By Nina Siegal
Valerie Vane used to be an up-and-coming way of life reporter at a sought after manhattan urban day-by-day. Then she stumbled, really 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 demise 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 dying 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 info for A Little Trouble with the Facts: A Novel
He was looking right at my face. He could’ve read the birthmarks on my neck like tea leaves. He was close enough to smell my Obsession. And he didn’t recognize a thing. “It’s amazing we’ve never met,” he said. Amazing, indeed. In a sense, though, he was right. That girl he’d left on Fifth Street, the one who’d wept into her pillow while her roommate stuck needles in a voodoo-doll Golden, was playing banjo elsewhere with Holly Golightly’s pre–alter ego, Lulamae Barnes. I’d shed Sunburst Miller’s skin when I’d put that cotton-candy gown down my incinerator shaft.
And prattled. They were still my posse in spite of the exposé, since all press was good press, as publicists all agreed. Eventually, Jeremiah circled back. “I’d like to get a delivery here, if you don’t mind,” he said. I knew what kind of delivery he meant, but I told him it was okay. Plenty of people had already suggested doing lines off my medical cabinetry—the irony, it seemed, was far too inviting. By the time his dealer arrived, his silicone sweethearts had already huffed out the door. , my glass coffee table was powdered white and Mr.
I downed my Vanitini—the ﬁrst one I’d had in months. It was deﬁnitely a sad pour. The cherry juice made it sweet, but its aftertaste bit back. Still, it reminded me of a feeling I hadn’t had in months: weightlessness. I mixed myself another, rattled it up, and slugged it back. I pressed Sweet Smell into the VCR. The opening credits rolled and the jazz blared. Burt Lancaster, Tony Curtis, screenplay by Clifford Odets and Ernest Lehman. I went back to the kitchen and poured myself a third Vanitini as the soundtrack swelled.