A Dangerous Fiction (11 page)

“Nice,” I said. “What's the offer?”

“Modest.”

“How modest?”

“Eight thousand?”

“That's not modest, that's downright chintzy.”

I know she would have been given a range, not a figure; the trick was figuring out the upper limit of that range. We haggled amicably over our salads and settled at last on $12,000. Better than eight, but still low enough that unless we got extraordinary early reviews or major award nominations, they'd just shove the book out with no support, which is like dropping a toddler off to play in Times Square. But with no other bidders, I had very little leverage.

Still, it meant that Keyshawn's first novel would be published by a prestigious house. There'd be reviews, maybe some subsidiary rights sales: not a bad debut for a twenty-three-year-old writer. Suddenly I couldn't wait to get back to the office to call him. The sale of a first novel is a moment that lives forever in a writer's mind. It's the start of his career, a before-and-after moment he'll remember for the rest of his life. I would be a part of that memory: a modest sort of immortality, but my own.

I
was on the phone with Keyshawn when Harriet stormed into my office. Waving her to a seat, I continued my conversation.

Keyshawn attempted to take the news coolly but was undermined by the break in his voice. “You're the man, Jo. I can't believe it. I owe you for this.”

“I take it you accept the offer?”

Harriet, who'd been scowling at the floor, looked up at this.

“Oh, hell yeah!” Keyshawn said.

I congratulated him again and warned him that contracts would take several weeks. We talked for a few more minutes, then I eased him off the phone.

“Who'd you sell?” Harriet asked.

“Keyshawn Grimes.”

“Well done.” Her tone was begrudging but sincere. For all the nos we have to give and receive, we agents live for the yeses; and the sale of a first novel is the sweetest deal of all.

Harriet recomposed her face into a scowl. “
Were
you checking up on me?”

“Why would I?”

“You tell me; you're the one who showed up at La Jolie.”

“We've crossed paths at lunch before, and you never asked that question. Feeling guilty?”

“Why the bloody hell should I? Charlie may be on your blacklist, but he still has some friends.” Her voice had taken on a grating upper-class English edge. Mingus sat up and stared at her. “Lie down, you silly dog!” she snapped, and to my surprise he obeyed.

“Harriet,” I said mildly, “it's no business of mine who you lunch with.” And yet I couldn't help wondering. Charlie had good commercial sense but no real taste; Harriet was the opposite. They'd never gotten along in the office, and I'd never known them to meet outside it. Why now?

“No, it isn't,” she said sourly.

“How is Charlie, anyway? Still fuming?”

“What do you expect? It's not pleasant being grilled by the police.”

“Beats being fried,” I said. Harriet was not amused, and I remembered that she, too, had been questioned. “I told the police they were wasting their time. No agent would have sent those e-mails.”

“Yes, well, apparently you didn't tell them forcefully enough.”

“Charlie called me to complain,” I said, “but what he really wanted was to find out exactly what the police were investigating. I can't imagine he didn't ask you.”

“Of course he asked. I told him nothing.”

I thought of their two heads, canted together like lovers'. Charlie hadn't looked disappointed.

The door opened and Lorna walked in, carrying a stack of letters. “I need signatures,” she said.

Harriet turned on her with the fury she hadn't dared show me. “Can't you see we're in a meeting, you stupid cow?”

I was on my feet before I knew it, and so was Mingus. “How dare you talk to her like that? Apologize at once!”

“Or what, you'll sic the dog on me?” Harriet took a deep breath and composed herself. “I apologize, Lorna.
You
didn't deserve that.”

“No, she didn't,” I said, quelling an impulse to slap the older woman silly. Striking out at Lorna like that was like kicking a stray dog, and I wouldn't have it in my office. “Thanks, Lorna, leave them on my desk. Harriet and I have some things to discuss.”

“Actually,” Harriet said, “we're done. I've had enough interrogation to last me for a while, thank you very much.” She got up and marched out of my office with the perfect posture of one whose governess had made her walk with books on her head.

I started to call after her, then stopped myself. If this conversation continued, it would end with Harriet quitting or being fired. Maybe that's where we were headed anyway, but I didn't want it to happen now, in the heat of the moment. I sat back down and rested my head on my hands.

“Nasty old witch,” Lorna muttered. I pretended not to hear.

