The Diary of Molly Sloan
Molly | Timmy | Ben | Jean-Pierre | Mysterion
July 10, 1933
Oooh. I may have overdone it last night. Or last night overdid me. Regardless, this morning, head pounding, I couldn’t get a cup of coffee into my system fast enough. What happened last night? It’s a blur.
But a happy blur. It ain’t every night a gal wins a Pulitzer. In fact, if my memory serves, last night was the first. Good for you, Molly Sloan. If only Larry were there to see it. Oh, I know I broke his heart, but last night he would have understood. He would have been proud. After all, if it weren’t for him, I never would have made a break for the story. That’s why you can’t pin down a Sloan. The story. Just look at Daddy on wife number six. But Larry is in London working on some science project or another. We never would have made it anyway.
Did I actually buy Clark Gable a gimlet? That lousy SOB never did know how to treat a girl right.
Molly Sloan. 1933 winner of the Pulitzer Prize for Reporting. That’s me. Now what?
July 14, 1933
The last few days? One word. Whirlwind. I thought I knew what life in the fast-track was before, but this takes the cake. Since when is a reporter news? Since she’s the first gal to with the Pulitzer, I guess. ‘Course, this gal doesn’t mind the limelight, just that it takes a toll after a while. First, the Life photo shoot, then the profile interview in The Saturday Evening Post then the lunches, the parties, the job offers (as if!). Etc. My head is spinning!
But between it all, a telegram from Budapest via, of all places, Transylvania. You see, in the freedom-loving US of A, we believe in free commerce and trade, we believe in free speech, but we don’t believe in a free lunch, not for career criminals anyway. The Al Capones of the world can stay locked up forever, as far as we’re concerned. But in some parts of Europe, some people don’t see it that way. Here’s the content of the telegram:
PELT-SMUGGLING ONGOING STOP SEVEN MURDERS STOP STOP THE MADNESS STOP PLEASE STOP IT STOP
An old contact of mine, Vladimir Brusescu, sent it. A telegram from Budapest ain’t cheap. Something serious is going on out there and he thinks I may be the only one to handle it. If I break the news, maybe the authorities out there will get some gold old American plain horse sense in them and knock it off. At least, that’s the way I read that telegram, between the stops.
Timmy and I talked about it for a while (at least before I had to leave for drinks with the Vanderbilts. God bless that kid. He’s sharp as a tack and smart as a whip. A plain-speaking Texan with a Harvard education. He’s going to follow up–turns out the kid reads a little Czech–he’s going to head down to the lower East Side and see if anyone down there has heard something about this from their homeland.
Well, look at the time. It’s dinner with the Lunts. More later…
