A Little Trouble with the Facts by Nina Siegal Read Free Book Online Page B

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. To test the green LEDs, they had turned the wall of lights all green.
    Blinded, I took a few steps back and bumped into something. I thought it was a fire hydrant until I saw Battinger. She was standing in front of the building having a smoke, and I’d stepped on her toes. “Valerie,” she said, wincing and pulling her foot away.
    “Oh!” I said. “I’m so sorry.”
    She looked down to assess the damage.
    “Nothing a little polish won’t fix,” she said. But she didn’t mean it.
    Battinger had never liked me, not since the first day I steppedinto The Paper’s marble foyer. She’d been opposed to hiring a twenty-six-year-old straight from a glossy. She didn’t like my five-thousand-word piece on personal party planners. She told me she “couldn’t follow the thread” of my story on fit models for thongs. When I had trouble with my features, she was the first to tally up my corrections. By the time of the Incident, I’d already depleted whatever sense of humor she had left.
    It made no sense that Battinger was outside having a smoke. Her shift had ended hours earlier, a few squawks after she’d finished with Rood. I wondered if she couldn’t find a bar like any other self-respecting alkie. “So are we finished with this LaShanniah business now?” she said.
    “Yeah. I think Curtis got us out of the woods.”
    “I hope so.” She took a long drag off her butt. “It’s why we put young people like you on the Obit desk, you know. To keep abreast of this new generation.”
    She looked about to spit. We both knew the real reason they put people like me on Obits. Battinger stubbed out the last of her cigarette on the hydrant. “I got a call today from some character who wouldn’t leave his name. Said he was interested in an obit that ran today. Unbylined. I told him that probably meant you wrote it. You hear from him?”
    I swallowed. “Yes, I think so.”
    “Think so?”
    “Yes, I talked to him.”
    “Any problem there?” she said. She stared me dead in the eyes.
    “No. He just had some questions.”
    “He sounded like he might be upset about something.” 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? Guy was damn curious.”
    That raccoon coat started to weigh tons.
    “I guess you spoke to him,” she continued when I didn’t answer. “So, if it’s a problem, I’m sure we’ll hear about it tomorrow. Meantime, you’re looking a little haggard. You should get some zzzz’s.”
    “You too,” I said, and then tracked back. “I’m beat.”
    But the truth was, I was as alert as a hummingbird. I wanted to know what Cabeza had told Battinger. Had he already sold me out? She walked past me and, maybe sensing this question, looked back before she hit the revolving door. “Anything else?”
    “No. No, Jane. Mrs. Battinger. Have a good night,” I said.
    “Good,” she said. “Hopefully that’s the last of it.”
    “Hope so.” I turned quickly on my heel and headed west.
     
    On another night like this, nearing midnight with the sky so phosphorescent, I probably would’ve called a private car to dash me off to Asia de Cuba for grilled baby octopus and balsamic portabellos. In my Style days. Or if I was feeling chatty, I might’ve headed down to Chelsea to meet the post-art-opening crowd at Lot 61 to sit on a high stool and flirt with the gay barman.
    Tonight, I had nowhere to go, nothing to do. I heard the patter of feet, the crunch of rubber through wet potholes, the burst of horns forcing their way out of Times Square. I moved into the crowd toward Eighth Avenue.
    A group of