Her name was Emma Walsh.
She was standing at her window when I came in. The window looked out over Vanderbilt Avenue. She turned to me when I closed the door. She stood framed against the silver of the Pan Am Building.
She smiled. âJohn Wells,â she said. Her lips were very full, her lipstick very red. She was about my ageâforty-sixâbut the skin of her round face was smooth, and her gray eyes glittered. She wore her brown hair long down her back like a girl. She was compact and full-figured. Her breasts made her red sweater swell. Her hips pressed against her gray skirt.
She held her hand out and took a stride toward me. I met her, shook her hand. A small, soft hand.
âI wanted to meet you as soon as I could,â she said. âSeeing as I have a mandate to crush you.â
âSo I hear.â
She smiled again. She had to draw her hand back to get it away from me. I managed to hold her eyes another second before she turned away. Then I watched her gray skirt sway as she walked behind her desk. She sat down, gestured me to the seat in front of her.
âYou can smoke if you want.â
âThanks.â I lit up.
âI understand thatâs been something of a sore point. Smoking.â
âCambridge thought it was bad for my health. He was only thinking of me.â
She sat back in her swivel chair. It was the big kind with the high back, the executive kind. The office was the executive model, too. Spacious, with a solid oak desk. Two leather chairs in front of it. A sofa against the opposite wall. There were no pictures. Cambridge had never hung any. It sped things up when he cleaned the place out, anyway.
âI understand thereâve been a lot of sore points around here,â she said.
âA few.â
âCambridge and you didnât get along.â
I waved my cigarette in the air. âWe had some differences of opinion.â
âLike Hitler and Churchill?â
âThat would be a fair comparison, yeah.â
âOkay.â She motioned at me. âWhatâs your version?â
I let out a breath of smoke, sat back in the chair. I eyed her. She eyed me back, steadily.
âHe wanted me to learn the computers,â I said after a while. âI like my typewriter. He didnât want me to put my feet on my desk. I wanted to.â
Emma Walsh pursed her red lips. She did not look happy. I tried again.
âAlso, he wanted to save the front page for beauty pageants and rock stars, and I kept writing stuff about crooks on the public payroll, politicians with organized-crime connections, that kind of thing. He was a thirty-year-old executive. Iâm forty-six, and still covering the street. He thought he must know something to be dressed so well. Finally, I turned down a chance to break a sex scandal on a Senate candidate, and we got scooped. He bet his reputation he could make me look bad for it.â I shrugged. âHe lost.â
There was a long silence. She brushed her hair back with her hand. I watched her do it. Her hair looked very soft. âSo why do they hate you?â she asked. âThe People Upstairs.â
I shrugged again. âThey hired an idiot. I made him look like an idiot.â
âAnd now theyâve hired someone from an advertising firm.â
âAt least youâve heard of Winston Churchill.â
She startled me with a laugh. It was a rich, high, musical sound. Her gray eyes grew even brighter. She nodded. âPoor Mr. Cambridge. I pity him. I do.â She had just the softest trace of a southern accent. You had to listen for it. âAll right, let me tell you what Iâve been hearing this past week or so.â
I took a deep breath. âGo ahead.â
âYouâll be relieved to know: I havenât been brought here like Cambridge was, to make the Star relatable.â
âGood.â
âOr zingy like Perelman.â
âFine.â
âOr even to give it