By Nina Siegal
Valerie Vane was once an up-and-coming way of life reporter at a widespread ny urban day-by-day. Then she stumbled, quite 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 dying notices, and it sounds like a lifeless finish.
However, whilst she writes a couple of lately deceased once-famous graffiti artist, the telephone calls commence. A mysterious voice at the different finish of the road tells her the artist's demise 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
Night Rewrite | 37 I took a step closer and looked at Travis’s screen. It was Mullets Galore, a Web site honoring Midwestern eighties hair. Randy was rapt. ” he said, without looking at me. ” I asked. “Oh, right, yeah, I . ” “Pretty cool, Val,” he said, standing up straight so I could get the whole length of him. Randy was a six-foot-three-inch matchstick with a cap of red hair. His byline, R. Horacio Antillo, had the sound of a hard-bitten scribe, but he was just a Williamsburg trust-fund hipster who wore his sideburns two inches too thick.
I found clippings about the city’s oldest families and the rise of the nouveau riche. I jotted notes from Forbes and Fortune, Us and W, Interview and Details. Between admin duties at Gotham’s Gate, I searched the Internet for Mormonstyle genealogies of Manhattan family trees. I tacked a map to my wall and marked off notable natives and recent arrivistes. I connected dots, and I followed my own routes, until I could’ve led a Hollywood-style Starline tour. And then I did the tour. I pressed my nose to the glass at Pravda and Pastis, observing how the clientele swirled their $100 reds.
Man, I wish I’d gotten that in. ” I couldn’t really hold up my end of the conversation on Stain. I’d gotten the fax and made two calls. I’d pulled a couple of articles off the Internet, and checked The Paper’s digital archives. I’d read the Sunday Magazine feature and then I did what I usually did when I had a three-hundred-word squib: I cribbed from the press release. Now, I ﬁgured it wouldn’t hurt to recheck. I left Randy venting to Travis. When I got back to my desk, I found my stack of paper clips strewn everywhere.