Socrates was pronounced the New Orleans way: Sew, like the machine, followed by a “crates” that rhymed with rats, because even though the company wasn’t in New Orleans anymore, courtesy of Hurricane Katrina, New Orleans was still very much in the company. In keeping with its quirky roots, Mose Milton’s publishing company produced books that often seemed more provoked than inspired. Mostly they were downright scary.
It was her job as associate editor to smooth the rough edges off the writing and make the books, if not suitable for public consumption, then at least readable by the average seventh grader. It wasn’t a happy job for someone who liked books, but it was a paycheck, even if it was one that barely paid her bills. And Houston didn’t have a lot of editing jobs. She couldn’t afford to be picky if she also wanted to eat.
Some of the books weren’t awful, but the book she was working on now, a how-to manual for hopeful dictators—well, she’d have been glad to get it up to the level of awful. The author, known only as Deep Dude, contacted her by a variety of email aliases to avoid the Feds—who don’t seem interested in him as far as she could tell. Since she’d edited his informative, How To Tell if You’re Under Surveillance, she figured she’d know. On the up side, he’d provided her with a healthy collection of client endorsements of the surveillance book and his lively Just Because You’re Paranoid, Doesn’t Mean They Aren’t Out to Get You. He claimed he could get them for the dictator book, too. It would have helped, though, if even one of them had gone beyond various versions of, “This shit really works, dude.”
In addition to the eclectic list Socrates produced, there was the decidedly eccentric staff to deal with. The worst of the worst was Dennis Donald Duckla, the editor in chief. Okay, so his name was awful, but at least he hadn’t been named for where he’d been conceived. Most people assumed she’d been named for a pair of women’s cropped pants, but was she bitter? Well, maybe a little, but Dennis was way more bitter than her.
Dennis’ seniority didn’t make him a decent editor—nor did playing Halo with Mose over the network for most of the day. Capri figured he must have some dirt on Mose Milton, or maybe he was just a lousy Halo player. Everyone knew Mose was a sore loser—one with a very rich mother, so he could stay in denial and in Halo land.
Mose Milton ran the company for mama, mostly running it into the ground, though he kept if from total annihilation by occasionally stumbling across books people wanted to read.
Usually he gave those books to Capri, since no-holds-barred Halo didn’t leave that much time for serious editing and Dennis didn’t like to work anyway.
Capri didn’t know how Mose Milton had gotten his hands on the ultimate guy fantasy book. Injustice League had everything, including interest from a computer gaming company and a movie producer. Mose Milton had been walking around with dollar signs in his eyes and had even mentioned getting a new microwave oven for the break room.
It was almost too much excitement to bear—which didn’t explain why Mose Milton would give the book to Dennis to edit. If he did have dirt on Mose Milton, it must be juicy—which was pretty odd. It wasn’t like Mose Milton went out of his way to hide his…downside. Mose wanted to be found out, even for things he hadn’t done. It helped keep his mama at bay. The worst thing that could happen to Mose was for her to find out he wasn’t a gay, gambling away company funds, and author of extreme erotic fiction—when he wasn’t playing Halo.
Outside the office, the wind cut through her many layers of clothes she’d donned as insulation against frostbite. She could almost hear the wind laughing at her.
In an ironic, though not surprising twist, inside was colder than outside, with her office the freezing heart of Ice Station Zebra. She’d have brought in a space heater, but the wiring couldn’t handle it, and when the setting sun hit her west-facing window, it sent the temp in the other direction. And if that weren’t bad enough, some bright soul had bolted her desk to the floor facing the huge lidless eye of a window. Shortly after twelve every Monday through Friday, she had to shed layers of clothing and don sunglasses to survive until time to go home.
Her breath puffed white into the air as she bent to stow her purse in the one drawer in her desk with a working lock. Then she lit a candle to make the air slightly more palatable. A lace edging of frost was stitched into the corners of the windowpanes she could still see. She’d started stacking submissions against the art deco wall window because she remembered hearing that paper was good insulation. It was weird to want a slush pile. Luckily it was easy to build hers.
All submissions were paper, and even the grossly unsuitable ones were logged into the office by the semi-invisible receptionist, Merleen Tortorich, a former Miss Rutabaga with big blonde hair and bigger fake boobs. Merleen was quite possibly the worst typist in the world. Her phone skills made her typing look world class. And she didn’t like face-to-face contact with people, particularly not the people who came to Socrates Musings. When Capri thought about their author list, she couldn’t blame her.
After the log in, Merleen passed submissions to Mari Beth Newman, the office manager and disgraced Junior Leaguer. Capri knew what she’d done to get kicked out, but Capri had a feeling they missed her organizational skills. The woman was a Nazi with everyone but Dennis. She
