Death of the Office Witch Read Free Page B

thing workable. And of course by that time it doesn’t look a hell of a lot like her script and practically nothing like her book. Shit, I just work here.”
    â€œSo what about the adverbs, damn it?”
    â€œAdverbs, she says, are a product of a weak verb needing shoring up. Okay, I say, so give me strong verbs—see, when I cut her stuff I used adverbs to tighten up, replace whole phrases. But instead of giving me a word to replace them and the weak verb, she gives me whole sentences, and there we go again and the script’s still too long. And, Charlie, it’s mostly just in the stage directions anyway, like ‘Mike walks slowly into the horse barn and stares accusingly at Sally Jean. Sally Jean is frantically putting her clothes back on.’
    â€œAnd we haven’t even got to the polish yet. When we have a shooting script it’ll be all jerked around anyway, so what’s the fucking difference? We got to take out pages, pal. But no, she says, it will have my name on it and adverbs are sloppy writing and don’t you ever read reviews, she says. Christ, Charlie, I was hired to do a job. I did it, and Lady Macbeth can only moan, ‘Out, damn adverb.’ Well, I feel for you, Charlie, and I know this is going to mess up your day, but good little Keegan is going to have to let you down. I’ve had it with this project. My dues are paid up at the Guild. I’ll collect what I’m owed. Screw the rest.” And with that, one of Charlie’s most profitable and dependable clients got up and left the patio of the Polo Lounge. And Lady Macbeth never did return from the can.
    Having nearly wrecked the Toyota berthing it in its special stall under the FFUCWB of P, Charlie raced to the public elevators only to find them out of order. She noticed the shrink from her floor heading for the private VIP stairs, which were almost hidden beyond a concrete slab that presumably helped hold up the building.
    â€œDr. Podhurst? Can I go up your way? Elevator’s down again.” And I can’t wait to chew out my boss.
    Dr. Podhurst turned to study her with a perplexed expression. His coat sleeves always seemed too short. He reminded Charlie of a balding Abraham Lincoln.
    â€œCharlie Greene,” she reminded him. “With Congdon and Morse down the hall? I’m in kind of a hurry and—”
    â€œCharlie, yes.” He shook his head but didn’t smile. He never smiled. It was creepy. “I was a million miles away. I shouldn’t be driving,” he joked forlornly, holding open the VIP door for her.
    Charlie hoped Gloria was back at her desk. The place was a zoo without Gloria. Was her car still downstairs? Charlie hadn’t thought to notice this time. She and Gloria didn’t get along that well, but her workdays certainly ran a lot smoother with someone on the front desk to help organize them.
    Besides, I need Larry.
    She was still so heated up over the fiasco at the Polo and Richard Morse’s underhanded conniving she could hear her shoes stomping instead of stepping up the stairs. She was panting by the third floor landing. The good doctor was humming under his breath. His private door was across the hall from the fifth-floor entrance, and when she turned to thank him someone whispered, “Charlie, I’m in the trash can. Help me.”
    Charlie grabbed the shrink’s short coat sleeve, and stopped them both mid-step. “Did you hear something?”
    â€œHear something, did you say? I don’t think so … but I’m afraid my hearing is deficient. In fact I’ve just been to see a specialist—Charlie, your color isn’t looking too good. Perhaps you took the stairs a bit too fast. Here, come into my office and sit.”
    â€œDo you happen to have a trash can in your office? Is there usually one sitting at this end of the hall?” That’s the second time I’ve heard that call for help. Could I have