Mayhem in High Heels

by Gemma Halliday

  I pushed through the doors and rode the elevator to the second floor, dropping Strawberry Shortcake on my desk with a clang.

  "That you, Bender?" A head popped up from the neighboring cubicle. Balding, gray stubble along the chin, droopy, bloodshot eyes - Max Beacon, the oldest, most experienced, and generally the most hung-over member of the Informer's staff. He covered obits and had his own, detailing how he'd died of liver failure, pre-written and tacked to the fabric-covered wall of his cubicle, right next to a poster of a bulldog saying, "This is my happy face."

  "Hey, Max. What's new?"

  "Remember that guy who played Bette Davis's son in that film about the traveling theater group?"

  "Uh huh." I nodded. Even though I had no clue what movie he was talking about.

  "Died today. 64. Heart failure."

  "Bummer."

  "Very. Hey, did you see the new applicant on your way in?"

  I pushed my chair back, glancing toward Felix's glass walled office in the far corner. Until this summer--when he'd moved up in the world to take over as editor-Felix had been the Informer's star reporter. Ever since he'd become the boss man, Felix had been interviewing applicants to fill in his former position. So far none had passed his test.

  I squinted at the latest victim sitting across the desk from him. Blonde, miniskirt, jugs out to here.

  I did a low whistle. "She applying to be a reporter or go-go dancer?"

  Max chuckled. "She's been in there for over an hour."

  "Really?" I raised an eyebrow. "Well, I'm sure Felix wants to thoroughly go over all her professional assets."

  Max chuckled. "Maybe he's checking her experience."

  "Or he's outlining the benefits of working here."

  Max snorted. Then tilted his head to the side, eyes clearly trying to get inside Ms. Jugs stretchy little top. "Tough being the boss, huh?"

  "That's why they pay him the big bucks."

  "How come you never wear little skirts like that, Bender?"

  I shot him a look. "All right, enough ogling, old man. Back to work. Those people aren't getting any deader."

  Max gave a watery-eyed last look at our new applicant, then disappeared back behind the partition.

  I flipped on my monitor and, while I waited for my system to boot up, checked my voicemail for any salacious overnight news. Lucky me, I had two messages.

  I keyed my pin into the Informer's ancient message retrieval system and heard a male voice in answer.

  "Hey, girl, I was at Basque last night and, baby, do I have a good story for you."

  I grinned. One of my informants. A former sitcom star from the nineties who still held on to enough fame to get into all the right places, but whose bank account had nosedived right along with his ratings. He needed cash, I needed insider info - the relationship was a win-win.

  I grabbed a pen and listened as the message continued.

  "Guess whose dealer was there, talking about how he'd delivered a certain package to someone in rehab last night?... Blain Hall."

  "No way!" I blurted. I did a little happy dance in my seat. Blain Hall was the front man for Dirty Dogs, an angsty rock band that had recently swept the Grammys. Unfortunately, it turned out Blain's raspy vocals and unending stage energy were due less to natural talent and more to cocaine. Totally eighties drug. A fact I'd pointed out in my column, citing that his choice of vice was almost as passe as his ballads of teen malaise.

  Yeah, I probably wasn't going to be on Blain's Christmas card list this year.

  I made a note to call back for all the gory details and erased the message, moving on to the next one.

  At first heavy breathing was the only sound to come through. I was about to discount it as a wrong number and delete, when the caller finally spoke up.

  His voice was distorted, and mixed with some sort of electronic equipment. It almost sounded like he was far away or talking in an echoing tunnel. Mechanical, deep, and eerily inhuman.

  "I've had enough," the odd voice began. "Enough of your malicious lies. You delight in ruining people. Well, I've had it with your kind. Stop printing stories about me. If you don't..." The voice paused, heavy breaths puffing through the other end before he finished his threat. "... Tina Bender, you're dead."

  Table of Contents

  A

  Chapter One

  Chapter Three