By Nina Siegal
Valerie Vane was once an up-and-coming way of life reporter at a admired ny urban day-by-day. Then she stumbled, particularly 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 loss of life notices, and it appears like a lifeless finish.
However, whilst she writes a few 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 loss of life was once a murder—and if she have been a true reporter, she'd examine.
But can Valerie alternate her stilettos for gumshoes?
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Additional resources for A Little Trouble with the Facts: A Novel
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.
You’re the kid we’ve been looking for all these years. ” I rarely ate anything but canapés. I drank only promo specials. And soon enough, I found my crowd: a klatch of ﬂacks named Tammi, Jenni, and Nikki. They were all twenty-ﬁve, all blond, and they were all pretti and perki. As children, they ate vine-ripened tomatoes from their mothers’ rooftop gardens and smeared their morning baguettes with goose liver pâté. One rainy night when cabs were scarce, the girls invited me back to Tammi’s. As we downed RémyRed and ginger ale, they shared with me their master plan.
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. Battinger had brought him in from Jersey briefs and put him on the night shift so he’d start his Metro climb.