"Someone in brown slacks was leaning against the side wall of a store. She has dark hair, aged around twenty five, a fairly good figure from where the suspect was standing. There were people strolling past her. Only one guy, Italian looking, took the trouble to give her the once over." You reread those lines. The story will be from the perspective of the suspect. He or she. That's the beauty of it, we do not knowanything about the person who is going to tell the readers about the life story of Miss or Mrs X leaning against the wall with that Ida Lupino cut. You read through it. Eileen who had been busy with a family from Colorado according to the plates, brings the water. "How's the writing?" "It's coming along I think - though I have to wait for Mr. Z's opinion." "Kiddo why do you take his opinion? Don't you have a mind of your own? Don't writers get their own inspirations?" She was right...and wrong. You sorely wanted to tell her that an office clerk like you, sure he has his aspirations, his fantasies, his dreams, and sure he can write them down in a lonely hotel room. Sure he can. But he needs direction. Like good actors. He needs his Mankiewicz. His Manky. "I tell you each time, you are throwing good money down the drain with this Mr. Z. He's a con merchant if I ever seen one. Looks like he's in the Mob too." She ambled off. Ambled? You watch her calves. Funny word for parts of the legs. A calf. Moo. The family is boisterous. There is music blaring. They must have been on a winter vacation as ther car is loaded up. A big estate. In comes the Studebaker Champion. Snow on its fender. Out pops Mr Z. Same wolfskin coat. He slams the door with opinion. Can you slam a door with opinion? With attitude? The door that is a little stiff opens to bring in a waft of cold air. Mr. Z does his two step dance routine, then bellows "Hello Darling to Eileen." She ignores him. He comes over to the table and situates himself in front of you. "Let's see the note book." You hand over the note book. He scans it. Then reads the first line "Someone in brown slacks." "Good start sonny. Good start. You don't want to give away anything to the prospects. You know they pick up books and read the first line. If you write something that sounds too familiar - they will say shucks I read this heap before - or if you give them too much information they will say - I know the ending. Predictable. Too predictable. But this business with the suspect. You aiming to go all French on me? Vous savez? All this crap about the pervert who we have to be pals with as readers. Are you a pervert? One of those juvenile delinquents? " You protest . You almost blare out "I'M NOT A PERVERT" but your sense of self preservation stops you in your tracks. Could it be that Mr. Z is ribbing you. "Good you cottoned on. I am testing you. To be a good and solid writer you got to be able to take the punches. [he does a few swings to demonstrate] You got to do that. But you have to stand up on your own two legs. Be a man." Eileen brought the coffee and the pancakes. "How come you ain't so sweet today - got one of those women things." Mr. Z's coarseness gets to you sometimes and you open your trap. "She has a headache, don't you Eileen?" She stares at both of you. "You studying medicine now Mr. Z?" "Call me Z - no I just wanted a smile." "Well it ain't part of the service - you have to earn it." "You expect me to be nice?" " Yes." "well you mean like those movie fellas who gives flowers?" "No, just nice." "Nice with flowers would be a starter." "It might be - drink your coffee before it gets cold." As she said this, Mr. Z bent down and opened his bag. Inside was a flower. It was a single flower. "There you go. A flower for you Eileen." She was taken back. You are, because it all seemed staged. Phoney. Nevertheless she accepts it and inserts it behind her name badge. EILEEN. Both of you get on with the pancakes. Mr. Z is wearing a smile. Eileen is wearing a flower. What are you wearing? Puzzlement. At least you can continue with your pulp story.