Their deep purple stage was definitely my favorite. I looked good in dark colors. As for my ribs. . . They were still sore, but it now took more than the brush of a careless hand to set me into convulsions. I decided to skip my follow-up visit with Doc Cohen until the painkillers ran out. MacClough and I were avoiding a rematch by avoiding each other. We both knew I couldn’t leave things alone, but hey, stuff happens. Right? Kate Barnum was splitting her time between two newspapers. Her articles in the Whaler concerning subtle changes in the local zoning ordinance were right on, but about as compelling as a compost heap. Covering this kind of stuff would kill her way before the butts and the booze. I could almost understand her desperation. Barnum’s spare moments were spent digging at the Times; unofficially, of course, and without result. I was sitting at the word processor watching the eleventh snowfall of the winter. Eleven stuck in my head because that was one more page than my short story about the Japanese contained.
