College-Cut Kill

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It was half past twelve on one of those early September days in Manhattan when the streets are Dutch ovens and a girl who can look crisp is a treasure indeed. I was completing the last draft of the current three-part blast, with Dolly sitting at my elbow noting the changes I wanted.

Miss Riven came in simultaneously with her crisp rap at the door, and said, “Mr. Engelborg wishes to see you immediately, Mr. Arlin.”

She did a Prussian drill-sergeant’s about-face and went back through the door, shutting it with a crisp clack that only Miss Riven can seem to get out of a door.

“Her!” Dolly said. “Her!” She made it sound like a dirty name.

“She thinks I work here,” I said. During the six weeks that I had been provided with office space and Dolly, she and I had become good friends. “Look, lovely. I can’t see anything more we need. Type it up with three carbons and get one over to the legal eagles for checking.”

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