THE INCIDENT AT THE VERBAL BAR

It began quietly enough. A few customers were scattered around the Verbal Bar and Grill, nursing wine or beer at the bar, nibbling on sandwiches at two or three tables. All enjoyed the atmosphere. Jerry had updated the place recently, changing all the scattered faxes and author pictures. He had put up a bulletin board and tacked book jackets of authors that haunted the place. Front pages of local newspapers on historic occasions were the wallpaper.

That evening, the sun was close to setting, and people were either hurrying home or meandering down the street perusing shop windows. Most customers in the grill worked nearby in one of the publishing houses or the paper a block away.

Then it happened.

A flamboyant couple flashed in. He wore a 20’s “zoot suit” in bright yellow and outrageous lapels. She was partially clothed in a bright red dress that covered less than a one piece bathing suit. They both wore tap shoes. They leaped into the room singing and began to dance.

Flash mob?

No one joined them. Flash duo?

I heard about it later than night.

I had no date that Friday evening, so I was looking for food and maybe a friendly face or two. Jerry came over and sat down opposite me, calling the waitress over as he did so. I ordered the strong dark roast coffee that was a specialty of the place and a hot beef sandwich.

“What’s happening, Jerry?”

He told me about the tap duo.

“How did it end?”

“How does any dance end? They did a flourish and a couple of guys clapped a little. Then they put their arms around each other and sort of danced out down the street. “

“People get happy.”

“They do.”

About that time Elmo the cop strode in brandishing his night stick at his side in all the glory of a patrolman on the beat. He marched over to our table and faced Jerry.

“What’s this I hear about Solomon and Sheba dancing through here?”

“Solomon and Sheba?” I interjected. “Like from the Bible? King Solomon and the Queen of Sheba?”- Elmo just looked at me. He had no clue.

“I don’t know about that. I just know we have two well dressed drifters wandering up and down the street doing some kind of stupid act..”

“So they’ve been elsewhere.”

“Oh, lots of places. Every joint from here to 10^th Street. Don’t seem to want anything. They don’t beg or explain. Just do their act and go on to the next place.”

“Seems harmless.”

“Yeah, but it’s spooky. Jerry, is anything missing? You missing anything from the cash register? Maybe somebody sneaks in during the distraction.”

“I’ll go look.”

He came back shaking his head. “I can’t be sure. We already banked the breakfast and lunch proceeds, so there wasn’t much cash in the drawer. If someone went into it, they couldn’t have taken more than ten or twenty dollars. Now, after seven tonight, they might take fifty or a hundred if we have a good take. We don’t count it up til we close, so we might not notice if the amount is small enough.”

“So if they did the same thing at eight or ten places…”

“Maybe with increasing steals, they could take in…five hundred?”

“What do you think, Shamus?” asked Elmo.

“Not a shamus or cop anymore. I’m specialized in grammar investigations. GI, not PI.”

“But it’s the Verbal Bar.”

“Yeah, and it’s my favorite watering hole. Maybe I’ll interview some people down the street if I can say the cops asked me to.”

Elmo stared at me. “I can’t help what anybody says and I can’t help what the other person believes. But if you turn up anything and keep it from me, I CAN run you in for obstructing an investigation.”

                                    ***   ***   ***   ***   ***

I walked down the street to the next joint, Harry’s. I’d never been there before, but the décor was modestly upscale like most of the neighborhood. No theme here, just a bar and grill. Like the Verbal at this time of day, a few people were leaning on the bar or at the tables with sandwiches. Tall thin guy at the counter.

“You Harry?”

“There is no Harry. I’m Alphonse and don’t laugh.”

“Wouldn’t think of it. Got coffee made?”

“Oh yeah. Pretty strong though.”

“Is there any other kind? Bring me a cup.”

The off white mug was big, and the coffee was good.”

“Good stuff, Alphonse. Got a question for you. Did a flashy couple come

dancing through here earlier tonight?”

“Oh, yeah. Literally waltzed in and looked like they were having fun. Didn’t order anything or ask for tips. Just whirled around a few minutes and were gone.”

“Where were you while this was going on?”

“I was standing over by that back table serving hamburgers and beer.”

“Could you see the register from there?

“Sure.”

“Could anyone have sneaked up there in all the commotion and slipped out a few bucks?”

“Don’t think so. I don’t like anyone getting behind my counter.”

“I was just in the Verbal talking to a cop. He wanted me to check out a few placed and see if anyone was missing any dough. Like maybe the two created a distraction while someone came in through the back and picked the till.”

“I’ll check, but there’s no way anyone could sneak in the back. The door is locked on the outside, and my cocker, Chuck, sleeps his life away except when someone comes into the kitchen. Then he sounds like he’s a real tiger.”

Alph walked to the register and rang it open.

“Nah. It looks ok to me.”

“Thanks a lot. Really good coffee. I’ll be back.”

Up and down the street I collected the same story. Maybe it was just a happy dancing couple.

                                      *** *** *** *** ***

I got to the Verbal the next night earlier than usual. I was nursing a cup of coffee and making some notes about a case. Then the dancing couple came in.

