the cunning adventures of margeaux clyde

Please Excuse my Absence

2009-02-18T22:27:00.000-08:00

Hi guys and dolls,

I realize I've been MIA, but don't fret, your jack of all trades rogue reporter is here, working on providing you with the best that news has to offer. The truth of the matter for my absence, is that I've had a serious case of writer's block. Yes, journalists get writer's block too, so all you smug novelists and short story writers can just crawl back under the rock that you came out from. I'm still working on my pearl murderer case, if you're wondering. These things take time, you'll see. Plus my nemesis Mitch Malaise isn't making things easy for me. I haven't been able to leave my house because of him. I'll explain later. Right now, I must run, I've got a little bit of rummaging to do and a bevy of rogue activities I must complete.

Living and dying (well, let's hope not) by the deadline,

Margeaux Clyde

What a Waste

2009-01-21T11:50:00.000-08:00

After Mitch Malaise ruined my evening, I went home with quite a sour mood. I just couldn't believe the audacity of that big good for nothing blockhead. It had started to rain just as I got to the doorstep. I was really happy about the downpour. Rain in Los Angeles is a magnificent sight. The smog turns brilliant colors of gray in the sky just before a storm hits. Of course, traffic turns into more of a nightmare than ever, but that's o.k. Everybody needs the rain once in a while. It disrupts people's lives in the most perfect passive aggressive way and gives everyone an excuse to not do what they need to do or have to do, but don't want to. This saucy reporter would take rain over sunshine any day.

When I finally got through the door of the lobby, Alfred greeted me and offered to help me carry my dry cleaning upstairs. Normally, I would have refused. If there's one thing I don't like, it's people, men in particular, looking at me as if I'm disabled, just because my chromosomes happen to be XY. I can carry everything on my own, thank you very much, and for that matter, open doors for myself, get into elevators and pay at restaurants.

Alfred was the sweetest man this side of L.A. and reminded me a lot of my father, so I decided to let him help me. He'd been a doorman for 22 years at the Millennium Biltmore Hotel and I've been his favorite tenant for six of those years.

Living in a hotel isn't so strange, especially when it's something as grand as the Biltmore. My studio is located on the top floor and most hotel guests and staff barely notice I'm there. The Biltmore is eleven stories tall and originally opened in 1923, just around the same time SIG decided to build its headquarters underground. You can now understand why I live here, you see.

Oh the Biltmore is grand, just grand I tell you and it has quite an illustrious history. One of these days when I'm not out reporting or rummaging or going rogue, I'll have to post up some photos.

But I digress. Back to my arch nemesis Mr. Malaise. Did I tell you he completely ruined my evening? He caused so much damage, that I didn't even have the heart to check on some leads. There goes a perfectly good evening, wasted. Now, in addition to finding my pearl murderer, I have to teach Malaise a lesson, and believe me when I tell you, that it's not going to be pretty. You mess with Margeaux Clyde and you better go hide, is all I am saying.

The Candy Man

2009-01-18T00:13:00.000-08:00

I went to pick up my burgundy coat from the dry cleaners after visiting Alton at SIG's headquarters the other night. He was cranky as usual and asked me how my investigation was coming along. I told him I had a few kinks that needed to be worked out, but I was progressing. I wanted to get out of his office, but he just kept talking like the chatterbox that he is.

The truth is, I missed my coat and I wanted to get to it fast. I wouldn't have had to suffer like this if it wasn't for Ted the copy editor, who is also, without a doubt, the most accident-prone person I have ever met in my life. I had been talking to Alton and our managing editor, Ivy, when Ted stumbled into me, sending my chai latté cascading down my coat, like a milky waterfall. It was horrible, it really was. I cried silent tears, excused myself and tried to clean the mess. Eventually I gave up and had to take it to Mr. Dryclean. It was hard parting with my coat, even if it was just for a little while, especially since it had turned into a security blanket as well as my signature piece of clothing over the years.

I managed to dash across town before Mr. Dryclean had closed and retrieve my prized possession, although they warned me before they left that they had yet again, found another one of my pencils in the pockets. "Just count yourself lucky it wasn't my notepad," I wanted to say, but I apologized, thanked them and left.

I had already wasted enough time today, instead of trying to put together more pieces of my serial killer on the loose puzzle, but I was getting so hungry that I had to stop by the super market on my way home. Hey, a girls gotta eat, even this pilfering, focused and incognito reporter.

I was browsing the isles, trying to get together ingredients for some French onion soup I was looking forward to whipping up, when I came across the candy isle and I actually felt a little weak in the knees.

I'm a sucker for suckers.

I grabbed a bag and started going through the plastic titled boxes, doing my best to fill up on my favorite sugary, sour and, sugary-sour pieces of candy. I had just reached the Sour Power Belts when I heard footsteps behind me.

"Treating yourself to some sugar, sugar?" the voice said. I froze. I couldn't even turn around. I could feel the blood rising to my cheeks and the heat radiating off my face was as hot as a whistling tea kettle.

Then, like an idiot, I dropped a Sour Power Belt on the ground. I quickly darted to the ground to pick it up, when a hand met mine and did the honors for me.

