Might As Well Die by J.J. Murphy

mister—what did you say your name was?”
    “I didn’t,” Benchley said briskly. “Tell me, who’s the lucky girl?”
    Clay gazed up at the sky again. “Ah, she’s an angel. I’ve had my eye on her for years, waiting for another chance with her. She’s well worth the wait. More beautiful now than when we met as kids.”
    “As kids? Have you known her that long?”
    “As teenagers, I mean. You know how teenagers fall in love? They fall completely. Heart, mind, body and soul. But as you get older, they say you lose that passion, right? Like, those kinds of feelings get watered down?”
    “‘Youth is hot and bold. Age is weak and cold,’ ” Benchley said, quoting Shakespeare.
    Rudy the shoe-shine man gave Benchley a peeved look. Rudy had finished their shoe shines some time ago, yet Clay made no move to leave.
    “Not for me, buddy. I’m still hot and bold,” Clay said. “I fell for her and I fell hard, and I’ve never gotten over her. I still feel like I did when I was young, and I always will. I built a skyscraper in my heart, and she lives in it.”
    Benchley coughed to stifle a groan. Yes, that was quite enough of Bert Clay. He stood up and said by way of conclusion, “You’re not just an artist. You’re a poet. It was my pleasure to meet you.”
    “Aw, enough about me,” Clay said with a wave of his hand. “I’m boring you, I can see that. Don’t go just yet. Tell me about yourself.”
    “I’m a messenger boy. Come to think of it, I’d better get back to work. Reams of telegrams to deliver.” He hurriedly shook Clay’s hand, stepped down from the shoe-shine stand and slipped Rudy two bucks, which was more than enough to cover the cost. “Wonderful speaking to you, Mr. Clay. Let’s do it again.”
    “Sure. When?”
    “I’ll send you a telegram,” Benchley said with a wave. Then he hopped on the bike and sped away, disappearing into the busy stream of people on the crowded sidewalk.

Chapter 14
    D orothy Parker had been at the office of Vanity Fair for just a few minutes before Benchley arrived—sweaty, rumpled and tired. She had been filling in Mr. Sherwood about their day’s many events: their morning at the garbage dump on Rikers Island, their harrowing visit with the lawyer Snath, their strange conversation with the nude model and spiritual medium Viola, and Dorothy’s unsettling chat with Midge MacGuffin.
    She wondered aloud, “Why would Midge be so indifferent to her husband’s death?”
    “Perhaps because she’s got another poker in the fire?” Benchley said, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief.
    “What’s that supposed to mean?” Sherwood asked.
    Benchley explained about his conversation at the shoe-shine stand with Bert Clay.
    “Clay has a skyscraper-sized infatuation for Midge,” Benchley concluded. “If you have an hour or two—or seven—he’ll be happy to tell you all about it.”
    Dorothy frowned. “I don’t doubt there is some kind of hanky-panky going on between those two. But as for Midge herself, I think she’s got some bats in the belfry.”
    “How so?” Benchley said, and drank deeply from a glass of water.
    “She ghostwrote Ernie’s suicide note, for Pete’s sake. She’s got a screw loose somewhere.”
    “I never thought so,” Sherwood said, lighting a cigarette and leaning back in his wooden chair. “As a matter of fact, I don’t think there’s much hardware up in her attic to come loose.” He tapped his temple.
    “That’s what Mr. Benchley said about Viola.” Dorothy looked from Sherwood to Benchley. “What is it with you boys? Do you think a pretty face automatically means there’s no brain behind it?”
    “You’re the exception that proves the rule, Mrs. Parker,” Benchley said gallantly. She smothered a smile.
    Sherwood raised an eyebrow. “In regard to Midge, do you disagree?”
    “I guess not,” she sighed, remembering the woman’s vacant stare. “You’re right. Midge did strike me as something of a