They burst through the door dancing and singing. I could just make out the lyrics:

“We want to happily dance,

We want to merrily sing.

Happily and merrily we want to vociferously sing and dance.

To vociferously sing!

Their dress was as wild as their dance and song. A fire engine red suit, yellow shirt, and red, yellow, and blue tie on the guy was matched by the gal’s bright patchwork in primary colors and swirling skirts. They exuded energy, enthusiasm, and deliberate elocution.

A weird idea began to tickle the back of my mind. Could it be? After all this WAS the Verbal Bar and Grill. Hmmm.

I rose from the table and blocked their path to the door.

“Solomon! Sheba” I pronounced loudly.

“Who are you?” Solomon asked.

“How do you know us?” added Sheba.

“Are you two English teachers in your day jobs?”

They looked at me, mouths actually agape. They looked at each other. Sheba giggled. “He knows.” Solomon laughted. They both laughed so hard they bent over double.

“You were scaring everybody silly. They thought you were running a scam to distract people while someone robbed the register.”

They looked at each other and at me. “No way!”

“Way. And you were only making a silly political statement.”

“You got that did you.”

“I got that. You hate split infinitives!”

“We do. And when someone figures it out – as you just did – the news will spread, and our point will be made. If you know a reporter, it could even get in the paper!”

I shrugged. “I see a reporter now and then, and you’re right. It might make a good story. Meanwhile, why don’t you just try out for Dancing With the Stars?”

THE INCIDENT AT THE VERBAL BAR

It began quietly enough. A few customers were scattered around the Verbal Bar and Grill, nursing wine or beer at the bar, nibbling on sandwiches at two or three tables. All enjoyed the atmosphere. Jerry had updated the place recently, changing all the scattered faxes and author pictures. He had put up a bulletin board and tacked book jackets of authors that haunted the place. Front pages of local newspapers on historic occasions were the wallpaper.

That evening, the sun was close to setting, and people were either hurrying home or meandering down the street perusing shop windows. Most customers in the grill worked nearby in one of the publishing houses or the paper a block away.

Then it happened.

A flamboyant couple flashed in. He wore a 20’s “zoot suit” in bright yellow and outrageous lapels. She was partially clothed in a bright red dress that covered less than a one piece bathing suit. They both wore tap shoes. They leaped into the room singing and began to dance.

Flash mob?

No one joined them. Flash duo?

I heard about it later than night.

I had no date that Friday evening, so I was looking for food and maybe a friendly face or two. Jerry came over and sat down opposite me, calling the waitress over as he did so. I ordered the strong dark roast coffee that was a specialty of the place and a hot beef sandwich.

“What’s happening, Jerry?”

He told me about the tap duo.

“How did it end?”

“How does any dance end? They did a flourish and a couple of guys clapped a little. Then they put their arms around each other and sort of danced out down the street. “

“People get happy.”

“They do.”

About that time Elmo the cop strode in brandishing his night stick at his side in all the glory of a patrolman on the beat. He marched over to our table and faced Jerry.

“What’s this I hear about Solomon and Sheba dancing through here?”

“Solomon and Sheba?” I interjected. “Like from the Bible? King Solomon and the Queen of Sheba?”- Elmo just looked at me. He had no clue.

“I don’t know about that. I just know we have two well dressed drifters wandering up and down the street doing some kind of stupid act..”

“So they’ve been elsewhere.”

“Oh, lots of places. Every joint from here to 10^th Street. Don’t seem to want anything. They don’t beg or explain. Just do their act and go on to the next place.”

“Seems harmless.”

“Yeah, but it’s spooky. Jerry, is anything missing? You missing anything from the cash register? Maybe somebody sneaks in during the distraction.”

“I’ll go look.”

He came back shaking his head. “I can’t be sure. We already banked the breakfast and lunch proceeds, so there wasn’t much cash in the drawer. If someone went into it, they couldn’t have taken more than ten or twenty dollars. Now, after seven tonight, they might take fifty or a hundred if we have a good take. We don’t count it up til we close, so we might not notice if the amount is small enough.”

“So if they did the same thing at eight or ten places…”

“Maybe with increasing steals, they could take in…five hundred?”

“What do you think, Shamus?” asked Elmo.

“Not a shamus or cop anymore. I’m specialized in grammar investigations. GI, not PI.”

“But it’s the Verbal Bar.”

“Yeah, and it’s my favorite watering hole. Maybe I’ll interview some people down the street if I can say the cops asked me to.”

Elmo stared at me. “I can’t help what anybody says and I can’t help what the other person believes. But if you turn up anything and keep it from me, I CAN run you in for obstructing an investigation.”

                                    ***   ***   ***   ***   ***

I walked down the street to the next joint, Harry’s. I’d never been there before, but the décor was modestly upscale like most of the neighborhood. No theme here, just a bar and grill. Like the Verbal at this time of day, a few people were leaning on the bar or at the tables with sandwiches. Tall thin guy at the counter.

“You Harry?”

“There is no Harry. I’m Alphonse and don’t laugh.”

“Wouldn’t think of it. Got coffee made?”