From the navy-blue pinstripe suit, lion-head cuff links and the infinitely scuff-free shoes, I knew it could only be Mitch Malaise, my nemesis in life and most definitely in work.

Mitch was a reporter whose life goal it was to destroy my illustrious journalism career with accusations of libel, intimidation of my anonymous sources and claims of misinformation.

I hated him with a passion. He was a good for nothing low-life jealous reporter who gave journalists a bad name, as far as I was concerned. He was the reason we were rated in the ranks of lawyers and used car salesman. He made me sick.

"Malaise," I said. "You have 10 seconds to get the hell out of here or else you'll wish you were never born."

Before I had a chance to continue my threats, he erupted in a fit of laughter so loud that the skinny teenager stocking tomato cans in the next isle gawked.

"Clyde, you don't know who you're dealing with," he said, with a jealous-laced tone.

He stunk of garlic, another reason I needed to get away from him, stat.

"I see you've been to the Stinking Rose again. How do they manage to let such a scumbag like you in their fine establishment?"

"Ha! I'm practically family, what with all the business I give them."

The Stinking Rose was a popular restaurant devoted to all things garlic in Beverly Hills and San Francisco. It was a local favorite, touted as a tribute to garlic and Malaise loved to dine there.

"Yes, Mitch, you sure stink, and so does your reporting," I replied. I gathered up my bag and was half-way down the isle when he shouted at me.

"Clyde, don't get smart with me. I know from well-established sources that you're working on a little story about a serial killer, now are you not?"

"Who told you that?"

"Never mind who, the question is, what on Earth is such a fragile and pretty little thing such as yourself doing getting involved with a crime case? Shouldn't you be out reviewing restaurants or turning in a feature on the hottest new fashion designer in town? Or let me guess, how about some tips on 'How to Keep the Man of Your Dreams,' hmm?"

Mitch knew how to press my buttons. If one thing that made my blood boil it was an arrogant. good for nothing sexist sleaze bag trying to get between me and my fantastic journalistic abilities.

"Mitch, your brain must have gone into overload thinking up a placement for me conveniently below the glass ceiling. You should be careful, at this rate, you might not have anymore brain cells left to contribute to the pieces of trash you have the audacity to call journalism."

It was almost as if I had socked him in the gut. I smirked to myself and without even turning around, I made sure he knew his place.

"One more thing. You mess with my story or my sources and I will shred you up and down this town so much so, that the Stinking Rose wont even hire you as a dishwasher. Bye Mitch."

Fool me once, shame on me. Fool me twice...

2009-01-17T19:10:00.000-08:00

While I was pouring some bordeaux wine for me, myself and I (who else?) and trying to repair a nick in my favorite pair of pantyhose on Friday night, the phone unexpectedly rang. I knew it couldn't have been Alton, as he was out, smoking expensive cigars and probably trying to pick up women who would never give him the time of day. Alton was a real sucker for love, unfortunately, no one was really interested in his shenanigans. People tend to think that being the significant other of a doctor or lawyer is difficult, but in all honestly, it's much harder to march to the beat of a journalist.

Late nights, long hours and low pay - that's the glitz and glamor of a reporter. All that just to see your name in print, which don't get me wrong, is one of the most gratifying things of this business, but it really is hard out there for us, not to mention those who choose to be with us.

I put the bottle down and got the phone just before the ringing stopped.

"Yea," I said. I hate it when people interrupt my wine nights.

"Ms. Clyde? This is the manager of the Angel City Hotel, Harold Mope. I wanted to give you a ring because I had some information that might be useful."

I tried to remember when I had given Mope my card, while he kept babbling into the receiver. It must have been before I had reached that hotel room with the God awful wallpaper.

"Well, you told me to call you if I remembered anything about Anya and I did."

Anya..Anya...oh right, my dead hooker!, I almost shouted into the receiver.

"Yes, yes, Mr. Mope, just a second," I said as I rushed to get my notepad. "Go ahead."

"Well," he said, clearing his throat. "She came in, as she always does with a client, only this time, she sounded...nervous."

"Nervous?"

"Yea, like she didn't know what she was getting herself into, which as I'm sure you can imagine, is pretty ironic for ahh, someone in her field." He laughed his hoarse laugh while he waited for me to speak.

"Did she say anything to you at all?"

"Just the usual, asked how I was and thanked me for letting her use the hotel, before she winked at me. But there was something in her voice, something that jus' didn't seem right, y'know what I mean?"

"Mr. Mope, do you remember who she was with?" I asked.

"Nope. Usually I take a good look at who she brings into the joint, but this time, I think he just snuck in while she was chatting me up. Seems to me she wanted to keep him out of sight."

"OK, thanks for your time Mr. Mope. If you remember anything else, be sure to call. Oh and one more thing - you might want to hire an interior designer to change that horrid wallpaper in your hotel." I didn't feel the least bit guilty for letting him know about his color-challenged choices and neither would have you, if you had only seen it and worse, been forced to stay in a room covered in puke green walls with shit-colored vines creeping up them.

