I'm Your Man by Timothy James Beck

down the hallway to copy the itineraries so they’d go out on time. Two days after her appendix was removed, Violet called me, begging me to help bust her out of the hospital so she could get back to work.
    â€œYou’re taking an afternoon off? There must be a full moon,” I joked.
    â€œYou sound like Lillith,” Violet said, hitting me where it hurt. “Speaking of Lillith, I suspect the reason you’re not coming in today is so you can have a weekend to figure out what you’re going to say to the boys upstairs about your resignation.”
    â€œIf there’s a Cuban version of Miss Marple, you’d be her,” I stated wryly. “Which brings me back to what I was originally going to ask you. Have you typed your resignation yet?”
    â€œIf that’s your clever way of asking me to jump ship and work for you at Lillith Allure, Mr. Dunhill—”
    â€œWhich it is. Yes.”
    â€œI’m not sure I can—”
    â€œTake the bridge. Don’t take the tunnel,” I said to the driver. “I’m sorry, Violet. You were saying?”
    â€œThat’s okay. If you had given me a little more time, I might have—”
    â€œDo I need to give you money for the toll now? Or do I give you that at the end of the trip?” I asked the driver, who eyed me curiously, as we hadn’t reached the bridge yet.
    â€œYou give it to me now. You give it to me later. It makes no difference,” he said.
    â€œOkay. I’ll give it to you later,” I said.
    â€œIf you interrupt me one more time, I’m gonna give it to you later,” Violet said.
    â€œI’m sorry, Violet. It won’t happen again. What were you saying?”
    â€œStop playing games with me. I’m not turning you down,” she said.
    â€œGood,” I said, breathing a sigh of relief. “I was running out of ways to interrupt you.”
    â€œI need more information before I can give you an answer,” Violet said. “Plus I want to be wooed. Take me out to dinner, and we’ll talk it over.”
    â€œWooed? You want to be wooed? All right. Why don’t we—”
    â€œSunday night? Eight? At Firebird? I’d love to,” Violet interrupted.
    â€œYou’ve already made the reservations, haven’t you?”
    Violet confirmed my suspicions by not answering. Instead she asked, “I don’t suppose you’ve seen the papers this morning? One paper in particular, I should say.”
    â€œNo,” I answered tentatively, hoping that any news about Lillith Allure hadn’t been given to the press yet.
    â€œPick up the Manhattan Star-Gazette when you get home,” Violet instructed.
    â€œNo,” I begged. Violet knew that I only read the New York Times if I wanted news. The Star-Gazette was for entertainment news or, worse yet, when my friends and clients were hit hard in Lola Listeria’s gossip column. “Maybe you should read me the highlights.”
    â€œOkay,” Violet answered, and I heard the rustling of newspaper pages as she found the column. I calmed myself by looking at Manhattan’s skyline as the taxi cab went over the Triboro Bridge. I was almost home.
    â€œReady?” Violet asked. “There’s a whole section about an actress whose foot had to be cut out of a boot at a department store. I was going shoe shopping today, but now I don’t think I want to.”
    â€œJust skip to whatever’s relevant, please.”
    â€œIf you want relevance, read the Times. Okay, here it is. ‘Fashionista’s Flight of Fury.’ ”
    â€œOh, no,” I said.
    Violet read on, “Saturn must have been lodged in Uranus during a flight to Baltimore when a certain model learned her agent turned down a booking for Claude Martrand’s fashion show. Perhaps she was more furious because she hoped the designer would give her a free wedding dress? Or is it because our girl is too busy