“Oh yeah. Pretty strong though.”

“Is there any other kind? Bring me a cup.”

The off white mug was big, and the coffee was good.”

“Good stuff, Alphonse. Got a question for you. Did a flashy couple come

dancing through here earlier tonight?”

“Oh, yeah. Literally waltzed in and looked like they were having fun. Didn’t order anything or ask for tips. Just whirled around a few minutes and were gone.”

“Where were you while this was going on?”

“I was standing over by that back table serving hamburgers and beer.”

“Could you see the register from there?

“Sure.”

“Could anyone have sneaked up there in all the commotion and slipped out a few bucks?”

“Don’t think so. I don’t like anyone getting behind my counter.”

“I was just in the Verbal talking to a cop. He wanted me to check out a few placed and see if anyone was missing any dough. Like maybe the two created a distraction while someone came in through the back and picked the till.”

“I’ll check, but there’s no way anyone could sneak in the back. The door is locked on the outside, and my cocker, Chuck, sleeps his life away except when someone comes into the kitchen. Then he sounds like he’s a real tiger.”

Alph walked to the register and rang it open.

“Nah. It looks ok to me.”

“Thanks a lot. Really good coffee. I’ll be back.”

Up and down the street I collected the same story. Maybe it was just a happy dancing couple.

                                      *** *** *** *** ***

I got to the Verbal the next night earlier than usual. I was nursing a cup of coffee and making some notes about a case. Then the dancing couple came in.

They burst through the door dancing and singing. I could just make out the lyrics:

“We want to happily dance,

We want to merrily sing.

Happily and merrily we want to vociferously sing and dance.

To vociferously sing!

Their dress was as wild as their dance and song. A fire engine red suit, yellow shirt, and red, yellow, and blue tie on the guy was matched by the gal’s bright patchwork in primary colors and swirling skirts. They exuded energy, enthusiasm, and deliberate elocution.

A weird idea began to tickle the back of my mind. Could it be? After all this WAS the Verbal Bar and Grill. Hmmm.

I rose from the table and blocked their path to the door.

“Solomon! Sheba” I pronounced loudly.

“Who are you?” Solomon asked.

“How do you know us?” added Sheba.

“Are you two English teachers in your day jobs?”

They looked at me, mouths actually agape. They looked at each other. Sheba giggled. “He knows.” Solomon laughted. They both laughed so hard they bent over double.

“You were scaring everybody silly. They thought you were running a scam to distract people while someone robbed the register.”

They looked at each other and at me. “No way!”

“Way. And you were only making a silly political statement.”

“You got that did you.”

“I got that. You hate split infinitives!”

“We do. And when someone figures it out – as you just did – the news will spread, and our point will be made. If you know a reporter, it could even get in the paper!”

I shrugged. “I see a reporter now and then, and you’re right. It might make a good story. Meanwhile, why don’t you just try out for Dancing With the Stars?”

THE INCIDENT AT THE VERBAL BAR

It began quietly enough. A few customers were scattered around the Verbal Bar and Grill, nursing wine or beer at the bar, nibbling on sandwiches at two or three tables. All enjoyed the atmosphere. Jerry had updated the place recently, changing all the scattered faxes and author pictures. He had put up a bulletin board and tacked book jackets of authors that haunted the place. Front pages of local newspapers on historic occasions were the wallpaper.

That evening, the sun was close to setting, and people were either hurrying home or meandering down the street perusing shop windows. Most customers in the grill worked nearby in one of the publishing houses or the paper a block away.

Then it happened.

A flamboyant couple flashed in. He wore a 20’s “zoot suit” in bright yellow and outrageous lapels. She was partially clothed in a bright red dress that covered less than a one piece bathing suit. They both wore tap shoes. They leaped into the room singing and began to dance.

Flash mob?

No one joined them. Flash duo?

I heard about it later than night.

I had no date that Friday evening, so I was looking for food and maybe a friendly face or two. Jerry came over and sat down opposite me, calling the waitress over as he did so. I ordered the strong dark roast coffee that was a specialty of the place and a hot beef sandwich.

“What’s happening, Jerry?”

He told me about the tap duo.

“How did it end?”

“How does any dance end? They did a flourish and a couple of guys clapped a little. Then they put their arms around each other and sort of danced out down the street. “

“People get happy.”

“They do.”

About that time Elmo the cop strode in brandishing his night stick at his side in all the glory of a patrolman on the beat. He marched over to our table and faced Jerry.

“What’s this I hear about Solomon and Sheba dancing through here?”

“Solomon and Sheba?” I interjected. “Like from the Bible? King Solomon and the Queen of Sheba?”- Elmo just looked at me. He had no clue.

“I don’t know about that. I just know we have two well dressed drifters wandering up and down the street doing some kind of stupid act..”

“So they’ve been elsewhere.”

“Oh, lots of places. Every joint from here to 10^th Street. Don’t seem to want anything. They don’t beg or explain. Just do their act and go on to the next place.”

“Seems harmless.”

“Yeah, but it’s spooky. Jerry, is anything missing? You missing anything from the cash register? Maybe somebody sneaks in during the distraction.”