I hung up before he had a chance to say goodbye. I've never been good at them anyway. The information Mope had given me only confirmed my suspicions. I couldn't really use him as a source, because, let's be honest, he wasn't that useful, and he'd probably have to answer to the police if they knew he was letting hookers use his hotel for their midnight romps. Quoting him anonymously wouldn't have worked either - he didn't have substantial information for me to use.

I was just about to see if I could reach Alton, when something stopped me in my tracks.

"A young woman, believed to be in her 20s, was found in the dumpster behind the Pizza Parlor in North Hollywood yesterday night," the television blarred. "She had no visible markings on her body, however police did find a string of pearls in her pocket."

"My God," I thought. "I've got a serial pearl killer on my hands."

Getting SIG(y) With it

2009-01-13T00:29:00.000-08:00

I've spent the better part of this week pilfering, and let me tell you, it is one hell of a job to pilfer. Even with all my expert digging, I haven't received any new leads on my investigation into what I affectionately like to call the "death by pearls" murder.

I spoke to my editor, Alton, over the phone and he wasn't happy that pearls of evidence weren't lining up, so to speak. "I'm doing my best!," I shouted into the receiver, but didn't get a response. By this point I had had enough of his pestering, so I hung up. I know I know, bad decision, but he's always micromanaging me and in between my investigations and going incognito, it's hard to keep up with his incessant demands. Alton has been with the Society of International Gatekeepers (SIG) for over 15 years. In fact, he was the one who found me. The SIG has been in existence since the days of Ida M. Tarbell, my idol, but few journalists and even fewer members of the public have any idea that it's around.

The reason for the existence of SIG? The answers to that can be deciphered simply by taking a look at the current state of the media. Newspapers laying off journalists every week, news organizations going bankrupt, no appreciation for the printed word, some writers even inventing sources and articles to get by. It makes me sick to my stomach just thinking about it. Sick I tell you, sick.

SIG knew these days would come, thank God they were one step ahead of the game by creating a journalism task force to restore integrity, honest reporting and justice back into journalism, and the world coincidentally.

Well, I'd love to stay and chat (or blog, is it?) but the phone is ringing off the hook and I know for a fact it's Alton the pesky editor. More about SIG and me, just as soon as I get a hold of some leads for my asphyxiated hooker.

Diamonds and pearls : Part I

2009-01-12T23:24:00.000-08:00

Had a late night yesterday. Fortunately, Jerome was there to keep me company at the bar, while I hashed out some sources for my next big story I'm working on. I tossed back a Singapore Sling - shaken not stirred,and tried to remember if I had seen anything intriguing at the crime scene I had visited. I had tried to sneak around the back without the cops getting in the way, but I guess my burgundy coat had given me away.

"Margeaux, what on Earth are you doing here?" one of the chunky officers had said.
"I could ask you the same thing. Don't you have some doughnuts to finish off?"

He hadn't liked my comment, not in the least bit. He didn't seem like a smart fellow, but I knew I had seen him before. If only I could get close enough to see his badge. I left in a hurry while he was calling for backup.

It was a homicide. Some poor woman of the clothless persuasion lay dead in a cheap downtown Los Angeles hotel. Reporters were arriving on the scene, but I had gotten there first. I had found her in the room while she was still warm. She was young, with alabaster skin that shined brilliantly against her pitch black lingerie, motionless on the bed. As I looked around the room, I wondered if it had been the awful wallpaper that had shocked her into death.

Her hair was a dark shade of caramel and Medussa-like, with frayed ends darting in every which way. She didn't seem to have put up much of a fight, but she looked peaceful now. Even in her lifeless state, you could tell that she was new to working the cold streets of Los Angeles. This could have turned out to be a normal murder, an every day occurrence in this city, but something was off. My reporter's instincts were working over time. My senses heightened and my heartbeat escalated, as I saw something shiny peering at me from her mouth. I could have missed it in a second, but the reflective fish wire caught my eye. As I took out my tweezers to pull the thread out of her gaping mouth, I realized I had come across the murder weapon - a string of pearls shoved down her throat, to muffle her screams, to stop her breathing, to end her short street life.

I quickly shoved the broken string of pearls in my coat pocket and hurried down the stairs, intrigued at the front page news I had stumbled upon, upset at the dead hooker's fate and ready to start my daunting investigation.

Honest, fair and courageous: Margeaux Clyde, at your service

2009-01-12T17:34:00.000-08:00

I'm a woman of few words, spoken words that is. When the Society of International Gatekeepers (SIG) recruited me in my youth, I didn't know the roller coaster of a ride I was in for. Now, to uphold the respectability and integrity of journalism, a profession so near to my heart that ink pulsates through my veins, I must do what I can to rescue the written word, seek the truth and report it, give a voice to the voiceless and bring justice to light.

I spend my days pilfering, investigating, going incognito and delivering objective news. With readership on the decline for years, newspapers going bankrupt and few honest reporters around, journalism is in trouble and you better believe that I'm here to save it.

I like my men the same way I like my drinks - sensitive, straight and strong. But with news to report and people to save, who has time for love? I sure don't. The only man in my life is Jerome, my bartender.

In my book, the pen isn't mightier than the sword. The pen is the sword, you catch my drift?