The offices of the Daily Screamer were all the way downtown, near the vast, majestic pillars of city hall and the ever-frenzied financial district, where men puffing big cigars shouted trading advice to one another as they walked, and even the shoeshine boys gave stock tips. Here, Manhattan narrowed to a point, and Pippa always had the sense that it was in these few blocks that all of the excitement of the city was concentrated, as though every other street was running as rapidly as possible to this bustling, beating heart of the world, which pumped out the paper money people died and killed for and dreamed about and craved.
And even though Pippa still noticed signs of the Great Crash everywhere—businessmen wearing old shoes and patched-up suits artfully concealed with thread and shoe polish, and plenty of hobos shuffling around rattling tin cans—things had begun to move again.
The heart was beating still.
The building that housed the Daily Screamer was a disappointment. Only four stories tall, squeezed between two buildings nearly twice its size, and made of limestone stained dark, it was like a black tooth in the middle of a fine white smile. A grungy plaque above the door identified it as “Home to the Finest Newspaper in This City or Any Other.”
“Ready?” Thomas asked, pausing outside the front door. Pippa nodded. Even from the street she could hear the ringing of telephones and clanking of machinery.
“Here goes nothing,” Thomas said, and pushed open the door.
The first thing Pippa noticed was the smoke. The whole room was enveloped by it, so it looked as though a soft blue mist had descended inside, and, as a result, everything—the maze of desks jammed together in a mysterious zigzag formation; the stacks and piles and mountains of paper teetering on every available surface; the men and women hunched at their desks, clacking away on dozens of typewriters—looked a little bit blurry. The carpet was stained gray from years of footprints and cigarette ash, and even the people looked gray, as though they hadn’t seen daylight in several months.
“Can I help you?” A woman at the nearest desk swiveled around to face them. Her blond hair, like everything else in the room, was a dingy color. She blinked at them from behind thick glasses.
“We’re here to see Mr. Evans,” Thomas said. “Bill Evans.”
The woman frowned. “What business do you have with Mr. Evans?”
“What business is it to you what business we got with Mr. Evans?” Max broke in, eyes flashing.
“An interview!” Thomas said quickly, before Max could get them in trouble. “We’re here because he wanted to interview us. For an important story.”
The woman looked them up and down, as if she couldn’t believe there was anything of importance about them.
Just as she opened her mouth, however, a voice boomed out, “Did I hear someone say interview?”
Mr. Evans himself came striding down a long, dim hallway like a magician stepping out from behind a curtain. He was smiling hugely, showing off his gums.
“Thomas!” he boomed. “And the great Samson Jr.!” Sam turned red up to the tips of his ears. “And little Mackenzie.”
“Little—” Max spluttered. But Mr. Evans had already rounded on Pippa and was pumping her hand vigorously.
“And Pippa! Always a pleasure, always a pleasure. Tell me, Pip—what do I have in my pockets today?” Before she had a chance to answer (thirty-seven cents, two pieces of Wrigley’s gum, and a new Zippo lighter) he burst into loud and raucous laughter, as though he had told a joke, and clapped her so hard on the shoulder, she stumbled a little.
“This way, kids, this way. Straight down the hall and first door on your left. Let’s get comfortable. You want something to drink? Coffee? Water? Whiskey? I’m just joking. It’s too early in the day for whiskey.”
As he spoke, he herded them down the hall and into a small glass-enclosed office. The front door was stenciled with gold lettering that read BILL EVANS, HEAD REPORTER. Mr. Evans caught Pippa staring at it.
“Not bad, huh?” He rapped on the door with a knuckle. “Just got my own digs a few days ago. People can’t get enough of this shrunken head stuff. It’s bigger than the Rattigan story!”
It was the second time Pippa had heard the name Rattigan in a day. “Who’s Rattigan?” she said.
Mr. Evans gave an exaggerated shiver. “Nasty man. Smart as a snake and batty as a belfry. But you didn’t come to talk about Rattigan.” He laughed again and closed the door, gesturing for them to sit down. “Go ahead and put your feet up. I’ll crank up the recorder. Just a copy, you know, in case I miss anything while we’re gabbing. Better safe than sorry!”
“We didn’t come here to be interviewed,” Thomas interjected.
Mr. Evans paused with one hand hovering above the Dictaphone. “I’m sorry, son,” he said. “I don’t follow you. You said you came for an interview.”
“We did.” Thomas swallowed visibly. “We came to interview you.”
Mr. Evans leaned back in his chair, stroking his mustache. “I see,” he said, and Pippa thought she saw a smile flicker across his face. Suddenly, he leaned forward again. “All right. How about we make a deal? You ask me a question, and I ask you a question. Tit for tat. Fair’s fair, right?”
Pippa didn’t really think it was fair—but what choice did they have? She met Thomas’s gaze, and Thomas shrugged.
“All right,” Thomas said cautiously. “But we go first.”