•   •   •

I worked late. The sun had set by the time I left the building, but Manhattan by night is as bright as most cities by day. I'd changed into sneakers and planned to walk home through the park. Mingus needed the exercise, and I needed to clear my head.

The rush-hour crowd had abated, but there were still plenty of people on the streets. I stood for a moment, adjusting to the clatter and clanks, honks and beeps, the incessant polyglot hum of the city. Then I stepped onto the pavement, and the city cradled me in its towering arms, cloaking me in anonymity. Mingus trotted at my heel, ears perked, vigilant. All he needed was an earbud to be the consummate Secret Service agent.

Hugo used to hate me running in the park, or even entering it at night, but that's because he didn't understand my situation. The city was his birthright, not mine. I had to earn it; and to make a city yours, you must inhabit it. So whenever Hugo fussed, I'd said “Yes, dear” and “No, dear,” and then I'd done as I pleased.

I was willing to cede the outer boroughs, but within Manhattan, there was nowhere I would not go. Central Park was relatively safe. The main paths were well lit and well patrolled, and I took sensible precautions: I never walked through late at night, and I avoided secluded places. But at seven thirty on a clear summer evening, with Mingus at my side, I had no fear.

The evening was warm, and a fine mist rose from the lake. We had just passed the tall boulders along the lakefront when Mingus stopped and swung his head around, pointing like a bird dog at a spot amid the rocks. The hair on his ruff rose, and I believe my own hair did as well, for I felt it too: the sense of being watched, followed . . . stalked.

I stared hard at the boulders. At first I saw nothing. Then my eye caught a flicker of movement where none should have been, and gradually I made out a deeper darkness in the shadow of the boulders: a crouching human figure.

There were people around but no one close. I thought of running, but to run was to invite pursuit. I felt for the clasp of Mingus's collar and called out, in a voice much braver than I felt, “Who's there? Show yourself!”

A moment passed. Then the dark shape unfurled, and through the mist I glimpsed a male figure in dark clothes and a hoodie. A moment later it swung around the side of the boulder and was gone. Mingus leapt forward, straining against the leash, and for a moment I was tempted to let him loose. If it was Sam Spade, this was my chance to catch him. But what if it wasn't, and I ended up siccing Mingus on some harmless vagrant who'd been sheltering in the boulders?

“Leave it,” I said. “Let's go, Mingus.” The dog threw me a reproachful look but followed as I turned toward home.

•   •   •

To call or not to call, that was the question. Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to be taken for a poor frail woman in need of protection, or to swim alone through a sea of troubles? If I called Tommy, would he take it personally? Even the question made me angry. What did I care what he thought?

I took a steak from the freezer and stuck it in the microwave to thaw. Poured myself a glass of wine, which I sipped in the kitchen while the dog lapped water from his bowl. I thought of all the novels I've read in which witnesses withhold information from the police, only to show up dead in the next scene. Tommy's card was in my wallet, cell phone number scrawled on the back. I laid it on the counter and looked at it. When the microwave beeped, I put the steak on to broil and threw together a salad. Mingus stationed himself beside the stove, drooling so much that a little pool of saliva collected on the floor. “Poor guy,” I said. “You're not used to city hours, are you? How do you like your steak? Medium-rare work for you?”

It seemed to. His half of the sirloin, mixed with kibble, was gone before I took my second bite.

•   •   •

“No, I don't think you're paranoid,” Tommy said when I finally phoned him. “I think you're stupid.”

“
What?” I sat up straight on the couch.

“Walking alone through the park at night? Jesus wept, woman. Why not pin a target on your back?”

“I wasn't alone. Mingus was with me.”

“Can he stop a bullet?”

“Easy there, Detective. No one's been flashing any guns. Sam Spade's the white-collar type.”

“His namesake wasn't.”

“Oh,” I said. “You've read Hammett.”

There was a little pause, and I found myself listening for background noises on his end—footsteps, a TV, a woman's voice—but all I heard was his voice in a vacuum. “You gave me
The Maltese Falcon
. Said if I insisted on being a dick, I might as well learn from the best.”

I laughed. “I don't remember, but it sounds like me. Fiction trumps reality every time.”

“Now there's a surprising flash of insight.”

