Death by Pantyhose Read Online Free

health.
     
    "Really?" Dorcas sounded impressed. "You're
a sitcom writer? What shows did you write for?"
    "Only one show," I admitted. "Muffy `NMe."
    "Oh." Now she sounded a lot less impressed.
"I never heard of that one."
    Okay, so it wasn't exactly Seinfeld, but then
again, neither was she.
    "I was hoping for someone with a bit more
experience," she said, "but I'm willing to give it
a shot if you are."
    I cleared my throat and broached the subject
at the forefront of my mind.
    "About salary. .
."
    "Like I said on my message, I can't afford
much. What would you say to five dollars a joke?"
    I'd say something not suitable for a family
novel, that's what I'd say.
    "Dorcas, I couldn't possibly work for that
amount."
    "Six bucks?"
    "My going rate is fifty dollars an hour."
    I could hear her gasp on the other end of the
line. "I can't afford fifty dollars an hour."
    "How about forty?"
    "How about we compromise and say ten?"
    Ten dollars an hour? Was she kidding? That
was barely above minimum wage. After all, I was
a writer, a wordsmith. The woman who came up
with In a Rush to Flush? Call Toiletmasters!Did she
really think I'd sell my services for a measly ten
dollars an hour?
     
    Bridling with righteous indignation, I said the
only thing possible under the circumstances:
"Sure."
    Hey, don't go shaking your head like that.
What else could I do? It was ten dollars an hour
more than I'd make sitting home on my fanny.
    We agreed to meet for coffee at Pinky's Deli
in West Hollywood and I set off for the meeting,
with a quick pit stop at the market for a bottle of
chardonnay and some Oreos.
    Something told me I'd be needing them.
    An hour later, I came lurching up to Pinky's
in my ancient VW, which I was now calling
Wheezy. The drive over had been only slightly
less harrowing than my maiden voyage. I was beginning to get the hang of driving a stick shift
again, but poor Wheezy's asthma showed no
signs of letting up. I managed to coax her into
the parking lot and shut off the ignition with a
sigh of relief.
    Pinky's was a nondescript deli, with cracked
vinyl booths and linoleum on the floor, a hangout for the comedians who performed at the Laff
Palace across the street. It was four in the afternoon when I headed inside, and the place was
nearly deserted.
    A dark-haired woman sat in a booth at the front
of the restaurant. I figured it had to be Dorcas.
The only other customers in the restaurant were
two guys in their eighties crumbling saltines
into their chicken noodle soup.
    I waved tentatively and walked over to join
her.
    The first thing I noticed about Dorcas was how skinny she was. Tall and gangly, and thin as
a rail. Think Ichabod Crane with a ponytail.
     
    It was hard to see much of her face. Most of it
was obscured by the huge double-decker pastrami sandwich she was gulping down. It looked
like the sandwich weighed more than she did.
    "Hi," I said to the face behind the sandwich.
"Are you Dorcas?"
    She jumped up and nodded, her mouth
filled with pastrami.
    "You must bejaine," she said, finally managing
to swallow. She offered me a mustard-stained
hand to shake and grinned a wide generous
smile. "Grab a seat."
    I slid into the booth across from her, wondering if she'd mind if I plucked a piece of pastrami dangling from her sandwich.
    "You hungry?" she asked, following my gaze.
"Want a pastrami sandwich? They make really
good ones here."
    "Oh, no. No, thanks."
    There was no way I was going to order a pastrami sandwich-not after that huge lunch I'd
had. Absolutely not.
    "Hey, Mitzi," she shouted to a blowsy waitress
whose jet black hair was tortured into a towering beehive. "Bring my friend here a pastrami
sandwich."
    "Really," I protested, "I shouldn't."
    Then I called out to the waitress: "With a side
of potato salad."
    What can I say? I can't take me anywhere.
    "Have a pickle while you're waiting," Dorcas
said.
    I plucked a fat pickle from a bowl on the table
and took a