“I’ll go look.”

He came back shaking his head. “I can’t be sure. We already banked the breakfast and lunch proceeds, so there wasn’t much cash in the drawer. If someone went into it, they couldn’t have taken more than ten or twenty dollars. Now, after seven tonight, they might take fifty or a hundred if we have a good take. We don’t count it up til we close, so we might not notice if the amount is small enough.”

“So if they did the same thing at eight or ten places…”

“Maybe with increasing steals, they could take in…five hundred?”

“What do you think, Shamus?” asked Elmo.

“Not a shamus or cop anymore. I’m specialized in grammar investigations. GI, not PI.”

“But it’s the Verbal Bar.”

“Yeah, and it’s my favorite watering hole. Maybe I’ll interview some people down the street if I can say the cops asked me to.”

Elmo stared at me. “I can’t help what anybody says and I can’t help what the other person believes. But if you turn up anything and keep it from me, I CAN run you in for obstructing an investigation.”

                                    ***   ***   ***   ***   ***

I walked down the street to the next joint, Harry’s. I’d never been there before, but the décor was modestly upscale like most of the neighborhood. No theme here, just a bar and grill. Like the Verbal at this time of day, a few people were leaning on the bar or at the tables with sandwiches. Tall thin guy at the counter.

“You Harry?”

“There is no Harry. I’m Alphonse and don’t laugh.”

“Wouldn’t think of it. Got coffee made?”

“Oh yeah. Pretty strong though.”

“Is there any other kind? Bring me a cup.”

The off white mug was big, and the coffee was good.”

“Good stuff, Alphonse. Got a question for you. Did a flashy couple come

dancing through here earlier tonight?”

“Oh, yeah. Literally waltzed in and looked like they were having fun. Didn’t order anything or ask for tips. Just whirled around a few minutes and were gone.”

“Where were you while this was going on?”

“I was standing over by that back table serving hamburgers and beer.”

“Could you see the register from there?

“Sure.”

“Could anyone have sneaked up there in all the commotion and slipped out a few bucks?”

“Don’t think so. I don’t like anyone getting behind my counter.”

“I was just in the Verbal talking to a cop. He wanted me to check out a few placed and see if anyone was missing any dough. Like maybe the two created a distraction while someone came in through the back and picked the till.”

“I’ll check, but there’s no way anyone could sneak in the back. The door is locked on the outside, and my cocker, Chuck, sleeps his life away except when someone comes into the kitchen. Then he sounds like he’s a real tiger.”

Alph walked to the register and rang it open.

“Nah. It looks ok to me.”

“Thanks a lot. Really good coffee. I’ll be back.”

Up and down the street I collected the same story. Maybe it was just a happy dancing couple.

                                      *** *** *** *** ***

I got to the Verbal the next night earlier than usual. I was nursing a cup of coffee and making some notes about a case. Then the dancing couple came in.

They burst through the door dancing and singing. I could just make out the lyrics:

“We want to happily dance,

We want to merrily sing.

Happily and merrily we want to vociferously sing and dance.

To vociferously sing!

Their dress was as wild as their dance and song. A fire engine red suit, yellow shirt, and red, yellow, and blue tie on the guy was matched by the gal’s bright patchwork in primary colors and swirling skirts. They exuded energy, enthusiasm, and deliberate elocution.

A weird idea began to tickle the back of my mind. Could it be? After all this WAS the Verbal Bar and Grill. Hmmm.

I rose from the table and blocked their path to the door.

“Solomon! Sheba” I pronounced loudly.

“Who are you?” Solomon asked.

“How do you know us?” added Sheba.

“Are you two English teachers in your day jobs?”

They looked at me, mouths actually agape. They looked at each other. Sheba giggled. “He knows.” Solomon laughted. They both laughed so hard they bent over double.

“You were scaring everybody silly. They thought you were running a scam to distract people while someone robbed the register.”

They looked at each other and at me. “No way!”

“Way. And you were only making a silly political statement.”

“You got that did you.”

“I got that. You hate split infinitives!”

“We do. And when someone figures it out – as you just did – the news will spread, and our point will be made. If you know a reporter, it could even get in the paper!”

I shrugged. “I see a reporter now and then, and you’re right. It might make a good story. Meanwhile, why don’t you just try out for Dancing With the Stars?”

Women Editors

WOMEN EDITORS

The two men sprawled in the steel-backed chairs before my desk. The older had a rugged face and wore a black leather jacket. The other wore a sport shirt under a sports jacket.

“How’d you get in?” I asked.

“Bernie taught me,” said leather jacket.

“Are you Bernie?” I addressed the sports jacket.

“No. I’m Bobby. He’s Larry.”

“Bernie’s out of a book.”

“I’m Dan Diamond,” I said, offering my hand.

“Larry Spenser,” said leather.

“Bobby Black,” said sports. His grip was firmer.

“What can I do for you guys?”

“Help us with the women.”

“Women?” I raised an eyebrow. (I had practiced in front of mirrors.)

“Women editors.”

