Chapter One
New York City
December 1, 1986
Lussi walked up to the front of the Blackwood Building on Avenue A. Although she’d heard the publisher’s East Village headquarters was unusual, she wasn’t prepared for it to be
this unusual. The four-story brownstone was black. Solid black. At first she thought it was a paint job to make it look sleek and modern, but as she lowered her sunglasses she could see that any appearance of modernity was an illusion. The sandstone was blackened with soot and city grime, the result of decades of neglect. Even more unusual were the wrought-iron bars on the windows—not just the street-level windows, but all four stories. Was this a publishing house or a Victorian insane asylum? Needless to say, it was love at first sight.
“Move it or lose it, yuppie scum,” a geriatric bag lady said, emerging from the shadows of the alley wheeling a cart full of empty liquor bottles.
“Did you call me a yuppie?” Lussi said, clutching her Coach purse under her armpit and stepping out of the woman’s way. The name-brand purse wasn’t even hers; she’d borrowed it from her roommate. Lussi noticed more down-on-their-luck sorts across the street. So this was Tompkins Square Park. She’d read in the papers that it had been taken over by a homeless camp, which she could now see for herself. Amidst the tents and tarps, rough-looking men were huddled around burning barrels. A tall, thin man in a fedora from some bygone era was standing beyond the barrels. Through the smoke, he seemed to be studying her with intense curiosity.
Lussi turned sharply back to the building. She took a deep breath and smoothed her houndstooth print skirt. Her best stirrup pants were tucked into her polished Mary Janes. She checked her makeup in her compact.
Maybe I am yuppie scum, she thought, smoothing her ponytail in its black velvet scrunchie.
She marched up the imposing stone steps and hit the buzzer.
“Name,” a voice full of static demanded.
“Lussi Meyer,” she said.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“An interview. My name sounds like ‘Lucy,’ but it’s spelled L-U-S—”
There was a whir, followed by a clank. She tried the door, but it didn’t budge.
“Wait for the rest, please,” the voice said.
Lussi stepped back as the whirring and clanking continued. She counted six locks before the iron door finally creaked open an inch. It was so heavy, she had to wedge her shoulder against it and push. It almost felt like the door was pushing back, like it didn’t want to let her in. Eventually, it gave in and swung open, sending Lussi stumbling into the cavernous lobby. She came to a stop a foot from bowling over a decorated Christmas tree. A trim receptionist, seated behind a wide desk, raised a sculpted eyebrow. Above, on the third-floor landing, an elegant woman with a fashionable bottle-blond buzz cut sipped from a highball glass, eyes on Lussi.
Lussi approached the front desk. “I have an eleven thirty with Mr. Blackwood.”
The receptionist put a hand over her headset’s mouthpiece and pointed to the stairs. “Fourth floor. Oh, and I love your purse.”
“Thank you,” she said, mounting the winding staircase strung with white Christmas lights. “I love yours . . . too . . .”
Lussi’s voice trailed off as she found herself mesmerized not by the woman’s purse—there wasn’t one on her desk—but by the interior of the building. It was all tarnished brass and chipped marble, carved wood accents and warm lighting. So different from the harsh fluorescents and bare drywall at her last job.
She paused on the third-floor landing to listen to the click-clacking chorus of typewriters from deep within the building. None of those electric gizmos, either. Heavy, manual typewriters that sounded like her mother’s. Lussi scanned the postings on a rectangular corkboard, hoping to gain some insight into the company culture. Amidst workplace safety regulations and minimum-wage posters was a handwritten memo about the company-wide Secret Santa gift exchange, scheduled for December 12.
Leave your presents under the tree anytime between now and then, but remember!! It’s supposed to be anonymous, so leave YOUR name off!! Could this place be any quainter?
The double doors at the top of the stairs opened into a waiting area staffed by a blue-haired woman older than Cthulhu. The fourth floor was even more resplendent than the entryway, if such a thing were possible. The floor-to-ceiling windows were draped with heavy red velvet curtains, which looked like they’d been stripped from a Hammer film set. The wood-paneled walls were lined with built-in bookcases. She imagined she was looking at first editions of every novel Blackwood-Patterson had published since its inception in 1947. The room smelled like dried glue and dusty paper . . . the smell of old books. The smell of happiness.
Blackwood-Patterson hadn’t been on her short list of places to work. It hadn’t even been on her long list. But this . . . this was beyond all expectations. She was going to cry if she didn’t get this job. This was as old-school publishing as you could get, a holdover from an era she’d only heard tall tales of. The skyscrapers of Midtown had nothing on the Blackwood Building. If the employees were even half as charming, this was a place she could see herself working for a long, long time.
Copyright © 2020 by Andrew Shaffer. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
