By Nina Siegal
Valerie Vane was once an up-and-coming way of life reporter at a in demand manhattan urban day-by-day. Then she stumbled, particularly publicly, and misplaced it all—her column, her fiancé, her entry in the back of the city's velvet ropes. Now she's at the obituary table writing loss of life notices, and it appears like a lifeless finish.
However, whilst she writes a couple of lately deceased once-famous graffiti artist, the telephone calls begin. A mysterious voice at the different finish of the road tells her the artist's loss of life was once a murder—and if she have been a true reporter, she'd examine.
But can Valerie exchange her stilettos for gumshoes?
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Additional resources for A Little Trouble with the Facts: A Novel
Cabeza, I thought. He’s followed me. I saw the green lantern of the subway stop and, just as I realized I was being paranoid, took the stairs quickly down. I pushed my key into the door on Broadway near Eightieth Street, and smelled fresh-baked bagels from the H&H bakery below. The foyer was dark and empty, the brown and tan tiles polished to a patent sheen. I collected my mail—nothing but circulars and bills—and began to climb the narrow stairway. The ﬁrst landing smelled of untended cats and I could hear the grunts of our resident Deadhead investment banker either catching the game or getting lucky.
Buzz smiled. ” After that talking-to, I followed Buzz’s advice and kept my stories lean as a triathelete. I avoided the promo specials, made sure my sources were sober and on the level, vetted my info with people The Paper had already quoted ten times, and made no mention of any camp, save the one to which Charles Rhode’s daughter went for tennis (which happened to be in Rhinebeck). As a result, my stories were dull as dust, but, at least, I was off the Corrections page. Not a single complaining call, not a single private conference.
They had to call my sources after they’d seen my item and say, “Gotham’s Gate is reporting X, Y, and Z. —I always had the answer. Because I wrote the answer. 32 | A Little Trouble with the Facts “I never knew how smart I was,” said Zip, pufﬁng a cigar, a few months later. “You’re the kid we’ve been looking for all these years. ” I rarely ate anything but canapés. I drank only promo specials. And soon enough, I found my crowd: a klatch of ﬂacks named Tammi, Jenni, and Nikki. They were all twenty-ﬁve, all blond, and they were all pretti and perki.
A Little Trouble with the Facts: A Novel by Nina Siegal