excolocrack | This month's star title: Set-Up For Scandal!

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pulp fictions

This month's star title: Set-Up For Scandal!

In the last installment...

June 1961 - Val flirts with James in front of Ted, but James manages to make it seem like he's after Val's job so Val shows him the door. James compounds his error by badmouthing Ted and Val to Beryl and Kate, and then seeming to hit on Genny. Bad day for James! Ted decides to ask out Genny to annoy James, and Genny, Val, Ted and Beryl all go out for dinner to discuss plans for a detective romance series. Meanwhile, Syl and Al go out for drinks and end up in bed together. And Kate and Tess go out dancing, where Tess is confronted by her ex-girlfriend - but Kate doesn't seem worried by what this tells her about Tess.

Friday, July 7th, 1961, the office

So Monday started with hearing that Ernest Hemingway had died on Sunday, and that's set the tone for the week. I've had a headache for two solid days that's only just starting to fade, mostly due to a printing crisis with one of our runs. Let's just say that in three places the word "duck" didn't start with a d... The censors are getting pretty strict about obscenities these days, so that started my headache, and then I had the usual author-induced stresses.

At least this detective romance we're putting together seems like it's got legs. I'm looking at the cover Genny's drawn. The streetlamp's got a good glow to it, and she's managed to make the lady sexy and wholesome at the same time - not easy. The guy's just your average lantern-jawed gumshoe, but that's fine. And Beryl's put together a good story, though I've got a few suggestions for amendments. She's a cooperative sort, though, so I don't mind meeting with her, unlike some of our writers. And I have to admit she's easy on the eye, which is a good distraction from my other emotional woes...

I loosen my collar, because it's a hot day. I'm dreading August. Hope I'll get away for a couple of weeks because the city will be unbearable. It's not the best night for black tie, but I'll be sweating in a tuxedo anyway because this evening there's the Popular Fiction Publishing Awards, which everyone in the pulp game in NYC goes to - less for the prizes and more for the canapes and the gossip. There's always gossip. Me, I'm just going to enjoy the free champagne.

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No desire at all to go to this shindig tonight. Just want to go home and sit in front of the fan with a cold beer or several. Wouldn't even want to go out on the town with Val after the week I've had, though I wouldn't say no to him stopping by. Weather's not bad enough yet that the thought of sweaty fucking is unbearable.

Needs must as Management drives, though. Scratch my jaw - I'll need a shave before I go anywhere, and a good shower too. Look respectable for the company and my date. Just get through tonight and I can take it easy the rest of the weekend.

Edited 2011-09-23 00:57 (UTC)

Having managed to get a date (http://excolocrack.livejournal.com/19979.html?thread=3434507#t3434507) with Beryl, I feel less like a lovesick loser and so stroll down to Ted's office feeling quite cheerful. I sort of hope he'll be jealous, though really I should get past that sort of thinking.

"You napping in here?" I say, barging into his office and dropping into the chair opposite his desk.

"You napping in here?"

"I was." Sound grumpy, but I'm smiling at him a bit too. Think we've settled it a comfortable sort of thing, the last few weeks. Know how he feels about me, and he knows I know. Even let him fuck me that once. Teach me to bet against him on a baseball game.

Knows I care about him.

"Having nightmares about this shindig tonight."

"Yeah?" I stretch my legs out. Way he smiles at me always gives me a bit of a twinge. Stupid. "I thought you'd be pleased, free booze and all that. And I heard you've got a date. Fess up, who is she? Typing pool?" I lean back in my chair. "Asked Beryl Graves," I say, all feigned casualness. "She said yes, so that's good."

"And I heard you've got a date. Fess up, who is she? Typing pool?" Going to answer offhand when he says, "Asked Beryl Graves. She said yes, so that's good."

"Yeah? Thought you two were getting on well." Sound pretty indifferent, I think. "Taking Genny Duvall myself. Sweet little thing." Is he fucking Beryl Graves? Nah, he'd've told me. And wouldn't've been worried she'd say no.

"Less chance," I add, shrugging one shoulder, "of getting into her panties than the girls from the typing pool, but she's got a bit more class."

Edited 2011-10-02 02:33 (UTC)

"Yeah? Thought you two were getting on well." Does he care? Why do I care if he cares? I'm an idiot. "Taking Genny Duvall myself. Sweet little thing. Less chance of getting into her panties than the girls from the typing pool, but she's got a bit more class."

Feel my mouth go a bit tight. She must be all of nineteen years old, Christ, Ted.

"I suppose she's your type," I say blandly.

"I suppose she's your type."

Son of a bitch. About to say back, just as mild and pointed, More than some, yeah, but. We talked about that, the first night he fucked me, the night I had to get drunk and let him knock me down and hit me and spit in my face before I could let him do it. Before I could - enjoy it, and jesus fuck I am not going to think about that here.

