Gertie raised her eyebrows and handed me yet another batch of message slips. “Phone calls from people who say you haven’t answered their e-mails or texts.” I was shedding my jacket by the time I pushed open my office door. Puck Morris, our music critic, was behind the desk; Calvin was in the visitor’s chair. They were arm-wrestling and barely looked up when I walked in the room. “Oh, give me a break,” I said, hanging up my coat. “Can you two boytoys work out your competitive stuff by comparing equipment in the men’s room? Or playing pool or something? You’ve got to do this right now, in my office?” Puck had already turned bright red. With a whoop, Calvin slammed his arm on the desk. Puck scowled. “How about two out of three?” “That was two out of three, my man,” said Calvin. “Get over it.” “Both of you, get over it, and get out of here,” I said. “And Calvin, you should be ashamed. You’re bigger and younger than Puck.” “And blacker,” offered Calvin.
