White Collar Girl Read Free Page B

still can’t believe it
. “That ever happen to you?”
    â€œI don’t believe so. No.”
    â€œYou crack open an egg and there’s two yolks. I mean what are the odds? Like finding a four-leaf clover.”
    â€œAw, shut up over there with the yolks already,” said Walter.
    But Benny kept going. “I think that’s gotta mean something, don’t you? Like today’s my lucky day or something.”
    â€œIt’ll be your lucky day if I don’t come over there and shut your trap. And yours, too,” Walter said to Randy, who was still singing the Winston jingle even though his radio was blasting
Talent Scouts
with Arthur Godfrey.
    A few minutes later Marty came back to his desk, muttering, “Subpoena me, my ass. . . .” He opened his top drawer and slammed it shut, knocking over the pencil cup on top. “I’m not going to jail over this, either. My word is my word.”
    â€œHey, Marty,” said Walter. “You gonna burn your source or what?”
    â€œFuck off.” Marty shoved his typewriter stand with such force it capsized and crashed to the floor. I gasped as papers, pens and everything else went flying. Marty didn’t flinch. He stepped over the carnage, grabbed his hat and stormed out of the city room.
    â€œIs he okay?” I asked, speaking through a splay of fingers.
    â€œWho, Marty?” Peter lifted his green eyeshade off his brow and rubbed his temples. “Oh, yeah, sure. Yeah, he’s fine. Just been under a lot of pressure lately is all.”
    â€œGive me a hand with this mess, will you?” M asked.
    I scampered around to the side and helped her put Marty’s desk back together. Funny, but not one of the men bothered to break from their work. It was assumed that we women would do the cleaning up. Not that I minded. After all, it was Marty Sinclair’s desk.
    I straightened up a fan of tricolored copy paper that recorded every word in triplicate. The top sheet was white—the original. The yellow page in the middle went to the editor, and the third sheet—the pink one—went to the copy editor.
    â€œWhat was that all about?” I asked M, who was still down on all fours, reaching for the pencil holder that had rolled under Marty’s desk.
    â€œMr. Copeland and Mr. Ellsworth want him to reveal his source for some story that ran the other day.”
    â€œCan they do that?” I’d always thought sources were protected, off-limits.
    â€œWell, it looks like he might be subpoenaed. Turns out that the identity of his source is becoming quite a news story all by itself.”
    I scooped up a handful of paper clips and stood up.
    â€œFive bucks says he caves.” Walter snorted as he gripped his pipe with his back teeth, struck a match and sucked the flame into the bowl.
    â€œI don’t know about that.” Randy tucked a pencil behind his ear. “You think he’ll give up his source?”
    â€œBe a goddamn stupid move on his part.” Walter shook out the match and dropped it in a paper coffee cup.
    â€œNah,” said Peter. “I think you’re wrong.”
    â€œMarty’s a stand-up guy,” said Henry, reaching into the cereal box for another handful of Frosted Flakes. “He won’t burn his source.”
    â€œFive bucks,” said Walter, reaching into his wallet. “Who’s in?”
    I was watching the betting go down when Mrs. Angelo came back to my desk and handed me a list of names. “I’ll have you start by verifying these.”
    As I skimmed the list, my eyes landed on surnames like Preston and Vanderbilt, Crown and Rothschild.
    â€œIt’s the Mortimer wedding,” Mrs. Angelo explained. “That’s the bridal party. I need you to check the spellings and confirm middle initials, titles—that sort of thing.”
    After Mrs. Angelo went back to her desk, M handed me the current copy of the Social