Stone Cold Dead by James Ziskin (android e book reader txt) 📗

story,” I said, punch drunk. “I mean, I didn’t write this schlock, of course; it’s classic George Walsh, with the melodrama and the references to ‘this newspaper’ and ‘your humble correspondent.’ But this is my research.”

“Can you prove that?”

“He must have gone through my notes. I saw him skulking around here the other day. I’d almost finished the story, and I’d left it and my notes in my desk.”

I yanked open the drawer and rifled through its contents, but my story and notes were nowhere to be found. Georgie Porgie must have removed them in anticipation of my reaction.

“My notes are gone,” I said. “But Norma knows. She can tell you I wrote it all down.”

“That’s true, Mr. Reese. Miss Stone showed me her notes, and we discussed the entire story on Friday.”

“If that’s so, why didn’t you finish it? Or tell me?” asked Charlie.

I didn’t have an answer for that. There was the basketball game Friday, but that didn’t explain Saturday or Sunday. I should have written the article then, but I was glad I hadn’t. The truth of the matter was that Darleen Hicks had never boarded any Trailways bus for Arizona. The actual ticket was safe with the sheriff, locked away in his safe, along with ninety-seven dollars in cash. I couldn’t say any of this to Charlie, or even to Norma. For the time being, I had to bide my time and take my lumps as they came.

As things turned out, I didn’t have to wait very long.

Artie Short entered the City Room with George Walsh following behind. The publisher strode up to me and smirked right in my face.

“I see you’ve found your way to work, Miss Stone. Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

“I’m very sorry for being late, sir,” I said. “It won’t happen again.”

That disarmed him for a moment. But being the odious worm that he was, he found his bearings in short order and resumed his attack with a new salvo.

“Are you aware that I’ve taken the Darleen Hicks story away from you and given it to George here?”

“Yes, sir. Mr. Reese just told me.”

Artie Short didn’t like the direction our conversation was going. He was egging me on and wanted a strong reaction, probably so he could fire me on the spot for insubordination. Charlie looked uncomfortable, surely expecting me to rise to the bait, and Norma was green. Even George Walsh tried to shrink from sight.

Short harrumphed. “Well, have you seen George’s piece for today’s edition?”

I nodded meekly. That seemed to floor Georgie Porgie. He looked alarmed and relieved at the same time, if that’s possible. He must have expected me to cry foul and accuse him of having stolen my notes. I’m sure he had some phony defense all prepared, but I held my tongue, and so did he.

“Very well, then,” said Short, his bullying petering out without my participation. “I want you to read that article again, young lady. Pay close attention as you do. You’ll learn something. That’s how a newspaperman writes a story.”

“Yes, sir.”

But he wasn’t quite finished yet. He smiled at me with all the self-righteous condescension he could muster and offered this: “Even with the help that Charlie Reese provided for you—an assistant . . .” He leaned backwards to whisper to his son-in-law, “What’s her name?”

George whispered back, and Artie Short bellowed, “What’d you say? What’s her name?”

“Norma Geary,” said George, loud enough for all to hear.

“Yes, Norma Geary,” repeated Short, aiming his scorn back at me. “George, here, didn’t have an assistant, Miss Stone, and still he bagged the story. What do you have to say about that?”

I said nothing. One word from me, and he would fire me. The humiliation mounted with each passing moment. So many witnesses to my dressing-down. I wanted to kick him in the shins and wring George’s neck.

“I didn’t think you’d have anything to say,” he smirked. “Well, that cozy situation is over, young lady. Mrs. Geary is being transferred back to the steno pool.”

I glanced at Norma whose expression told me she’d known about the change when I entered the room. In fact, she’d already gathered her belongings and put them in a box. Though I’d never asked for her, losing her would be a bitter pill to swallow.

“You’ll have to make your way without unfair advantages and accommodations for your gender,” continued Short. “Men have it tough enough as it is, without us making things easier for women to supplant them in the workplace.”

That was the last straw. I had been holding my temper in the hopes of staying on the story, but also because I wanted to keep this job. What were my options if I lost it? A secretary for some lawyer? I didn’t want to know what other humiliation Artie Short had in store for me. But I’d had a bellyful. Job or no job, I was going to tell Artie Short and George Walsh what I thought of them. I was going to tell them both where to get off, then quit in triumph. From the corner of my eye, I caught Charlie Reese’s terrified expression, practically begging me to shut up. But all went quiet in my head. Dead silence. I was resolved, decided, and ready to accept the consequences of my sharp tongue. My lips parted and squeezed into place for my first syllable. But then, satisfied he’d taken me down a few notches, Artie Short turned and looked to his son-in-law. I hesitated.

“Now, George,” he said, “are you all set? All packed? Got your traveler’s checks from Millicent? Do you have your ticket?”

Oh, my. I took my finger off the trigger. Was this really happening?

“Now, it’ll take you almost three days to get there by bus,” continued Short, “so don’t go wasting my money phoning in from Peoria or Jefferson City to tell me about the weather. This is costing me enough already. Wire me when you reach Tucson. No long-distance phone calls. You got