Definitely alone, I thought. He wouldn't use that tone if he weren't.
Somehow conversations with Tommy seemed to start out professional and take a sharp turn toward personal. He had an encroaching way about him: that much I did remember.

I told him about Harriet and Charlie. He didn't seem impressed.

“You don't think that's kind of suspicious?” I asked.

“La Jolie, you said?”

“That's right.”

“I know it,” Tommy said. “Expense-account joint. Publishers' hangout.”

“Yeah, so?”

“Silly place to meet if they're conspiring.”

I hadn't thought of that, but he was right. La Jolie was more the type of place you take someone you want to impress. “So now you think Harriet's OK?” I asked.

“Didn't say that. She's no fan of yours, that's for sure. My advice would be don't take any poison apples from her. And stay out of the damn park.”

“Brilliant, Detective.”

“My pleasure, ma'am.”

T
he next blow fell the following morning. Jean-Paul was with me; we were going over his plan for resubmitting the work of each of our targeted clients. Lorna walked into my office and said, “Amy Patel from
Publishers Weekly
called.”

I looked up impatiently, having told her to hold my calls. Amy's call was nothing unusual. I had several friends at PW, and we regularly passed on news of sales and suggestions for features. “So?”

“She asked if it's true you're leaving the agency.”

“What?”

“She said she heard you're leaving, and Harriet is taking over.”

The breath caught in my chest. “What did you tell her?”

“I said I didn't know anything about it.”

I stared at her.

Lorna, normally phlegmatic, now looked distinctly uncomfortable. “I said she should ask you, only you weren't available at the moment. What was I supposed to say?”

“You should have said no, you twit!” Jean-Paul exploded. “You should have found out where she heard such a ridiculous story.”

“No one asked you,” Lorna retorted, but her heart wasn't in it.

“Take it easy,” I told Jean-Paul. “Don't kill the messenger.” Although in truth, I felt like flinging a large book at the messenger.

“What should I do?” Lorna asked me.

“Call her back.” But just then the phone rang.

Lorna answered it. “Hamish and Donovan.” She listened for a moment. “What press release?”

Jean-Paul groaned.

Lorna scowled and put her finger to her lips. “Could you forward us a copy right away? . . . No, of course it's not true. . . . No, sorry, she's in a meeting. I'll have her call you as soon as she gets back.”

She hung up. “Bill Dietrich from the
Times
. They received a press release in your name. He's forwarding it now.”

Bill was the
Times'
publishing beat reporter. I logged into my e-mail, and no one spoke a word until it came through. I read it aloud.

Dear Publishing Friends and Colleagues:

As some of you may know, this agency and some of its clients have recently been the objects of a malicious attack. Twelve of my clients received e-mails, supposedly sent by me, containing book and movie offers for their work. The discovery that these offers were phony caused great distress to them and to me.

Our attempts to identify the perpetrator of this cruel hoax have been unsuccessful. The police, too, have failed to find the person responsible. Because all the targeted writers were my own clients, I have concluded that this malicious act was intended to undermine these valued relationships. There is only one way to protect this agency and its clients. As of today, I am severing my ties to the Hamish and Donovan Literary Agency, which will henceforth be directed by my faithful and trusted associate, Harriet Peagoody. I take comfort in knowing my writers will be in such capable hands.

It has been a pleasure to know and work with you all, and I wish you all the best.

Sincerely,

Jo Donovan

When I looked up, Jean-Paul was on his feet, pacing the room and punching his palm with his fist. Lorna's eyes were glued to my face. I opened the address list, and even as I ran down the list of names, I knew, without yet knowing how, that this would change everything. The list was a Who's Who of the New York publishing scene.
Publishers Weekly,
the
New York Times, Publishers Lunch, Vanity Fair,
Mediabistro, and Gawker were on it. So were all the major publishing websites and agent blogs, along with the personal e-mail addresses of a dozen top publishers and editorial directors. If I had compiled it myself, I couldn't have done a better job.

We would deny it at once, of course, but now there was no containing the story. Before the day was through it would be the talk of the industry. I had no idea what to do, where to begin. Lorna and Jean-Paul were looking at me fearfully. I forced down the panic that rose inside me. Later, I promised myself. I'll fall apart later.

