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Woody continued typing. “Why, Charlie! When did you learn to read?”
“Wise guy. C’mon. Who’s this fella sending you this stuff?”
“The Voice of Tomorrow. Says so right there. Charlie, you might need to fire that reading teacher you hired after all.”
Charlie leaned forward, hands on the edge of the desk. A shock of his brilliantined hair came loose. “They say he’s some kind of dangerous criminal. A Bolshevik. Or one of those Secret Six types. Or worse! It might even be a whole slew of ’em. A fella’s gotta be careful nowadays.”
“That’s true, Woody,” another reporter, Ellis, called from two desks over. “Why, you might open up a letter and get your hands blown clean off, like what happened to Mr. Rockefeller’s maid during the Wall Street bombings.”
Woody made a show of digging out and holding up the paper-thin envelope. “It’d have to be a mighty small bomb.”
“What if it’s one of those Diviner types? I hear they can do all sorts of magic—disrupt radio signals or read your mind! Even put thoughts in your head—like they did in Times Square! I wouldn’t put it past them to make a bomb. Like that Evie O’Neill. She was friends with Mabel Rose.”
Woody dropped his amused smile. “Evie O’Neill is no anarchist.”
The typing reporter laughed. “Aw, look at that. The rat is soft on the Sweetheart Seer.”
“Excuse me, gentlemen. I must be in the wrong place. I thought this was a news joint fulla reporters, not a bunch of gullible yes men.”
The other reporter held Woody’s gaze. “Just sayin’. Watch your step, Woodhouse.”
“That a threat, Charlie?”
The man’s cheeks pinked up. He shrugged, then turned back to his doughnut, hardening on the plate.
“Woodhouse!” the news editor barked and jerked his head toward his office.
Charlie chuckled. “So long, Woody. Been nice knowing ya.”
“Close the door behind you and take a seat,” the editor grumbled at Woody, who complied. “Who are these letters coming from?”
“How should I know?”
“But they come addressed to you.”
“Lots of stuff comes addressed to me. I’m a reporter.”
The editor tapped his pencil against the desk, weighing his next words. “Some fellas wanna talk to you. I told them you were out on a story.”
A prickle of adrenalized dread poked at Woody. He was a reporter, so it was often hard to separate fear from excitement. “What fellas?”
“Don’t know. Government types, maybe. Not the sort of men you say no to.”
“You know how you say no to men like that?” Woody paused. “You say, ‘No.’ Try it sometime.”
“Don’t push your luck with me, Woodhouse, or you’ll be out of a job.” His editor softened. “Just be careful, okay?”
Woody grinned. “Since when is the American press careful?”
Woody went back to his typewriter.
“Hey, Woody. We’re taking bets,” Charlie called.
“On what?”
“Margaret Walker. You think they’ll fry her in the chair, or will it be execution by firing squad?”
“I think you’re dripping mustard onto your page there.”
