Okay, I’m lying again. I did too know what was worse. It was the bootlicking. Definitely the bootlicking. The work I could handle.

And that’s what I proceeded to do. I gathered up my scissors, my Scotch tape, my pica ruler, the backyard galleys, the list and measurements of all the backyard ads, a big stack of three-column layout sheets, and a large folder of black and white cartoons. Then I snuck into the file room, where I spread all the materials out on the center worktable and went furiously to work.

First I measured and placed all the pinup calendar, body-building, hair-thickening, rupture-easing, how-to-be-a-hypnotist ads, carefully marking them up on the layout sheets, then I trimmed the story runover galleys and put them in position-leaving room for the necessary continued lines, of course. After choosing, sizing, and placing several spicy cartoons to fill the leftover space, I finally taped all the trimmed galleys to the layout sheets-without an eighth of an inch to spare-as if they were the key pieces of a large, complicated jigsaw puzzle.

I was very lucky. I only had to cut eight lines of copy to make everything fit exactly. If the mock-up had come out a few lines too short, I would have had to write new copy to fill, and that would have taken longer. As it was, I finished the backyard paste-up in record time, and placed the complete forty-four-page package in the pickup basket a good five minutes before the printer’s messenger arrived.

This was not the world’s most exciting accomplishment, I realize, but at least it kept me from getting fired-and from fretting my fool head off about the diamond-stuffed shoebox buried, like a land mine, in the depths of my desk drawer.

My timely completion of the backyard paste-up wasn’t the only miracle that occurred that afternoon. Brandon Pomeroy’s drunken coma lasted a full hour longer than usual (he must have had an extra martini), Harvey Crockett was out of the office all day at a meeting with our distributor, and Mike and Mario were laboring so hard to meet their own pressing deadlines that they didn’t have the time or the inclination to torment me with coffee demands and crummy jokes.

As a result, I had the time to look for the newspaper clips about Judy Catcher’s death that I presumed were still in our files. And since I was in charge of all the filing (that’s woman’s work, you know!), I knew exactly where to look: in the folder labeled MURDERS-NOV. 1954.

There were numerous homicide reports in the folder, but just three short clips on the Catcher murder. And each gave the same few details: A young woman named Judy Catcher had been shot to death in her West 26th Street apartment on Saturday, November 27th. The shooting was estimated to have occurred between 5:00 and 8:00 P.M., during a random burglary. The victim’s purse and watch were stolen and her apartment was ransacked. Anyone with information relating to the crime should notify Detective Hugo Sweeny at the 10th Precinct.

I hoped to have that privilege soon.

Taking the clips out of the file folder and stuffing them in my skirt pocket, I marched back into the front workroom and carefully (okay, sneakily) transferred the clips from my pocket to my purse. Not that I really needed them. Aside from the actual date of the murder and the estimated time of death, they didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know.

I looked at the clock on the wall and was surprised to discover I still had twenty minutes to waste (I mean work!) before closing time. I was able to clip all the crime stories from the afternoon newspapers and file a big stack of fake corpse photos before Pomeroy became fully conscious, and before the hands of the office clock hit 5:30-at which point I changed back into my boots, pulled on my beret, slipped into my coat, snatched the shoebox out of my drawer and tucked it tight under my arm, bid a hasty goodnight to Heckle and Jeckle, blew a quick kiss to Lenny, and made a smooth getaway.

Chapter 5

THE TRIP HOME WASN’T SO SMOOTH. Though I made the entire journey by subway and didn’t have to deal with the snow until I emerged at Sheridan Square, I still had to deal with the ragged, hairy, smelly creature who boarded the crowded train at 14th Street and decided the best way to keep himself warm was to snuggle up real close to me. If the creature had been a dog, instead of a man, I could have handled it-but of course I wasn’t that lucky. My stop was next though, and I got off the train in a hurry, leaving the shaggy beast to search for another source of body heat.

It was already dark outside, but the sky and the streets were twinkling, the former with stars, the latter with Christmas lights. Bright shiny bulbs were strung everywhere-across store windows, around lampposts, over the doorways of apartment buildings and the awnings of restaurants-casting their red, green, gold, and blue reflections on every glistening, snow-covered surface. It was still very cold, but the snowfall had slowed considerably. The flakes were floating lightly now, like scattered tufts of goose-down from a slightly torn pillowslip.

It was a beautiful scene, but I was much too distracted to do more than give it a quick, appreciative glance. I hurried down Seventh Avenue to Bleecker Street, slipping and scrunching with every step, gripping the shoebox under my arm as if it were a football and I were a crazed quarterback scrambling for the goal line. I couldn’t wait to get home, hide the diamonds in a safe place, and then go next door to talk to Abby. I needed to talk to Abby.

Abby Moscowitz, I should tell you, was the best friend I’d ever had in all the world. At the time, we’d known each other only one and a half short years, but I felt as though we’d spent our whole lives together; that we were twin sisters and had shared the same womb.

Not that we were anything alike.

At least not in the looks department. Abby was tall and buxom and bohemian-looking, with long black hair that hung, when loose, below her waist. Her deep brown eyes were huge and heavily lashed, her nose and cheekbones were proudly prominent, and her wide, smiley lips were as plump as throw cushions. I was tall and thin and normal-looking, with wavy brown hair that fell to my shoulders, and facial features that had, to the best of my knowledge, never caused a traffic jam. I’d been told that I was beautiful on occasion, but I wasn’t stupid enough to believe it.

Abby really was beautiful, though, and everybody knew it, Abby included.

When it came to likes and dislikes, personal beliefs and ideas, Abby and I agreed on some things, but certainly not all. We both liked jazz, cigarettes, whiskey sours (okay, any kind of cocktail), tight sweaters, and Halo shampoo-and we both wished Adlai had been elected president instead of Ike-but whenever the subject of sex came up, we had a parting of the ways: Abby believed in free love and would go to bed with any young man who struck her fancy (and her fancy was very easy to strike), while I was determined to sleep alone-as our current social conventions so cruelly commanded-until the day I got married again (or until the night Dan and I became so wildly overcome with drink and desire that I simply couldn’t help myself-whichever came first).

Turning left on Bleecker, I forged through the snow and up one and a half blocks to the tiny, three-story brick building I lived in. There were just two apartments in the whole building-Abby’s and mine-and both sat atop small street-level storefronts. Abby’s little duplex was perched above Angelo’s Fruit and Vegetable Market, while mine was mounted on top of Luigi’s Fish Store. I guess I don’t have to tell you which apartment smelled better.

I took out my keys, opened the door between the two storefronts, and tore up to the top of the dark, narrow stairwell leading to the living quarters. Abby’s place was on the left, mine was on the right. Panting as hard and fast as DiMaggio must have done after dashing across home plate (or getting to third base with Marilyn), I stood on the tiny landing between the two apartments, madly jiggling the keys on my overloaded chain, searching for the one that would open the gate to my safe haven.