By Nina Siegal
Valerie Vane used to be an up-and-coming way of life reporter at a admired ny urban day-by-day. Then she stumbled, relatively publicly, and misplaced it all—her column, her fiancé, her entry in the back of the city's velvet ropes. Now she's at the obituary table writing dying notices, and it sounds like a lifeless finish.
However, whilst she writes a couple of lately deceased once-famous graffiti artist, the telephone calls commence. A mysterious voice at the different finish of the road tells her the artist's dying used to be a murder—and if she have been a true reporter, she'd examine.
But can Valerie alternate her stilettos for gumshoes?
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Extra info for A Little Trouble with the Facts: A Novel
The opening credits rolled and the jazz blared. Burt Lancaster, Tony Curtis, screenplay by Clifford Odets and Ernest Lehman. I went back to the kitchen and poured myself a third Vanitini as the soundtrack swelled. I drank that one standing up. Pouring myself another, I moved to the couch and kicked off my shoes. A city skyline full of bright lights. The camera comes up on the back end of a printing press as workers throw stacks of newspapers into delivery trucks. Blaring horns grow louder as Night Rewrite | 45 the truck bumps through Times Square, past the blinking canadian club sign, past the hot lights showing off showgirls, past the dime stores and all-night hot dog stands.
A form-ﬁtting shirt revealed a neat thicket of brown hair just beneath his bronzed throat. His lips were ample and pink, his teeth porcelain. And his eyes were, with the aid of contacts, pale blue verging on gray. “I’ll think it over,” I said. On the way home, I considered my mother back in Oregon, who paid ﬁve dollars weekly for the Sunday edition. She’d moved off the farm some years back, but she still had her ideals. Even if I didn’t work for the investigative team, writing for The Paper would prove I’d made something of my life.
It had to be about 110 degrees inside, as I’d forgotten to open the windows and turn on the fans. I locked all four Yale locks and kicked my way through balled-up socks and piles of laundry to get to the windows and ﬂick on the A/C. For six months, I’d submitted to the cruelty of an ordinary life: the hollow echo of the dripping faucet in a barren apartment, the alarming, persistent hum of a midsize refrigerator, the mismatched dishes piling up in the sink. I’d tasted sobriety and I didn’t like it.
A Little Trouble with the Facts: A Novel by Nina Siegal