asked:
‘What would you like to drink?’
A waiter had materialized quietly, stood patiently.
‘Large scotch.’
The waiter seemed pleased at the rudeness, as if it was what he understood. The woman said:
You know what, I think I’ll have the same.’
She had finally released his hand but now looked for it again as she said:
‘I’m Linda.’
His last hope faded, the chance that maybe she was an associateand the real deal would show later. Brant studied her and was not encouraged. He’d poled some old broads but not this one, no way. Her face was like parchment and she’d had some plastic surgery, bad surgery, it gave her that ricktus smile. He said:
‘You sound younger on the phone.’
Needling her. Didn’t work, she said:
‘Why, thank you, young man. You’re quite the charmer, aren’t you?’
Yeah.
The drinks came and he could only pray she wouldn’t say; ‘Bottoms up.’
She said:
‘Bottoms up.’
He didn’t answer, just sank the scotch. She settled herself, letting her skirt hike up, his stomach heaved and she said:
‘I don’t usually meet new clients myself, but your writing has such an immediacy, is so fresh that I had to meet you.’
She then rattled on about her A-list writers, which would have been impressive if Brant had ever heard of any of them. The waiter arrived with another drink, and she looked a tiny bit better to Brant. She asked:
‘I must know, who are your influences?’
‘My what?’
Oh, she adored him. He was so barbarian, so real, she said:
‘Who do you read? What writers have made the most impact on you?’
‘There’s only one. Though when I went to Australia, I read Bill Bryson.’
She thrilled:
‘Lovely man, Bill. Not as caustic as Paul.’
Brant ignored that, said:
‘Ed McBain.’
She waited, expecting a full explanation, but none came so she decided to get down to business, began:
‘Crime fiction is selling very well and the fact you’re a policeman, we should be able to market you without any trouble. When might I see the full manuscript?’
Brant sank the remains of his drink, definitely felt much better, said:
‘When do I see the money?’
She gave another full laugh, said:
‘I must say your directness is so refreshing. After I see the full work I’ll be able to pitch it to a top publisher, and I’m certain we’ll get a healthy advance.’
Brant was hoping to steer her away from the manuscript and asked:
‘No cash up front?’
She went into a long and detailed talk on how publishing worked and half-way through, Brant interrupted her, asked:
‘Why would I need you?’
She launched into the merits of having representation, and Brant let her wind down.
Said:
‘Sounds like money for old rope to me.’
Her laugh had lost a lot of its merriment, and she reached in her bag, produced a document, said:
‘This is the type of contract I’ll be proposing. This is of course only a rough estimation but perhaps you’d take a look, get an idea of what’s involved. I expect film rights will sell or at the very least, TV interest.’
Brant perked a little at this, but again she waffled on and finally concluded with:
‘So, Sergeant, when can I see the manuscript?’
Brant smiled, said:
‘If you’d like a nightcap, we can swing by my place, take a look at my opus.’
She thought that was super.
When Falls entered the Oval, she’d prepared herself for the worst. Expected to see a shattered McDonald, possibly cringing in the darkest corner, a hunted and haunted man. To her amazement, he was sitting at the bar, full of merriment, chatting and laughing with the barmaid. He was dressed in what appeared to be a new black tailored leather jacket, faded jeans, white shirt, and, if she wasn’t mistaken, was that a pimp bracelet on his wrist? What the hell was going on? He saw her, shouted:
‘Here’s my girl.’
The barmaid gave her a sour look and who could blame her. McDonald was positively shining, he asked:
‘Liz, what’cha
‘What would you like to drink?’
A waiter had materialized quietly, stood patiently.
‘Large scotch.’
The waiter seemed pleased at the rudeness, as if it was what he understood. The woman said:
You know what, I think I’ll have the same.’
She had finally released his hand but now looked for it again as she said:
‘I’m Linda.’
His last hope faded, the chance that maybe she was an associateand the real deal would show later. Brant studied her and was not encouraged. He’d poled some old broads but not this one, no way. Her face was like parchment and she’d had some plastic surgery, bad surgery, it gave her that ricktus smile. He said:
‘You sound younger on the phone.’
Needling her. Didn’t work, she said:
‘Why, thank you, young man. You’re quite the charmer, aren’t you?’
Yeah.
The drinks came and he could only pray she wouldn’t say; ‘Bottoms up.’
She said:
‘Bottoms up.’
He didn’t answer, just sank the scotch. She settled herself, letting her skirt hike up, his stomach heaved and she said:
‘I don’t usually meet new clients myself, but your writing has such an immediacy, is so fresh that I had to meet you.’
She then rattled on about her A-list writers, which would have been impressive if Brant had ever heard of any of them. The waiter arrived with another drink, and she looked a tiny bit better to Brant. She asked:
‘I must know, who are your influences?’
‘My what?’
Oh, she adored him. He was so barbarian, so real, she said:
‘Who do you read? What writers have made the most impact on you?’
‘There’s only one. Though when I went to Australia, I read Bill Bryson.’
She thrilled:
‘Lovely man, Bill. Not as caustic as Paul.’
Brant ignored that, said:
‘Ed McBain.’
She waited, expecting a full explanation, but none came so she decided to get down to business, began:
‘Crime fiction is selling very well and the fact you’re a policeman, we should be able to market you without any trouble. When might I see the full manuscript?’
Brant sank the remains of his drink, definitely felt much better, said:
‘When do I see the money?’
She gave another full laugh, said:
‘I must say your directness is so refreshing. After I see the full work I’ll be able to pitch it to a top publisher, and I’m certain we’ll get a healthy advance.’
Brant was hoping to steer her away from the manuscript and asked:
‘No cash up front?’
She went into a long and detailed talk on how publishing worked and half-way through, Brant interrupted her, asked:
‘Why would I need you?’
She launched into the merits of having representation, and Brant let her wind down.
Said:
‘Sounds like money for old rope to me.’
Her laugh had lost a lot of its merriment, and she reached in her bag, produced a document, said:
‘This is the type of contract I’ll be proposing. This is of course only a rough estimation but perhaps you’d take a look, get an idea of what’s involved. I expect film rights will sell or at the very least, TV interest.’
Brant perked a little at this, but again she waffled on and finally concluded with:
‘So, Sergeant, when can I see the manuscript?’
Brant smiled, said:
‘If you’d like a nightcap, we can swing by my place, take a look at my opus.’
She thought that was super.
When Falls entered the Oval, she’d prepared herself for the worst. Expected to see a shattered McDonald, possibly cringing in the darkest corner, a hunted and haunted man. To her amazement, he was sitting at the bar, full of merriment, chatting and laughing with the barmaid. He was dressed in what appeared to be a new black tailored leather jacket, faded jeans, white shirt, and, if she wasn’t mistaken, was that a pimp bracelet on his wrist? What the hell was going on? He saw her, shouted:
‘Here’s my girl.’
The barmaid gave her a sour look and who could blame her. McDonald was positively shining, he asked:
‘Liz, what’cha
Similar Books
