By Nina Siegal
Valerie Vane used to be an up-and-coming way of life reporter at a favourite ny urban day-by-day. Then she stumbled, really 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 dying notices, and it seems like a lifeless finish.
However, while she writes a few lately deceased once-famous graffiti artist, the telephone calls commence. A mysterious voice at the different finish of the road tells her the artist's demise 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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Extra resources for A Little Trouble with the Facts: A Novel
Just replacing one German word with another. “The cultural climate, the, I don’t know, spirit of the times. ” “Zeitgeist,” he said again, without looking up. “You own it. ” • • • 56 | A Little Trouble with the Facts The zeitgeist, as I saw it, was the dominant paradigm, at its most Hegelian extreme. New York, Big Picture. It was math geeks building technology empires on venture capital magic dust and art moguls turning the city’s oldest museums into international franchises offering Picassos like Big Macs.
Underneath it, the sky was illuminated almost to daylight by the glow from Times Square. It wasn’t the usual incandescence of the Great White Way, more like a postnuclear haze. It was coming from my left, where, at the corner of Seventh Avenue, NASDAQ was putting the ﬁnal touches on its colossal video screen. To test the green LEDs, they had turned the wall of lights all green. Blinded, I took a few steps back and bumped into something. I thought it was a ﬁre hydrant until I saw Battinger. She was standing in front of the building having a smoke, and I’d stepped on her toes.
In my Style days. Or if I was feeling chatty, I might’ve headed down to Chelsea to meet the post-art-opening crowd at Lot 61 to sit on a high stool and ﬂirt with the gay barman. Tonight, I had nowhere to go, nothing to do. I heard the patter of feet, the crunch of rubber through wet potholes, the burst of horns forcing their way out of Times Square. I moved into the crowd toward Eighth Avenue. A group of teenagers in matching pink tank tops and low riders pushed past the door of the local welfare hotel, linking arms and screaming a show tune.