By Nina Siegal
Valerie Vane used to be an up-and-coming way of life reporter at a well-liked manhattan urban day-by-day. Then she stumbled, quite publicly, and misplaced it all—her column, her fiancé, her entry at the back of the city's velvet ropes. Now she's at the obituary table writing dying notices, and it appears like a useless 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 loss of life was once a murder—and if she have been a true reporter, she'd examine.
But can Valerie exchange her stilettos for gumshoes?
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Extra resources for A Little Trouble with the Facts: A Novel
Said he was interested in an obit that ran today. Unbylined. I told him that probably meant you wrote it. ” I swallowed. ” she said. She stared me dead in the eyes. “No. ” She ﬂicked her butt into the gutter. “But when I pressed him he said he’d take it up with you. Asked me a lot of questions, though. How long were you on Obits; did you write for other sections; were you working with Metro? ” That raccoon coat started to weigh tons. Night Rewrite | 41 “I guess you spoke to him,” she continued when I didn’t answer.
By tomorrow, today’s paper would be ﬁsh wrap. It would be shredded for kitty litter. It would be taped inside shop windows to indicate the place was closed. The humidity fell on me like a raccoon coat when I pushed through The Paper’s brass revolving doors. A thin spread of gray clouds hovered low over the skyscrapers. Underneath it, the sky was illuminated almost to daylight by the glow from Times Square. It wasn’t the usual incandescence of the Great White Way, more like a postnuclear haze. It was coming from my left, where, at the corner of Seventh Avenue, NASDAQ was putting the ﬁnal touches on its colossal video screen.
Ultimately, each one would shut out their light, but the New York sky would still be ﬁlled with eight million more. So what was the point? After playing tourist, my neck hurt. I turned off Fortythird Street and onto Eighth Avenue, where walkers and diners and laughers and smokers cluttered the sidewalk. I pushed on, watching my feet chew up the wet pavement, watching the marquee lights swirl in onyx puddles. Up ahead of me, there was a darkened stoop. A man in a trench coat leaned forward, his face hidden under the shadowed brim of an old fedora.