Free The Devil's Interval by Linda Peterson

development—writing and layout—and one in planning.
    Hoyt Lee, the managing editor we’d hired to take Glen’s place, ran the meeting. A graduate of the University of Mississippi (Ole Miss), he sounded as if he’d been raised on a gentleman’s diet of fast horses, good bourbon, and lazy afternoons on a veranda. He never lost his temper or his fine manners, and was unfailingly polite to everyone from me (who regularly offended him whenever I let a swear word slip) to our youngest, greenest interns. The truth of the matter was that he was a first-generation college graduate, son of hardscrabble soybean farmers, but he’d learned how to behave like a gentleman and found it was better armor and ammunition than the money and land his more privileged, nitwit fraternity brothers brought to the party.
    It took nearly a year before he’d call me “Maggie,” and he still insisted on calling my assistant, Gertie, “Miz Davis,” out of deference to her age.
    â€œFor heaven’s sake, Maggie,” she complained, “he makes me feel like someone’s mother.”
    â€œYou are someone’s mother,” I pointed out. “You’ve got those two handsome, grownup sons. Indulge Hoyt,” I added. “He needs to think somebody around here is a lady.”
    Despite his courtly manner, Hoyt ran a tight meeting. We worked off agendas and flow charts, checking in on last-minute production issues for the current issue, progress and snags on the issue under development, identified opportunities for the online content, and then subjected the current issue’s plans to rigorous scrutiny.
    â€œRemember our readers,” Hoyt always admonished. “Will they find this interesting?” So, when we came to the future issue-planning chart, Hoyt gave me a chance to pitch a few angles on the Limousine Lothario story.
    I sketched out the death-penalty appeal background, gave a summary of Travis Gifford’s arrest, trial, and conviction, mentioned The Devil’s Interval, and waited. Puck Morris, our infamous music critic, known in band circles for his vicious reviews (with fair warning given by advance distribution to the unfortunate and untalented of “Pucked by Morris” T-shirts), laughed.
    â€œI know that spot, Maggie. It’s for oldsters. San Francisco used to be a great jazz town. Now it sucks. That place of Ivory’s feels like a museum.”
    Hoyt cleared his throat. “Say a little more, Puck.”
    Puck glared at him. “Holy shit, Hoyt. That’s what shrinks say.” He deepened his voice and affected a German accent, “Say a little more about vhy you find drowning kittens and masturbating to Strauss waltzes so pleasurable, Herr Morris.”
    Hoyt was not amused. “Let’s remember there are ladies present, Mr. Morris,” he said. “I repeat, why isn’t San Francisco ‘a jazz town’ anymore?”
    Puck sighed and shrugged off his beat-up leather jacket. “Anybody but me hot in here? That menopause stuff contagious, Gertie, or what?”
    Gertie regarded him with contempt. “Oh, grow up, Puck.”
    â€œWhy isn’t San Francisco a jazz town? Couple reasons,” said Puck. “First, we’re small potatoes. You need a critical mass of appreciators to keep a club open. There just aren’t enough people who listen to jazz anymore. And the people who still do are gettingold. They like to sit at home and caress their vintage Monk and Bird LPs on the comfort of their own sofa. And drink their own booze while they listen. Clubs are a young person’s scene.”
    â€œWhat about the new SFJazz Center?” I protested.
    Puck shook his head. “We’ll see. It’s hot, it’s new. But sooner or later, it will be out there trolling for old people, too.”
    â€œJazz was just a sidebar,” I said. “To provide a little color. I think the main story could be