The Clock Strikes Thirteen

Excerpt

SANDWICHES FOR TWO

Jauntily, Penny Parker walked through the dimly lighted newsroom of the Riverview Star, her rubber heels making no sound on the bare, freshly scrubbed floor. Desks were deserted, for the final night edition of the paper had gone to press half an hour earlier, and only the cleaning women were at work. One of the women arrested a long sweep of her mop just in time to avoid splashing the girl with water.

“I sorry,” she apologized in her best broken English. “I no look for someone to come so very late.”

“Oh, curfew never rings for me,” Penny laughed, side stepping a puddle of water. “I’m likely to be abroad at any hour.”

At the far end of the long room a light glowed behind a frosted glass door marked: “Anthony Parker—Editor.” There the girl paused, and seeing her father’s grotesque shadow, opened the door a tiny crack, to rumble in a deep voice:

“Hands up! I have you covered!”

Taken by surprise, Mr. Parker swung quickly around, his swivel chair squeaking a loud protest.

“Penny, I wish you wouldn’t do that!” he exclaimed. “You know it always makes me jump.”

“Sorry, Dad,” Penny grinned, slumping into a leather chair beside her father’s desk. “A girl has to have some amusement, you know.”

“Didn’t three hours at the moving picture theatre satisfy you?”

“Oh, the show was worse than awful. By the way, here’s something for you.”

Removing a sealed yellow envelope from her purse, Penny flipped it carelessly across the desk.

“I met a Western Union boy downstairs,” she explained. “He was looking for you. I paid for the message and saved him a trip upstairs. Two dollars and ten cents, if you don’t mind.”

Absently Mr. Parker took two crisp dollar bills from his pocket and reached for the telegram.

“Don’t forget the dime,” Penny reminded him. “It may seem a trifle to you, but not to a girl who has to live on a weekly allowance.”

For lack of change, the editor tossed over a quarter, which his daughter pocketed with deep satisfaction. Ripping open the envelope, he scanned the telegram, but as he read, his face darkened.

“Why, Dad, what’s wrong?” Penny asked in surprise.

Mr. Parker crumpled the sheet into a round ball and hurled it toward the waste paper basket.

“Your aim gets worse every day,” Penny chuckled, stooping to retrieve the paper. Smoothing the corrugations, she read aloud:

“YOUR EDITORIAL ‘FREEDOM OF THE PRESS’ IN THURSDAY’S STAR THOROUGHLY DISGUSTED THIS READER. WHAT YOUR CHEAP PAPER NEEDS IS A LITTLE LESS FREEDOM AND MORE DECENCY. IF OUR FOREFATHERS COULD HAVE FORESEEN THE YELLOW PRESS OF TODAY THEY WOULD HAVE REGULATED IT, NOT MADE IT FREE. WHY DON’T YOU TAKE THAT AMERICAN FLAG OFF YOUR MASTHEAD AND SUBSTITUTE A CASH REGISTER? FLY YOUR TRUE COLORS AND SOFT-PEDAL THE PARKER BRAND OF HYPOCRISY!”

“Stop it—don’t read another line!” the editor commanded before Penny had half finished.

“Why, Dad, you poor old wounded lion!” she chided, blue eyes dancing with mischief. “I thought you prided yourself that uncomplimentary opinions never disturbed you....