Free The Devil You Know by P.N. Elrod

“I got another minute to deadline. . .”
    She suddenly ripped the paper clear, grabbed a few sheets from a pile, and spun the chair around, holding the story out. She adjusted quickly that neither visitor was who she expected.
    “Copyboy!” she shouted past us.
    Another one butted in between, grabbed her papers, and shot out again.
    She gave us a closer, less distracted look, fixing on me with surprise. “Fleming?”
    “Hello, Izzy, how’s tricks?”
    Isabelle DeLeon squealed and shot off the chair, jumping on me. In self-defense I had to catch her. She was a little thing, not more than five feet, and built light. I was afraid of breaking her and took it easy, but it was nice to be hugged like that. Out of all the people at this paper, I’d missed her.
    She pulled away. “Golly, Chicago’s done you a world of good. You look younger.”
    “It’s the suit, I had it ironed.”
    “Some suit. When did you turn into a clothes horse? What are you doing back here and” —she aimed her bright brown eyes at Barrett— “ who is your friend?” She patted her hair and stood up straighter, which did not increase her height by any significant fraction.
    I made introductions. Barrett had his hat off. I’d not bothered as this was the city room. He said he was enchanted, bowed, and kissed the back of her fingers, and got away with it. Izzy was startled for all of two seconds, then took on a big smile.
    “A gentleman,” she said. “Fleming, you’ve moved up in the world. How did that happen?”
    “It’s a long story I don’t have time to tell. We came to ask Clapsaddle a thing or three.”
    “Good luck.” She gestured toward him, then crossed her arms.
    Desmond Clapsaddle’s snoring continued, unbroken by our intrusion.
    “He’s not waking up tonight, is he?” I asked.
    “If he runs to form, he’s not waking up till Wednesday.”
    “What happened to him?”
    “Some party at the Algonquin. It went on all weekend. When I walked in tonight he was like that, but left his notes on the desk so I could do his story.”
    “What?”
    “We have a deal. He starts a story, I finish it, and he passes me cash under the table. I’d kill for a byline, but money talks, and we all keep our jobs.”
    That sounded like Clapsaddle. He could write like a demon when he was sober, but had ways to beat deadlines when he was not.
    Izzy had been one of those younger, faster, hungrier kids who had come in about the time I was deciding to leave for Chicago. If I’d been less broken-hearted about Maureen, I might have asked Izzy out. Somehow that had never happened.
    “What are you doing back here?” she demanded. “You can’t be looking for work if you’ve got a suit like that, and what’s with this coat? Is that vicuna?” She fingered the sleeve.
    “Plain old wool,” I said. It was good wool, though. “Mr. Barrett and I are here to settle a bet.”
    “Uh-huh. You came all the way from Chicago to look up Clapsaddle because of a bet? Pull the other one, Fleming, you never could lie.”
    “I could pull ’em both, it won’t make you any taller.”
    She was used to my cracks, and likewise I was used to her reaction, which was a backhanded swat to my chest. “Don’t sass me—ow! Sheesh, Fleming, you got on a bulletproof vest?” She rubbed her knuckles.
    “Actually,” said Barrett, stepping forward, hat in hand, “we drove in from Long Island. I’ve an estate there.”
    I don’t know what they called it in the eighteenth century when it came to giving a girl the eye, but that’s what Barrett was doing. He wasn’t throwing any influence on her, but he was clearly interested.
    “An estate? Impressive.” Izzy returned the interest.
    At some point I’d have to remind him that dating a reporter could be bad for his personal privacy. I got between them. “Izzy, if you’re covering Clapsaddle’s beat, then maybe you can help.”
    “What do I get out of it?”
    She was, rumor had it, from some backwoods