“I don’t get it.”

“You’re not a writer. We’re writers.”

“See, we write detective novels, adventure novels. For years everything was fine. Then these publishers started hiring women editors.”

Leather broke in. “Yeah, and they want to make us all sissified. “
          “See, we write bare bones stuff, Ernest Hemingway stuff. Dashiell Hammet stuff. These gals come in and want us to DESCRIBE things.”

“Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do? I thought that was what writing was about.”

They looked at me like I had fallen off something nasty.

“Show, don’t tell.”

“Yeah, show, don’t tell. That’s the rule.”

“Look, we’ll write something like ‘Dirk Deadly walked into the room. He saw Phil Phearless behind his desk. Phil’s fist pointed a gun right at him.’”

“This was fine until the women. Now they shoot it back at us marked in blue pencil. ‘What were the men wearing? What kind of desk was it? Was it clear or what was on it. Describe the room.”

“Yeah, I asked her for an example – like how would SHE write it. It came back like this: ‘Dirk Deadly stood outside the door in his new Brooks Brothers navy pin stripe. He adjusted his navy rep tie against the baby blue shirt. A two pointed white handkerchief emerged from his suit pocket.

‘He turned the knob and opened the grey steel door to see Phil Phearless seated across from him behind his massive cherry wood desk The desk was cluttered with papers and bric-a-brac – pictures of wife and kids, several paper weights, two phones, and an intercom. Phil himself was in white shirtsleeves with red braces. With his collar unbuttoned and eyes bloodshot, he looked terrible. The Walther P38 clutched in his fist also looked terrible.’”

“You see, that’s garbage. Talk about clutter. They take our nice clipped language and inflate it into girl-talk.”

“Sissy lingo.”

“I see. But just what do you want me to do about it?”

“Make them stop!”

“Yeah, they need to publish stuff we write the way we write it. After all, we’re both best-selling authors.”

“But we won’t be best-selling long if they won’t publish us.”

“And I don’t want my name on no sissy stuff.”

I got up, went to the coffee pot, poured me a cup, and looked back at them. “So how do you think I ought to go about it?”

“We have no idea. You’re the investigator. Like the guys in our books, they wouldn’t stay in the private eye business if everybody knew how to do that stuff.”

I shoved a boiler-sheet rate schedule across the desk. “I’m not promising results.  I do promise I’ll think about it and try to find you a publisher that won’t mess with you so much.”

          ***    ***    ***    ***** ***    ***    ***

I tossed and turned that night. How could I get my teeth into this? I couldn’t even figure on a starting point to unravel this conundrum. Then I thought of Aggie Marple. She was the advertising gal in the commas case that literally unlocked the rollup doors that solved the case. Matter if fact, I often thought of Aggie Marple, and my thoughts had nothing to do with commas.

So the next morning after a slow start, I wandered up to the Metropolitan Advertising agency in all its weirdness. I threw a wave and the receptionist, who recognized me and didn’t try to intervene this time. (She learned the hard way it wasn’t worth it.) I knocked on Aggie’s door.

After a minute, she threw open the door, gave me a hug, and took me by the hand. “Over here. What do you think of this?” I looked at a poster with a picture of a new restaurant with vaguely happy people streaming in.” I have no idea.” That’s your department. Looks ok to me.” She grabbed up the poster and ripped it in two. “I didn’t think so either. What brings you here this morning?”

“I want to take you for coffee and run something by you.”

“OK. I need a break anyway.”

We went to the Verbal Bar, my favorite watering hole I’ve mentioned in the comma case.  We took a corner booth and read the badly copied fax on the table. Tonight's forum was on whether the Tea Party should be replaced by a Coffee Party or a Wine Party. At the Verbal all kinds of debates go on, both at the tables and on the stage. Gender, race, even punctuation don't matter. Neither does knowledge for that matter. The joint is fixed up with a radio - TV theme. Cast off mikes and even TV cameras are stuck here and there. Headlines are pasted on the walls, and news scripts torn off an old AP wire are scattered on the tables. Apart from that, it's a normal bar and cafe.

We both ordered coffee, and I described to her what the two tough writers had told me. “Are they telling it straight?” I asked. “Do editors do that sort of thing?”

“I have no clue. I’m in advertising, remember? These guys might have a great career with us. We need to punch out ideas in as few colorful words as possible.”

“So, what do I do?”

“Probably, you need to talk to the women who actually edit this stuff.”

“And that would be…?”

“Didn’t you talk to some others in the comma case before you came to me? In fact, didn’t one of them hire you?”

“You’re exactly right. She owes me, so I’ll start with her.”

***    ***    ***

Elizabeth Barrett’s blue eyes peered at me over the half glasses perched on her nose. She was Production Editor of Classical Books Limited, and she had been my first case since I specialized in Grammar Investigations.

“I have met both of those…gentlemen,” she replied.

“You don’t seem to like them.”

“Barbaric. Uncivilized. Now recognize I am an editor of books that have become classics or we think fall in the classical tradition. Hemingways they are not.

“They write poorly?”

“Let’s just say they don’t fit our style.”