So my voice's still soft but not vicious when I say, "Always have had a type with girls, yeah." What was it he said about me and his type? A good enough fit, that was it. Two steps forward, one step back: that's me and Val. Don't know what the fuck I'm doing. And I think he likes Beryl Graves. Could be a good match. Be good for him, I think.

"Don't think she reads poetry." Add that offhand. He fucked me and we ate bad Chinese food and talked - and talked and talked, about the war, about people we'd loved, about what his dad did to him, and he told me he writes poetry, sometimes. Showed me, and -

Fuck, 'm tired. "Want a drink?" A peace offering, a bit.

"Always have had a type with girls, yeah. Don't think she reads poetry." And I don't know whether that's meant to hurt or to comfort me. I don't know, and it's fucking aggravating, the way sometimes we just get each other, so easily, and then other times I'm scrambling in the dark. Scrambling after him, and I hate that about myself, sometimes.

"Teenage girl in an art department? Of course she reads poetry," I say, just mildly. Remember my old man's fist in my face. You're a little girl, Val, and thinking about how the real little girl across the way was killed by her father, head caved in. That hot summer.

"Want a drink?"

"Yeah, why not."

"Teenage girl in an art department? Of course she reads poetry."

Reckon she's older than that, but I let it go. Probably trying to get to me. "If she writes it," I say dryly, "I don't think I want to read it. Probably worse than the drivel that comes across my desk." Not like his.

Pour him a drink, one for myself. Rub my face a bit: eyes're hurting. Must be the light in here. Always seem to end up with an ache behind my eyes at the end of a long day now.

Just want to go home, put my feet up. Go to bed (and when did I start thinking about sleeping with my arm wrapped round Val, like we have a couple of times?). "Miss Graves seems to be doing well on her latest," I offer. "Talking of writers."

"If she writes it. I don't think I want to read it. Probably worse than the drivel that comes across my desk."

Smile a bit at that, cos I think, in Ted's stupid way, he's letting me know he's thinking of me.

"I submitted something," I say after a minute, finger circling the top of my glass. "A new thing. Well, newish. Been fiddling with it for a few weeks now." Take a sip of my whisky.

"Miss Graves seems to be doing well on her latest. Talking of writers."

"Beryl's got talent," I say. "And she works hard. The combination's pretty rare in pulp." Should probably say something about Genny, I guess, so: "the art for the cover's looking great. Genny's more of an artist than you'd think, looking at her." She gives the impression of being the kind of girl you'd get to draw greetings cards, but there's more to her than that.

Stretch out my legs a bit.

"Not looking forward to having to wear a tux tonight. And you know how I like to dress up." Roll my neck a bit. "Will be thinking a lot about getting undressed, I think." Slight twitch of a smile.

Watching his finger move round his glass. Nervous? "I submitted something." Yeah, nervous, or close enough. "A new thing. Well, newish. Been fiddling with it for a few weeks now."

"Yeah? Good." Don't ask to read it, Irons. Don't push. "Where'd you submit it?" Want to say something like if it's as good as the others you don't need to worry, but it sounds wrong. Like something I'd say to an author we were trying to sign.

Nod at what he says about Genny. "Enjoys her work, too. Which's a change around here." Particularly around me. Tess, for one.

...look at that smile. Hardly there, but. "Will be thinking a lot about getting undressed, I think."

Raise my eyebrows, but I'm teasing, now, more than anything. "With the talented Miss Graves?" Hoping not, though I can't say that here.

"The Antioch Review (http://www.newpages.com/literary-magazines/antioch_review.htm)," I say. "Bit of a risk. Will probably reject it." Not sure what got into me, submitting to an established journal like that. I think it helped, showing him my other poetry, those two poems I got published. Knowing that he thought they were good. I've never shown them to anyone I - care about, before.

And then he has to spoil that, of course, by asking:

"With the talented Miss Graves?"

Jesus, Ted, do you want me to sleep with her? I look at him for a moment.

"I don't think she's the kind of girl to sleep with someone on a first date," I say mildly. "Not a bad idea, though. Depends, I suppose, on what else I could be doing."

"The Antioch Review. Bit of a risk. Will probably reject it."

Considering sort of nod: not agreeing that they'll reject it, just thinking it over. "If they do, this time," I say, "try them again." He's good enough. Not sure why it's hard to add, "Think what you showed me was good enough. Though," and I smile a bit, "maybe you should take that with a pinch of salt, given that I'm editing this - " stir up the papers on my desk, "rather than a literary magazine."

Gives me one hell of a pissy look when I mention Beryl Graves. Sore point, is it? Wonder if she's turned him down before. "I don't think she's the kind of girl to sleep with someone on a first date." It's a date, then, not a convenience. Knew it. "Not a bad idea, though. Depends, I suppose, on what else I could be doing."

