The Girls in the High-Heeled Shoes Read Free Page B

receptionist when there was any receiving to be done; and there was me. Gloria, whom I privately think of as the Ice Princess, is blond, five-foot-two, beautiful, and of indeterminate age. She can’t be as young as she looks, and she looks far too young to be as knowledgeable and self-assured as she is. (If Gloria were to read that last sentence she would red-pencil it heavily and write something about “balance” in the margin. But I think it means what I think I want to say, so I think I’ll just leave it alone.)
    I got into the office about ten-thirty, nodded hello to Gloria, who was behind her desk in the front room, carefully hung up my tan British trench coat, which gives me that air of elan that I otherwise lack, and tossed my dark brown fedora on the hat tree. Gloria looked over my suit and gave me an approving nod. She thinks that people should always dress as though they are in imminent danger of meeting their maker, and will be judged 20 percent on their good works and 80 percent on their tailor. “Are there any news?” I asked her.
    “Not a new,” she responded. “But here’s the mail.” She indicated a wicker basket stuffed with envelopes on one side of her desk. It is part of my job to sort the mail and answer that part of it not destined for other ends. I took the basket and retreated to my little cubbyhole office in the short hall between Gloria’s well-appointed reception room and Brass’s vast sunlit chamber with a view of the Hudson River, which flowed past some three blocks away for Brass’s personal amusement.
    Brass came in about an hour later and settled in his office. I brought him the three letters that he had to look at, and placed them carefully on the blotter in front of him. He was staring out the window at the passing scene. A couple of old four-stack destroyers were puffing their way up the Hudson, working their way past two tugs that were pushing a long row of barges the other way. It was very nautical. Inspired, I snapped to attention and saluted. “Good morning, Commodore Brass,” I said. “Ensign DeWitt reporting for instructions.”
    “Good morning, Mr. DeWitt.” He turned to look at me. “Go keelhaul the mizzenmast. And don’t annoy me until at least twelve bells.”
    “Aye, aye, sir,” I said. I did a smart about-face and went back to my office to begin answering the stack of letters. A little while later I heard the steady clatter of Brass’s Underwood typewriter over the intermittent clacking of my own. It was a sweet sound, the sound that paid my salary as well as that of Gloria and Garrett. It also kept Brass well supplied with those toys that made his life worth living. In addition to the cars—he now had six—he had recently developed an interest in science and scientific instruments. A couple of months ago he had purchased a six-inch reflecting telescope from a pawn shop—Brass was fascinated by pawn shops—and had installed it on the terrace of his Central Park South apartment. Last Tuesday night, he showed Gloria and me the moons of Jupiter with paternal pride. He had some old maps of Manhattan, purchased from a Cortlandt Street dealer, and was tracing the island’s early streams and water-courses to find out what happened to them as the city spread its concrete around and over the original landscape. What, if anything, he intended to do with the water when he found it I don’t know.
    About an hour after the typing started, he called me in to pick up the column, triple-spaced just like a real reporter would type it, and bring it to Gloria for copy editing and fact checking. I was expected to read it and comment if I saw anything I didn’t like, but usually he just glared at me or shook his head sadly when I did. Gloria’s opinion he respected, mine he tolerated.
    I paused at Gloria’s desk to see if he had included anything about Two-Headed Mary. The opening piece said nice things about Senator Huey Long, who was not expected to live out the day.