The Spy on the Tennessee Walker Read Online Free Page B

wondered why any piece of writing would be longer than a tweet. Calvin Bright rounded out the team by wearing multiple hats: most favored Small Town photographer and sweetheart of Starchy Storch. Just two preppy sweethearts who bonded over Burberry and signet rings.
    Hoyt rapped on the stained tabletop in the conference room. “My friends, we are gathered,” he said. “And now, once more into the fray!”
    Calvin made an elaborate show of examining his ten-million-thread-count cuffs, all meant to distract us from the fact that he was inching his hand down to Andrea’s knee. Puck was building a mini tower of his signature hockey pucks, all of which bore the inscription, “Pucked by Morris,” sent as an advance warning to some unsuspecting musician or group when he was readying a particularly vitriolic review.
    â€œThe sight of that growing edifice does not fill me with joy, Mr. Morris,” said Hoyt. “I know you have submitted only two reviews in the upcoming issue, so even if you loathe both the groups, you can’t possibly need all those pucks.”
    â€œOh, man,” said Puck. “One of these groups is so godawful, I may send a whole box of pucks. One forbeing lousy guitarists, one for being derivative, one for forgetting to tune ahead of time, and one for really creepy red Spandex getups.”
    â€œI predict a small avalanche of outraged letters from the Spandex wearers,” said Hoyt.
    â€œDon’t you worry, big guy,” said Puck. “I know these guys can’t read music, and I’m pretty sure they can’t read words either. They’ll never know what hit ’em.”
    Hoyt glanced at me, looking for help. “Puck,” I said, “you know it’s not your job to hate everything, right?”
    Puck sat up very straight, thereby adding a good three-quarters of an inch to his not-quite-five-and-a-half-foot frame. “The Puck is mightier than the sword,” he pronounced. “I calls ’em as I sees ’em.”
    â€œWe are reminded,” said Hoyt, “of Alice Roosevelt Longworth’s embroidered throw cushion, ‘If you haven’t got anything nice to say about anybody, come sit next to me.’”
    The rest of the story meeting evolved as usual: writers pitching, Hoyt catching, me reporting out on a couple of major features in the hands of outside writers, reviewers previewing what they might like or loathe, Linda taking us through the digital portfolio of hot new conceptual photographers for a story on the Twitterization of Hayes Valley.
    Since Twitter and Google had moved into the city proper, complete with buses that looked as if they were going to and from summer camp, the real estate prices in San Francisco — always ridiculous — had become laughable. Young people regularly showed up at completely unremarkable one-bedroom apartments, fiercely outbidding each other until a round of all-cashoffers for million-dollar apartments went into smack-down. The restaurant scene was in a constant state of churn — tapas were down, prix-fixe was up, insects were ingredients (and not by accident), and edible foam was back. Bacon doughnuts were about to become passé.
    â€œWe will have one moment of silence,” said Andrea, “for the way Hayes Valley used to be — seedy, weird, not very clean, and dispensing botulism out of every eatery. Come on, guys, let’s not romanticize squalor.”
    And with that we were back to the story list. After the meeting I followed Hoyt down to his office.
    â€œGuess where I’m going next week?” I asked.
    â€œTo find some backup lawyers for the next time Puck sends some ungifted musician around the bend?”
    I laughed. “Not yet.”
    â€œThen I’m a lost ball in tall grass. Where are you going, Maggie, and why isn’t it on the vacation schedule?”
    â€œOops, sorry. And it’s really just a long weekend, but