“Write a refutation, and explain the backstory,” I told Jean-Paul. “Bring me a draft in twenty minutes.” He turned and ran. I looked at Lorna. “Let all calls go to voice mail till I get this sorted. Is Harriet in?”

She nodded silently, owl-eyed behind her thick glasses.

“Ask her to step in, would you?”

•   •   •

Harriet swooped in, all elbows and British hauteur, dressed today in lady-of-the-manor tweeds. “What's going on, Jo? Lorna looks like she swallowed a toad.”

“Shut the door.” I hardly recognized my own voice, which seemed to issue from some cold, dark place deep inside me.

She closed the door and approached my desk but remained standing. I handed her a printout of the press release. “This went out to the entire publishing community this morning.”

The blood drained from her face as she read. Even her lips went pale. Halfway through, she sat down heavily.

“Who sent it?” she said when she finished reading.

“You took the question right out of my mouth.”

“How can you ask me that?” she cried. “But how could you not? I quite see that. I see how it looks. And after yesterday. But even so, Jo, even so.”

She looked genuinely stricken, so ill I edged the wastebasket toward her. “Maybe you told Charlie more than you meant to.”

“I didn't! I swear to you I didn't. He did ask, but I hardly said a thing.” She stared at the printout, running a hand through her hair until the gray spikes resembled a turbulent seascape. “‘My faithful and trusted associate,'” she read aloud. “‘Her capable hands.' You see what this is?”

“A vote of confidence?”

“He wants you to suspect me. I'm the scapegoat here. I'm as much a victim as you are.”

“Who would do that?”

“Not me. And it couldn't have been Charlie. He didn't know enough.”

“Because you ‘hardly said a thing.'”

She bit her lips and didn't answer.

“Maybe it was a thing or two too many,” I said. “I'm not blaming you. But I have to know.”

Patches of color returned to her cheeks. She read the press release again. “Whoever wrote this knew there were twelve phony offers. Charlie didn't know that. Isn't it obvious who it is?”

What was obvious was that she was ratcheting back her claim to have told him nothing. Now it was just the number he didn't know.

“Not to me,” I said.

“It's that stalker of yours, that Sam Spade.” She said “stalker” as if she were saying “husband” or “lover,” as if he were someone I had willfully allowed into our lives. But I observed this without feeling it. I felt nothing at all, except cold.

“It must be,” she went on in the face of my silence. “It's his MO: phony e-mails, impersonation. Only now he's trying to destroy us from within, casting suspicion on me. Don't you fall for it, Jo! I told you I'd see you through this, and I meant it. But I have to know you trust me. I can't go on working here if there's any doubt in your mind.”

There was plenty of doubt in my mind. Harriet was a skillful saleswoman, but I wasn't buying. Anyone who knew about our cyber-stalker could have written that press release, including Sam Spade himself. But only someone in publishing could have put together that distribution list, and chances were I was looking right at her. Or so I'd thought before she came in. Now I was less certain. Anyone can fake shock, but she'd actually turned white.

I looked away from her, and my eye fell on a photo on the opposite wall. Taken at a mayoral inaugural ball, the photo showed Hugo and Norman Mailer embracing warmly. In fact, Hugo had disliked Mailer, who'd once written an essay about the state of contemporary American fiction without so much as mentioning Hugo's name, and Mailer had loved Hugo about as much as any alpha wolf loves an upstart male challenger; but you'd never know it from the photo. Keep your friends close, Hugo always said, and your enemies closer.

“Of course I believe you,” I told her.

•   •   •

The first person I called was Tommy, despite having sworn last night never to call him again. I was in crisis mode, blindered, full-speed ahead. Tommy gave me his e-mail address, asked me to forward the phony press release, and put me on hold. When he came back, his voice was grim. “This isn't good. It's escalating.”

“You were right about one thing. Look at the addresses it went out to. Whoever made up the distribution list knows his way around publishing.”

He grunted. “Seen Harriet yet?”

“She was shocked, shocked!”

“Again with the Bogie references. A guy could get jealous.”

And he accused
me
of flirting. I was in no mood. “The thing is, she really did seem shocked. She turned white. How do you fake that?”

“You'd be surprised what people can fake. How bad is this, Jo?”

“Bad enough. I expect I'll lose some clients.” I felt a pang as I said it.

