Dirt

be delighted.”
    “Oh, tell Paul to sell the Cadillac, and he can keep ten percent of what he gets for it; I don’t want to see it again.” She handed Martha the car salesman’s card. “Call this gentleman and tell him I’ll want the new Mercedes delivered no later than four-thirty, and tell him to get the car phone number changed over. Call a music store and get a dozen CDs delivered for the new car’s stereo — you know the kind of thing I like — at least two Bobby Shorts and some Michael Feinstein and some chamber music. Give them to Paul so the salesman can show him how the CD player works. Make sure the salesman gets my vanity plates changed over, too.” “Right.” Martha was making notes. “I’ll deal with the insurance; what value do you want to put on it?”
    “A hundred and thirty-seven thousand dollars.”
    Martha’s eyes widened. “Hickock sprang for the Six Hundred?”
    “Of course he did. You’d better let the garage man know about the change; the doorman, too. Let’s not have any glitches.”
    “It shall be done,” Martha said, rising. “You ready for lunch?”
    “I’ll have a salad, then send Helen and Barry in, and we’ll get started.”
    Martha disappeared, still writing on her pad.
    Amanda still had the sick feeling in her stomach that had begun the night before, but her elation over the new contract and the Mercedes helped to drive it away. She felt very much better now.
     
     
    When the salad dish had been taken away, Helen and Barry shuffled into the office and took seats.
    “Anything really good?” Amanda asked, starting to leaf through the stack of items, each on a page to itself. They would need twenty-five to thirty for tomorrow’s column.
    “Three high-profile pregnancies that together might make a good lead,” Barry said. “They’re on top.”
    “Good; I like to start with good news,” Amanda replied. She held up a page and frowned. “Ivana Trump is buying a yacht? Why would anyone care?” She crushed the page in her long fingers and tossed it into a wastebasket. Her people knew she had little time for the Trumps.
    “I got a call,” Helen said. “The
Infiltrator
is starting in again on Michael Andress; this time they’ve got a waiter from some drive-in restaurant in Long Beach who says they’ve been sleeping together for three years.” “The boy’s straight as an arrow,” Barry said. “I have it on
good
authority, and anyway, I can always tell. How many children does he have to father before they leave him alone?” “And his wife is one of the pregnancies on the list,” Helen said.
    “Good chance to stick it to the
Infiltrator,”
Amanda mused, marking the item. “Say something about the unjust pursuit of the boy; you know how it should go.” She went rapidly through the stack of items, keeping some, tossing others out. “That’s it, I think,” she said, tossing the good ones onto the desk. “I’ll have my lead for you in half an hour.” She glanced at her watch.
    Helen and Barry left, and Amanda turned to her computer to compose the paragraphs that would lead the column. She had planned to enthuse about St. Bart’s and what a wonderful time she had had on her weekend, but the incident of the wee hours was still on her mind, and until she found out what it was all about, she would hedge her bets. She had been writing for ten minutes when she looked up and saw Martha standing at the door. She had turned pale, and she had a sheet of paper in her hand.
    “Martha, what’s wrong, dear?” she asked.
    Martha approached the desk slowly and put the paper on the desk. “This just came in on the fax machine,” she said.
    A death, Amanda thought, but she was wrong. She picked up the sheet of paper and saw a photograph of herself, taken early that morning. The sheet was set up like the front page of a tabloid newspaper, and the lead story was: DIRT
Greetings, earthlings! Look who we caught with her knickers down and her forked tongue erotically engaged in a love nest in a chic East Side hotel. None other than gossip’s high bitch, Amanda Dart, who, after revealing others’ peccadilloes for years, has revealed remarkable appetites of her own. She checked into the elegant hostelry last Friday night after having concocted an elaborate ruse to make the world at large (you and I) believe that she was lolling at the St. Bart’s beachfront compound of the Duke of Kensington. (Write this down should you ever want to disappear for a couple of