By Nina Siegal
Valerie Vane was once an up-and-coming way of life reporter at a fashionable ny urban day-by-day. Then she stumbled, fairly publicly, and misplaced it all—her column, her fiancé, her entry at the back of the city's velvet ropes. Now she's at the obituary table writing loss of life notices, and it seems like a lifeless finish.
However, while she writes a few 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 alternate her stilettos for gumshoes?
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Additional info for A Little Trouble with the Facts: A Novel
I lifted the ice tray out of the freezer, cracking it hard. The Russian landlord had left me a bottle of Vladimir, as some kind of welcome gift. I’d saved it for a moment like this, when I wanted to leap headlong off the wagon. So what if it wasn’t top shelf ? I poured some vodka into the martini shaker. Then I remembered the grenadine, but I didn’t have any. So I poured out some of the juice from the maraschino cherry jar. No vermouth, either, but I had a tad of cooking sherry, so I waved it over the top of the shaker, and rattled it up fast.
I shook my head. I didn’t need any lubrication. If he was going to chide me, I’d take it dry. “I want to go over something with you,” he said, taking out a marked-up copy of my most recent story on Nora Sumner, the editor in chief of the glossiest fashion glossy in town. ” “Oh, I get it,” Buzz said ﬂatly. “I’m familiar with the term. That’s just not what we call one of our media colleagues. ” “Sure,” I said, and swallowed. “Okay, now. We’re talking here about a rumored affair with an unnamed millionaire fund-raiser for the Democratic Party.
I went back to the kitchen and poured myself a third Vanitini as the soundtrack swelled. I drank that one standing up. Pouring myself another, I moved to the couch and kicked off my shoes. A city skyline full of bright lights. The camera comes up on the back end of a printing press as workers throw stacks of newspapers into delivery trucks. Blaring horns grow louder as Night Rewrite | 45 the truck bumps through Times Square, past the blinking canadian club sign, past the hot lights showing off showgirls, past the dime stores and all-night hot dog stands.