“I thought all publicity's good publicity.”

“For writers, maybe. Agents are supposed to be effective and invisible.”

“Any chance your media friends will keep quiet?”

“Not a chance in the world. They don't do quiet.”

“Then I guess you'll be issuing a denial.”

“Working on it as we speak.”

“You want to downplay the damage. Refer to the incidents as ‘unfunny jokes'; try not to mention the perp at all. Remember he's out there obsessing, feeding on every bit of attention he can squeeze out of you. I've got to go. I'll be over later.”

“Are you going to talk to Charlie again?”

“So now you suspect Charlie?”

I looked at the door to my office, gauging the silence behind it. “At this point, I trust the dog.”

“Now you're talking sense,” Tommy said.

•   •   •

Jean-Paul brought in a draft statement. I edited out the indignation and downplayed the villainy, borrowing Tommy's phrase, “unfunny joke.” The result was short on detail but dignified in tone. “Print it on agency stationery,” I told him. “I want it faxed to everyone on that distribution list.”

“Not e-mailed?”

“Faxed and e-mailed, then followed up with phone calls. And that's just for starters. I'm going to need to reach out to every writer in our stable.” Telling the story over and over, listening to the same expressions of shock, issuing the same reassurances—my stomach curdled at the thought.

“What kills me,” Jean-Paul said, “is that I actually had my hands on the bastard. I wish I'd broken his fucking neck—sorry, Jo.”

“I wish I'd brained him with my umbrella, but wishes ain't horses. Now, go fix that statement. I want everyone in my office in half an hour for a staff meeting.”

He left. To save time, I forwarded the phony press release to Molly and Max, then conference-called them. She was home in Westchester; he was on tour in Houston. I filled them in, and they read the statement. Max was the first to speak.

“The hell with the tour. I'm coming to New York.”

“Don't you dare,” I said. “I need you out there flogging books and charming booksellers. Don't forget, your income is my income.”

“This is serious, Jo. It's escalating.”

“The cops are taking it seriously. There's nothing you can do that they're not doing.”

“How can I help?” Molly asked.

“Just do what you do. Talk to people. Let them know it was a hoax. Tell them the agency's on solid ground and I'm not going anywhere.”

“Won't that make them suspect the opposite? It would me.”

“Can't be helped,” I said. “The false story's out there; we have to deny it.”

“I'll get right on it.”

“And I'm calling Detective Cullen,” Max said.

“Keep your chin up, kiddo,” Molly said. “You're not alone.”

“You guys,” I began, but couldn't go on due to something stuck in my throat.

•   •   •

We sat around the conference table in my office, as we did at our monthly slush-pile treasure hunts, but the atmosphere this time was very different. Chloe, seated opposite Jean-Paul, looked everywhere but at him. Harriet was physically present, but so distracted and silent she hardly seemed there at all. Only Lorna was her usual efficient self, anchoring the foot of the table with notepad and sharpened pencils at the ready. The phone rang constantly, two rings per call before voice mail picked up.

“We've got to start answering that phone soon,” I said. “When we do, I want to make sure we're on the same page. Our attitude is that someone played a nasty prank on us. We're annoyed but not worried; and despite the recent unpleasantness, it is business as usual here. I want a batch of submissions out of here by the close of day. Any calls from the media should be directed to me. Any appointments you have, keep 'em. Lunch dates, whatever. Business as usual.”

Harriet shuddered. “As if I could eat. I'm feeling quite ill, actually. I may have to go home.”

In the silence that followed, there came a loud snort from the foot of the table. We all looked at Lorna, who rarely spoke in staff meetings. “If anyone should feel sick, it's Jo,” she said to Harriet. “
She's
the one getting battered and her name dragged through the mud, and I don't see her running home.”

“Nonsense!” I said, bristling. “Do I look battered and muddy?”

“Hell no,” Jean-Paul said loyally, and Chloe gave him a sharp look. Lorna seemed taken aback, and I regretted my reaction. In her own awkward way, the girl was just trying to support me, and I'd nearly taken her head off.

“Personally,” Chloe said, “I think you're taking this really well, Jo. What this creep did was criminal. My dad says you'll have a humongous civil suit against him, too, if the police ever find out who it is.”