“I guess what I’m asking is whose style would they fit? Who might publish them?”

“I have no idea,” the Barrett said. “You might try a more contemporary publisher, but they’re going to need to write better before anyone will put them in print.”

“Not so, Elisabeth. I googled both of them, and they are both best selling authors. Their problem came when their long term editor – a man – died, and the publishing house assigned a woman editor to their case, I mean account.”

“Really. I can’t imagine any junk like they write making a best seller list. Just shows the extent our literary taste has fallen. Reinforces our need for Classical Books!”

***    ***    ***    ***    ***

I was back in the panoramic office of Jaqui Nixon, who runs Contemprorary Publishers. The tall redhead held my attention in spite of the panoramic views of the city through the walls of glass. I laid out my problem.

“You say both of these guys are top ten writers and no one will take them?”

“Of course they will take them. They just want to edit them. Make them add stuff they don’t want to add. They don’t think so much description is necessary.”

“Everybody edits. It’s just part of the business.”

“They think the kind of editing their new women editors do detracts from the macho style of their adventures. They just want to say, ‘the guy pointed a gun at me,’ not the tall, ugly fellow with a suede jacket over the J Crew polo shirt aimed the blue steel revolver in my direction.’”

“I see their point. Still, if you don’t use some adjectives you’re not controlling the flow of thought at all. They could still have control over which descriptions. I mean, an editor wouldn’t make them give someone blue eyes rather than brown…unless of course, they had blue eyes in the last chapter.”

She paused and thought a few minutes, then looked up at me.

“Tell  you what. Give me a week. In the meantime, I’ll read a couple of their books. Then you can bring me a copy of the first chapter of their new manuscripts. I’ll read those, mark them up, then the three of you come in and let’s see if we can make a deal.

“One other thing.” She got up from behind the desk, opened a closet, and produced three books. “Give both guys one of these books and keep one for yourself. All three of you read one before you come in next week.”

I looked at the paperback. “Pelican? Never heard of him.”

“You need to, and more important, so do these guys. Go read.”

“Yes ma’am. See you in a week.”

***    ***    ***

Next day, Larry and Bobby were back in my office.

“Here’s the manuscript you wanted. First chap.”

“Yeah, here’s mine too. Now what did she say?”

“She said she was going to read a published book by each of you. Then she wanted to read these chapters. She’ll blue pencil them the way she would do it if she were editing your work for real. Then we’ll meet with her next week, let you look at the editing and talk about it, and maybe she can offer you a deal you’d like.”

The two writers looked at each other.

“Can’t hurt.”

“Gotta get published again.”

“We’ll do it.”

“One other thing. Each one of you guys take one of these and read it. I’ve already started, and it’s not bad at all.”

“What’s that all about?”

“I have no idea. I’m just passing on what Ms Nixon said. Go read.”

They looked at each other. They looked down at the books. They looked up at each other again and shrugged. They got up and left.

*** *** ***

The next week, the three of us men sat across from Jaqui Nixon in her plate glass office. She smiled radiantly enough that I melted and wondered whether it was all a planned technique.

“What did you gentlemen think of Mr Pelican’s writing?”

“Pretty good. Strong stuff,” said Larry.

“Yeah. Good plot too.”

“What about the descriptions…clothes and stuff,” Jaqui asked.

The guys looked at each other. “Not bad,” answered Larry. “He kept it in limits.”

“Was he tough enough for you,” she pushed.

“Yeah, pretty much,” Bobby chipped in.

“Now for the money question: can you guys write with the same degree of description?” She pushed on…”I know you can because I’ve read your books. At least in places you made me see the characters. In the chapters you submitted, you did sketch the outlines of the characters. Sometime I wanted more, but you can do it. Now here are your chapters back with proposed edits. Look them over and tell me what you think.”

The guys took their chapters, and silence fell while they scanned the blue markings.

Finally, Bobby said, “I can live with this. What about you, Larry?”

“Not the same as old Sam, but I guess any new editor would be different. Can we negotiate on some of these? Like cut description here to move on with the action if we add stuff somewhere else?”

“I’m sure we can on a case by case basis. That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?”

“Can you offer them a contract today?” I asked.

“Do you boys have an agent?” she asked.

“Never needed one with Sam. He always treated us right. We both got 10% of sales across the board.”

“I think we can do better than Sam if you keep selling. We’ll do 10% up to one hundred thousand copies and raise it to 15% past that. How does that sound?”

“Sounds great! Will you pay Dan for us too?”

“I don’t care who signs the check. I just want the cash.”

Another case closed. And oh, Jaqui and I went out to celebrate.

The Case of the Missing Commas

Perry Lassiter

“The commas are missing.”

Her blue eyes met mine across the desk.

“Commas? The only commas I know are punctuation marks.”

“Exactly,” she said. She held out a book by someone named Faulkner. “Find me a comma.”

The book cracked open. Fine binding, nice smell. I paged through the text. Lots of long sentences. Periods here and there – not enough of them I thought. No commas.

“Odd. I don’t see any commas at all.”