Feel irritated, then: what, so he'll sit and weigh up which of us he'd rather be doing? --for fuck's sake, Irons, stop that. The man said he loves you. Don't be more of a dick than you have to.

"Doubt finishing up the beer in my fridge and passing out on the couch holds the same appeal." But I'm fighting a smile, and I reckon he can see.

Smile a bit at what he says about my poetry. Makes me feel - I don't know. Valued or something. Stupid.

"Doubt finishing up the beer in my fridge and passing out on the couch holds the same appeal."

He's smiling a bit, and I shake my head at him.

"If you think that, you're even more stupid than you appear," I say, "which is quite the feat." Smile and stretch my legs out. Would always pick being with you, you idiot.

"If you think that, you're even more stupid than you appear, which is quite the feat."

Something in me relaxes. The quicksand feeling's still under it, being out of my depth, but I'm - getting used to it. Hide my smile in my whiskey glass. "Miss Graves' reputation is safe for another night, then," I say drily. "If she has one left after being squired around by a philanderer like you."

Look at him lolling in his chair and shake my head a bit. "And talking of reputation, I guess we'll see if Anderson feels the need to leap to Miss Duvall's defence again. Quite the white knight, that one." My voice is very dry, remembering his behaviour the last time I took Genny somewhere.

Edited 2011-10-02 20:12 (UTC)

"Miss Graves' reputation is safe for another night, then. If she has one left after being squired around by a philanderer like you."

I snort.

"Everyone knows I'm the soul of discretion," I say. I never talked about Tess and me, for one thing. Oh, of course people knew we went out together, and I was glad enough for that sort of news to get around, but I certainly didn't gossip about it. I think Beryl knows I'm not the sort of man to do that.

"And talking of reputation, I guess we'll see if Anderson feels the need to leap to Miss Duvall's defence again. Quite the white knight, that one."

I laugh.

"That's one way of putting it. The man has the most spectacular way of shooting himself in the foot. I wonder how long before Westin Sagert finds a way to fire him."

"Everyone knows I'm the soul of discretion."

"Well, yes," I say mildly. Know that better than anyone, don't I.

Snort at what he says about Anderson. "Man's got a talent. But I don't know. Can Sagert even piss without that wife of his holding his dick for him?" Know I'm being unfair - man does his job - but Faith Sagert's a piece of work. A hot piece, but still. "But I reckon Anderson'll get his ass kicked out one way or another." Remember how he was looking at Val, and my lip curls a bit.

I laugh at what he says about Mrs Sagert.

"I don't know. Might not mind her holding my dick if I were him," I say, and I grin. Faith's the kind of girl you have fun with, not the kind you marry, so how Westin ended up hitched to her has been a source of endless speculation and amusement to us. My theory is that she just told him they were getting married, and he was too stunned to argue.

"But I reckon Anderson'll get his ass kicked out one way or another."

I have to say I like the way his lip curls. I do always like Ted being - fierce.

"I'm just surprised he hasn't been arrested," I say. The way he carries on. No discretion. I shake my head. "Never mind him," I say, finishing my whisky. "I've got more pleasant things to think about." I lick a drop of whisky from my top lip and settle back in my chair, put my feet on Ted's desk.

Me and Val and Faith. There's a thought. Looks the sort to run around behind Sagert's back. Wonder if she does. "Can't say I'd mind that," and it's not clear if I mean her holding mine or his. I'd watch that. Still, best not to shit where you eat. Typing pool's one thing, another man's wife's another.

"I'm just surprised he hasn't been arrested." 'S why I worry about him round Val. Even a hint that he's going to get Val into trouble and I'll break the little bastard's nose for him. Or his neck.

Val distracts me from the thought, feet in my papers and tongue touching his top lip. "I've got more pleasant things to think about."

"Publishing Awards," I say. "Better than a cold shower." Tap the sole of his shoe with my pen. "Move, you're on the Duchess." Raise my eyebrows at him, and the corner of my mouth quirks up. Can think of places I'd rather he was.

"Publishing Awards. Better than a cold shower. Move, you're on the Duchess."

"Like half the men in England, based on what you've said about the books," I say. Look at him smiling, though, and lower my voice a touch. "There're probably better reasons I could be on a desk, I suppose," I say idly, and then swing my legs down.

"There're probably better reasons I could be on a desk, I suppose."

Fucking tease. Always has been, even before we were - fucking. Give him a long dark look. You wait until later, Lackford. Might not have a desk at home, but there's a few places I can put you.

"I should finish this up," I say, reluctant. Pinch the bridge of my nose hard because my eyes still hurt. "Want to get it done so I can go home and shower before I have to stuff myself into that fucking monkey suit."

"Alright," I say, standing up. The way he looked at me has got me thinking quite hard, though. Yes, I think that's an apt way to put it. "I'll see you at the shindig."

I head off back to my own office. Not a bad afternoon, in the end.

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This month's star title: Set-Up For Scandal!

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