Philadelphia Weekly

(Illustration by Jacob Lambert)

There was a chill in the air as I trudged up Broad Street. The breeze forced my hands into my pockets, a Chesterfield tucked at the corner of my mouth. The big white building loomed up ahead like a heap of garlic smashed potatoes, and I could see the newsroom windows, 10 stories up. I shook my head. Marimow had been riding me all week for my piece, but we both knew what would happen. As usual, he'd get his precious 1,000 words. And, as usual, they'd be good. Damn good.

I flicked the butt aside as I entered the lobby. "Mornin', Craig," the guard said, smiling up from his paper. I nodded and headed for the elevator. I'd usually stop and kick around last night's ballgame with him, maybe ask about the missus--but I had more on my mind than idle chit-chat this morning. I had a BYOB to review.

I stood, waiting for the doors to open, and when they did, I humped on in with the rest of the herd. Mostly advertising types--slicked-back hair, bad suits and enough cologne to bring down a grass-fed steer. Saffron was also in the mix. She gave me that look of hers from across the way, but I didn't give. You had to watch your step with a dame like that.

The newsroom was alive with the usual racket--the phones, the yelling, the click-clacking of keyboards. I murmured my hellos to the boys at the sports desk, poured a hot cup of Arabica, and beat it to my office. Once in, I shut the door, slung my coat over the chair, and grabbed the Glenfiddich from the drawer. Now things would at least be bearable, I thought. I topped off the cup and settled in with my breakfast, letting the single-malt do its work. I checked my watch. It was barely 10 o'clock.

"Goddamnit, LaBan! Where's my review?" It was Marimow, bursting through the door, right on schedule. I didn't flinch. "Well, Bill, thought I'd take the day off," I said, grinning wide. "How does that grab you?" I turned to the window and idly gazed out at the skyline. Behind me, I could feel his rage mounting like hot cappuccino foam. "Damn you, LaBan, you're on thin ice with me! Don't think you can just waltz in here like you own the place--and don't think I don't know what's in that cup!"

I turned in my seat and gave him my most guileless face--the one that always sends him up the wall. "Coffee? Why, Bill, it's a popular morning drink in most cultures," I said, pulling the fifth out for another dollop. "You should try it sometime." As I screwed the top and slammed the drawer, he came around my desk, pointing his finger, doing the old furrowed-brow bit. "Listen here, LaBan, and listen good. I can get someone in here from the goddamn Bulletin to write about food within the hour, and we both know it. So cut the sauce and get to work."

"Yes sir," I said gamely, propping my feet on the desk and lighting another butt. "Right away, sir." He stormed out, fists clenched, before poking his head back in. "And no smoking, LaBan!"

I took a deep drag, swiveled in my chair, and looked out the window again. Marimow was a grade-A buffoon, but he was right about one thing: I had to file my piece. After that, I could allow myself to concentrate on more important matters. Like finishing that bottle and heading down to the gastropub for steak frites and a microbrew.

I stared out at the sky, really thinking now. The joint I was writing about was a one-beller, at best--but the waitress was something else. A real slice of pie, and she laid it on thick--plenty of fresh bread, a free carpaccio, and all the espresso I could handle. The place probably had one of those pictures of me back in the kitchen, but what the hell, I thought, polishing off my drink and pouring a stiff one. She was a doll. Two bells it is.

I turned to the keyboard, rubbed my chin for a moment and started banging away. By now I had the formula down pat--a few bits about the chef and the owner, a couple of pointless digressions, and a long list of the grub I'd eaten, complete with a bunch of $10 adjectives. I was done in 45 minutes. I sent it to editorial and leaned back, lighting myself a well-earned cigarette. It was almost too easy.

I was at the window again, enjoying my smoke, when she walked in. I could tell by the change in the air. It was like a warm peach tartlet had just been laid on my table.

"How are you, Craig? Too big to say 'hello' to a lady in the newsroom?"

"Not at all, Karen," I said. "Just hadn't had my breakfast yet." I turned and took a good long look. This was much nicer than having that ox Marimow in my office. She was 5-foot-5, pure hellcat, with mahogany hair and a pout of a smile. She was four-bell trouble, you could tell--and like most trouble in this world, there was no avoiding it. The question was: Why would you even want to?

I stood, stubbing out my butt in the Knight-Ridder ashtray I kept around for a laugh. "Hungry, doll? I could use a drink."

She gave me that smile, just as coy as you please, and nodded at the cup on my desk. "Haven't had enough?"

I came around and leaned in close, letting her know I meant business. "I never can seem to get my fill, baby. You know that." She stood her ground, purring softly, and breathed the sweetest words I'd heard in weeks: "Well, then. Why don't you and me blow this dump?"

Right then, of course, that oaf Marimow barged in. "LaBan! Heller! Cut it out! This is a daily newspaper, not an hourly motel! Take it somewhere else!"

"That's just what we were about to do--isn't it, sweetheart?" I said, putting my arm around her and brushing past the editor. "See you next week, Billy Boy."

"Goddamn you, LaBan! Goddamn you to hell!" he seethed. As we made for the elevator, I could feel the whole newsroom watching us, bemused.