"That's because there aren't any. Faulkner wrote with commas, and we cheated a bit and added a few to make the text read a little more clearly. The galley proofs even have commas. But when the book was printed, the commas just disappeared."

“Very odd indeed.”

"Exactly right. My name is Elizabeth Barrett. I am Production Editor of Classical Books Limited, Incorporated. We are a small house and all of us pitch in. We publish few books but very distinguished books."

“Do you have any suspects? I mean any explanation?”

"’Suspects’ is correct, and we have one. I'm sure our rival Contemporary Publishers Incorporated, Limited are the culprits."

"Why them?"

"They like to publish writers in the Hemingway tradition. You know. Short sentences, few or no commas. They use lots of periods. I suspect they have come on a rare modern work full of commas. While they are oversupplied with periods, I suspect they are quite out of commas."

"So they stole yours so they could publish their book."

"Right. And I want you to stop them and get our commas back!"

*** *** *** *** *** *** ***

Contemporary Publishers Incorporated, Limited occupied the top three floors of a fancy mirrored skyscraper . I got light-headed riding up the elevator. Faster than lightning they advertise. Faster than my stomach anyway. I left the lift on the top floor and waited a minute for my breakfast to catch up.

The gold letters "CPI Inc.Ltd." marked the glass doors in front of me. One set on each door. Otherwise I would have walked right into the glass. They were that spotless. So was the receptionist's desk placed squarely in the center of the open space in front of me.

"May I help you, sir?" She asked.

"Who's boss of this outfit?"

"You mean the chief executive officer, the chief operating officer, the managing editor, or the chairman of the board?"

"Who's on top."

"Oh. That would be Ms. Jacquiline Nixon. "

"What's her title?"

"I'm not sure. I don't think anyone knows. She just showed up one day in the corner office and started running things. No one had the nerve to throw her out. Then the business just got better and better. So I guess we started paying her or something."

"Until you found you were flat out of commas."

Her hand went to her mouth. "You know about that."

"Yes ma'am. Now . . . which corner?"

"Why that one, but... You can't go . . ." She frantically hit some buzzers and came running after me. One shoe came off and she stopped to put it on again.

I turned the knob at one end of the room and kept walking. The hall ended at a door marked simply Nixon. Again, I just went in. The room was all windows. I was surrounded by the tallest buildings in the big city

The woman standing behind the desk took my eyes off the architecture. Her architecture was something else. She was as tall as I was, slim and red-headed with lips you wanted to lose yourself in.

"Ms. Nixon, my name is Diamond, and I'm looking for commas."

The door burst open behind me. The receptionist burst in, followed by two or three men and women. One of the men thought he was tough. I could tell by his eyes and the way he bared his teeth.

"It's all right, Shari. Gentlemen. Mr. Diamond and I have business to discuss. Sit down, Mr. Diamond." The others left without a word. Who was this woman?

"I like the way you just walked in. I did that myself a few years ago, and nobody had the cojones to throw me out. So I showed them how to run a publishing house, and we all made money. Who's paying you to look for commas?”

"Can't tell you who hired me, Ms. Nixon. Have you got the commas?"

"If I did, would I be standing here talking to you? Look at this." She picked up a book from her desk and flipped it spinning toward me. I grabbed it. Some writer I never heard of, Dashing Hamburger or something, as I recall. I looked through the book. I saw what my client had talked about. He wrote with many short sentences. But some of them were longer. And those longer sentences had no commas. In fact I found no commas in the book.

"You see, Mr. Diamond. We, too, want to know who is stealing the commas. We don't need many. But we don't have any. Periods, yes. But no commas. Not one. Who's stealing our commas, Mr. Diamond? Find them for us, and I will add to whatever reward the other publisher is paying you."

"Do you have any suggestions, Jacquiline? "

"Only one. The woman who manages Traditional or Classical Publishers or whatever. They use so many commas they might try to corner the market. Their old fashioned books need so many commas.."

"No, ma'am. They're in the same boat you are. Can't publish."

Suddenly, she grabbed me and looked deeply into my eyes. “Please, Mr. Diamond, find the commas for us!”

I said I'd be in touch and left.

Whew! Some woman! Some women! Where were all the mousy types you expect in publishing. Maybe I need a career change.

***** ***** *****

I went to the Verbal Bar, my favorite watering hole. I took a booth back in the corner and read the badly copied fax on the table. Tonight's forum was on sin taxes, those vicious taxes laid on alcohol, tobacco, and gambling by those who don't sin but do pay taxes. At the Verbal all kinds of debates go on, both at the tables and on the stage. Gender, race, even punctuation don't matter. Neither does knowledge for that matter.

The joint is fixed up with a radio - TV theme. Cast off mikes and even TV cameras are stuck here and there. Headlines are pasted on the walls, and news scripts torn off an old AP wire are scattered on the tables. Apart from that, it's a normal bar and cafe. Good burgers and chili. And the smell of the burgers told me I was hungry. I ordered one all the way with my usual giant cola on the side.

I pulled out my notepad and doodled and thought. What did I have? Two very different publishing houses and no commas. Each accused the other of stealing. If neither did it, who could be guilty? Live and learn, but I always thought there were plenty of commas to go around.

