Ten letters to the advice column. George counted the stack Corinth handed him when he came up the steps. Corinth said, “You know I’ve had three calls this morning about the column. One was from a friend of Baby Sue and he wanted to speak to her. I told him that Baby Sue was out of the office—actually she was standing right here. I told him he would have to write a letter to the Advice Column if he had any complaints. His name is Archibald St. Amant III. Please don’t let him talk to her if he calls back. She made a horrible face when she heard his name.
George took the letters. “I’m the soul of discretion.” The first letter he opened was from a newcomer to the city asking for information about where to find good, safe, apartments. ‘I don’t want breakup advice or any of that lovelorn stuff. Actually, I’m a transsexual dancer at the Red Poppy. I’m busy all the time and I just want a safe place to relax. Please don’t use the name Red Poppy in your column.’
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