The Witch of Greenwich Village
Frank O'Donnell

Excerpt

"Lucille Belzar is not your usual agent," he said.

"I got that. So she's tough, so what?"

"She's dangerous."

Her eyes narrowed more, her voice dropped, she edged closer; intrigue suddenly supplanted disdain in her expression. "Explain."

His fingers went through his hair, he bent, elbows on knees, made a two handed fist, then straightened. "I mean morally, ethically, physically dangerous. That's what I mean. Go back upstairs. Forget about it."

"I'm not going anywhere until you tell me what you're talking about!"

"Believe me, I know...I've been through it with her."

"So, fire her. Get another agent." Her voice rose, echoed, like she could not believe what a woos he was.

"Not possible."

"What? She’s Mafia?" One eyebrow shot up, showing that she thought this was about the silliest thing she had ever said.

"Worse," he said, keeping his voice level and firm.

"Yeah? Tell me." She looked as if she were convinced he was trying to sell her every bridge in Manhattan; all the tunnels, too.

"Okay." He felt the need to pause before saying it. "She's something like—well—a witch."
She peered at him as if she were trying to see what was going on inside his head and found nothing she could credit.

"I knew it. You don't believe me."

Her eyes glazed and he could see that she was going inside herself, imagining the possibilities. “What a story,” she said in a trance-like near whisper.

“Jesus!” he said, as if it had been squeezed out of him.

“What!”

“What you’re thinking. It’s written all over you.”

“Yeah?”

“You bet. How’s this? You’re seeing those headlines: ‘Paranoia Overcomes Best Selling Author ‘—subhead: ‘Accuses Agent of Witchcraft.’ Second story, a photo of Lucille and under it: ‘Is This the Witch of the Literary World?’ Okay, so tell me, did I get it right?”

She cast him a blank look.

"Oh Christ!"

"What!"

"You want to go through with it anyway, don't you! A fucking story!"

Her face flooded with heat. "Be careful, You're gonna hurt your eyes."

"What!"

"Looking down your nose at me!"

His pressed together lips disappeared, then came back. "Okay, you got a point. Who am I to talk; all that…stuff you saw in my apartment, my books blowing out of stores. Look whose talking, that's what you're thinking. He's doing okay. What's he got against me making it?” He shook his head. “Believe me, there's a whole hell of a lot more to it than that. Now, you listen: I want you to go back up to your apartment and—"

"Why do you think I met you in this dorky lobby, instead of having you come up? If you saw my apartment—which you won't—you'd know. See, it's not really my apartment; I share it with two other people. It's a dump. And my great career as a journalist—let me tell you about that. Most of the time, it's follow-up stuff, squeezing items out of press releases, doing research stuff for other people, junk like that. Every once in a while I'll get a big break and get to write an obituary. Last week my editor sent me out to the ass end of Staten Island to interview an old lady who has collected the biggest ball of string in the five boroughs. This is my chance to cop a front page byline—maybe not above the fold, but front page just the same. I'm taking the shot."

"Look, I know what you're feeling, but I'm telling you it's not worth it! So, you get a terrific story. So what! There'll be other stories."

She got up and he knew that what had been boiling inside her was about to explode. "Okay, I know what this is really all about. You're afraid I'll pick up something tonight that might confirm what I've got already, that you're a plagiarist.” She took a step toward the door. “I'll grab a cab."

"Wait!" He felt drained, shook his head, and looked at the floor. Then he took her arm. "I'm not a plagiarist. My car's at the curb."

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