Phyllis brought my order and dropped it on my table. She was pitiful – stringy hair, lopsided skirt, bubble gum.

"Phyllis, have you seen any stray commas lately?"

She just looked at me and walked off. Then she stopped dead. Turned around and came slowly back.

"You said commas?"

"Yes."

"You were serious."

"Very"

"Matter of fact, I was noticing yesterday a whole lot of commas in an ad for Lester the Magician. Like all the tricks he does in his act? There were like maybe twenty of them and there were commas between every one of them. And I thought this was making me crazy. Why didn't they put them one under the other like sometimes they do you know, but they didn't, they were all in a list. You want to see?"

She was back in a minute with a slick color ad with a portrait surrounded by action shots and bold print with time, place, date, and prices.

"See. Right there, Mr. Diamond!" She stuck her hand triumphantly in the middle of the ad and right in front of my face. I gently removed her hand so I could see. Blast it if she wasn't right! The list with commas stood out crassly compared to the rest of the ad.

"Thank you Phyllis. You may have put me on to something."

In the lower corner of the ad was a copyright notice by Metropolitan Advertising Agency Limited and Incorporated. I finished my hamburger and scotch. I paid the bill and borrowed the phone directory. Then I hiked out for Metro Ad!

***** ***** ***** *****

Metropolitan Advertising had sleek modern offices on the bottom floor of another skyscraper. Their entrance sign looked something like this:

M e T r O P o l i T a N a D v E r T i S i N g

Or maybe they divided them UP aNd down a different way. It was dumb anyway they did it. Naturally the lobby had steel and white modern with touches of black.

The African-American receptionist in the white dress completed the scheme.

"I'm Diamond. I want to see your boss."

"Well I'm Ruby and I say you can't see her, dude. She doesn't see anyone who isn't a client."

"Oh yeah? How does she get clients? Which way is her office?"

"You can leave a card, dude, and I'll have someone get in touch with you. That's how it's done here."

"Well, that's not how I do it and that's not how I'm going to do it. Now tell me where her office is or I'm going to start opening doors until I find the right one."

"You can't do that, man."

"Watch me."

I walked past her, taking the back corridor to the end and opened the corner office on the back. Where else? And got a surprise.

This one was different. She was short and barefooted, wearing blue jeans and a paint-stained white t-shirt. She looked to be about twenty, but had a hairstyle about fifty years out of date - a "page-boy" bob with bangs. Brown hair and dark black eyes and restless energy. The room had no desk, just drawing boards on every side. Papers and drawings were scattered all over the floor and the girl/woman was sitting cross-legged in front of one of them. She twisted around to look up at me. I saw only amusement in her eyes.

"You came for the commas."

"Yes ma'am."

"How many do you need?"

"Hadn't thought about it. All of them I'd guess. Should be enough to go around."

"There are now." She looked past me at the helpless receptionist. "Alice, bring Mr. Diamond a chair."

"How did you know who I was?"

She giggled. The giggle fit her. "You're not the only person who can detect, you know," she said playing coy.

I sat down. "What do you mean 'There are now'?"

"I've got the commas stored in an old gymnasium we use as a warehouse. Normally we stock paper and all kinds of stuff there. Well, we were running low on commas and that fool Barrett woman had thousands more than she needed. Nobody reads that junk she publishes anymore anyway. So we borrowed them and put them in the back of the gym. But we found out something!" She clapped her hands together and her eyes flashed!

"They propagate!"

"They what?" I leaned forward.

"Yes!" She half crawled toward me and stood on her knees. Her eyes were shining. "I don't know how they do it. But where they covered just the back third of the building, now the entire gym is packed and running over." She jumped to her feet. "Come on, I'll show you."

She almost dragged me out of the building to her car.

The gym sat on the edge of town. Aggie Marple (age 33, I had found on the way) and I drove into the parking lot, and I could see she was right. Commas were scattered all over the pale concrete of the lot. Commas of all sizes. I bent over to look closely. There were thousands the size of newspaper commas. Some were so big you could see them ten feet away. I guess they were for advertising posters or billboards. They hadn't yet covered the ground, so we could still walk over them.

At the double doors to the gym she stopped. She had a key in her hands.

"I don't know what to expect, so get ready."

Aggie unlocked the door, and we stood to the side as she pulled it open. A rush of commas fell out and spread on the ground. Imagine a room full of those insane polyethylene "peanuts" they use for packing. The commas fell out the same way. We peered around the door and over the fallen heap of commas. We could see nothing beyond the space cleared by the falling punctuation marks. The gym was still packed almost full.

She looked at me and giggled.

"See. I told you so. What do we do now?"

"I'm sure you recognize I must call my client."

"Fine. Have her send a truck or two or three and come pick up all the commas she wants. I'm certainly not going to send them to her."

"What if she decides to prosecute?"

"On what grounds? Raping syntax? Felonious phraseology, or homicidal punctuation?"

"Good point. Let's discuss it over supper."

"And maybe a glass of wine afterwards."

"My place or yours?"