salome revealed 1

        "Knock knock?"
        Cassandra Cruz looked up and saw that her top staff  writer was back from his lunch hour at Gold's Gym. Tom had been a pudgy nebbish. He lost forty pounds and hardened his abs into a meaty washboard. How did she know this? The same way everyone else did. He was a show-off. He ate salads at his desk and on dress-down-Fridays he wore half-shirts baring his midriff. Nobody complained. It was that kind of environment. Today he looked chipper in a brown Norfolk jacket and blue jeans.
        "Hey, Baby Boy. What's up?"
        "Dropping off my proposed expenses. You know. For that symposium on Anti-Language in British Columbia."
        "It's absolutely essesntial that you cover it. Correct?"
        "I thought we'd agreed."
        "We did. And we also agreed that I want more than the Five Ws. I want you to corner somebody with a soul to sell. Dig up a corpse or two."
        "Got it, Chief."
        She watched him go, noticing, as he went, the beginning of a bald spot. She wondered how long it would be before he took to wearing hats.


                                                                                          *


        On his way to the elevator Tom met a woman in sleek attire. Her voice was soft as marshmallow in hot cocoa. "Pardon me, kind man. Are these the offices of the magazine Semio-Stage?"
        "Yes. How may I help you?"
        She offered a black suede hand. "I am Solange Benoit. I am here to find the editor. A Cassandra Cruz."
        "Her office is the one with the big open door."
        "Merci." A pert smile erased fifty years from her parchment face.
        Ever the fox after MILF, Tom began his assessment. Pearl choker upon a wizened throat. Black short-waisted flannel suit, complimented by a silk silver blouse. He fancied her ensconced in a Tudor brasserie in Hell's Kitchen, Clinton, whatever, sipping dry Plymouth martinis. She would be chit-chatting about those French dames his boss often quoted.
        What could HE offer on Julia Kristeva or Luce Irigaray?
        Maybe he could slide into homebase talking about French cinema. Agnes Varda maybe.
        He had actually liked "Le Bonneur" and "Cleo From 5 to 7."


                                                                                         *


        Rat-a-tat. Rat-a-tat. Incessant rapping. Like a demented woodpecker.
        Cassandra looked up, annoyed. "May I help you with something?"
        The elegant woman stood with brittle formality. "Perhaps you could give me a few minutes of your time?"
        "I suppose. Shoot."
        The visitor took a seat with the slow grace of an aged housecat. "My name is Solange Benoit. And I saw the article on Kit Pico."
        "Yes?"
        "Could you tell me how to contact him?"
        Cassandra paused for thought.
        She set her eyes upon the lithograph of Romaine Brook's portrait of Lady Trowbridge. Unconsciously she raised an eyebrow in the manner of Lady Trowbridge. "The article clearly stated that Kit had retreated to the Island of Saint James."
        "I was hoping for a mailing address." Her voice began to fail. Strangely intimidated by the magazine editor. The gray butch haircut. The flat moonface.
        Suddenly it flashed to Cassandra Cruz: Somehow I know this woman.
        She said to Solange Benoit, "It sounds like you've been out of touch."
        Ancient eyes welled with sadness. "For many years."
        The same could be said for me, the magazine editor rued.