She was the kind of dame that would make a priest forget about an altar boy. She moved with the confident grace of a panther. She was wearing enough diamonds to start a Park Avenue jewelry store.
She was my kind of dame.
She poured herself into the chair in front of my desk. “I need help,” she said.
I hit my intercom and told Effie to hold my calls.
“What kind of help? Talk to me, sister,” I said.
“I need copy, I need copy fast. Johnny Tomatoes in Detroit says you’re the best.”
“Johnny’s always right,” I said. “It’ll cost ya.”
She cast her eyes downward, “I know.”
“So tell me your story and make it snappy.”
“It all started when I hired a copywriter from Detroit. That was before I talked to Johnny. I’m so ashamed. He roped me in with those big puppy dog eyes, I was trying to save a few dollars. He said he’d just attended a guru’s seminar. I really don’t want to say how it ended up.”
“Serves you right, You’ve been a very bad girl.”
“I know. Can you ever forgive me?”
“Maybe,” I said. “Can you sing?”
“A little,” she said. “In fact, I brought a video.”
“I like a dame who’s prepared,” I said.
“Here it is,” she said.
My name’s Caudill. I write copy.
Smash mouth copy.
For classy dames.
