Dorothy Parker Drank Here by Ellen Meister

business card. It was worn and gray, and had some notes scribbled on the back, but it would do. The guard called upstairs, reading off the names on the cards, identifying them as Didi Dickson, segment producer of
Simon Janey Live
, and Norah Wolfe, associate producer.
    â€œCongratulations,” Norah whispered to Dorothy Parker. “You’ve just been promoted.”
    â€œHold on,” the guard said into the phone, and then addressed Norah. “His assistant wants to know what this is in reference to.”
    â€œTed Shriver,” Norah said, and held her breath.
    The guard spoke quietly into the phone for a few minutes and hung up. “Elevator bank to the left,” he said, handing passes to the two women. “Sixteenth floor.”

P eter Salzberg turned the last page of the manuscript, took off his glasses, and rested his head in his hands. He was overcome. The stupidly titled
Louse
was one of the most affecting books he had ever read. Driven by a narrator whose piercing insights were so astute that Pete had to take frequent breaks to recover, it pulled him in and pulled him along, as he ached for the pristine moment of recognition when the protagonist would shine the brilliant light of understanding upon himself, penetrating his dark cloud of self-loathing. But of course, he wasn’t capable of that, which was the whole point of the book. The result was the most profoundly human story he had read in a very long time.
    He would publish it, of course, and it would sell. Ted’s controversial history would be a publicity machine that needed no fuel. And once readers got their hands on the book, word of mouth would do the rest. But awards? Never. Not with that plagiarism charge hanging over every page.
    He took out a pad to start making a list of possible titles. The first one he wrote was the simplest:
Bad
Husband
. He looked at it and put down his pen. Was that it? Had he found the perfect title for thisbook? He was a big fan of simplicity, and this one seemed to hit all the right notes. It was intentionally judgmental. And the word
husband
would let readers know that a relationship was at the heart of the book.
    He turned to his computer and did a quick search to see if there were any current or forthcoming novels with that title. There was no rule about reusing titles—they couldn’t be copyrighted, after all—but Pete knew that a fresh title would stand a better chance of making a splash.
    To his delight,
Bad Husband
had a good clean history. He turned over the manuscript, crossed out
Louse
and wrote in the new title. Yes, it felt right. He was confident his marketing people would agree.
    Of course, the thrill of bringing a brilliant new book to the world was tempered with a choking sorrow. Because after reading these pages, he understood that Ted’s depression was immovable. He would not be able to convince his old friend to have the surgery that might save his life.
    â€œMr. Salzberg?”
    Pete looked up to see Christopher, his assistant, standing at his door.
    â€œThere are two women from
Simon Janey Live
here to see you.”
    â€œTo see
me
? What do they want?”
    â€œThey said it has to do with Ted Shriver.”
    â€œWhat about him?”
    Christopher shrugged. “That’s all I know.”
    Pete looked down at the manuscript. They must have gotten wind of his acquisition, but how? He hadn’t even told his wife, for God’s sake. Had someone in his office leaked it? Had Ted?
    â€œTake them to Katie,” Pete said, referring to his publicity director.
    â€œThey said it has to be you.”
    That clinched it, then. It had to be about the manuscripts. Peteopened the cabinet next to his desk, placed the pages inside, and locked it. “Fine,” he said. “Show them in.”
    A short while later, Christopher led the two women into Peter Salzberg’s office and introduced them. The smaller one—a dark-eyed woman wearing a