laughed lightly, genuinely, and said, “I’d forgotten your dry humor. Where I come from, everyone just thinks he’s funny.” She ran a gently tinted nail up the seam of the glass. “I’m here on business, but I don’t want to talk about it just yet. Am I keeping you from something?”
“I’ve got an appointment this morning, but not for another hour and a half. How’s Tolstoy?”
“You didn’t know? That’s right, you couldn’t. After we went to so much trouble to protect Alanov and ensure that his book got finished, he paid us back our advance and went with another publisher. Our lawyers are talking to his lawyers. In the end we’ll get the bill for their lunches and no Alanov. We don’t need him anyway. We’ve got Andrei Sigourney. He’s one of the reasons I’m in town. He’s having trouble with his novel and I’m his shoulder to cry on.”
“He’s going with the name Sigourney?” His real name was the reason I knew him and Alanov and Louise Starr.
“It’s what he’s comfortable with. He’s visiting his grandmother these days,” she added, and sipped at her juice.
There had been evidence that he had had more than her shoulder in the past. I didn’t press it. Instead I said, “He’s one reason you’re here. What’s another?”
“Yes, your appointment.” She set down her glass and looked at me. The room was full of jasmine, as any room would be that contained her. “I’ll talk to you about it if you’ll sit down. Standing like that with your hands in your robe pockets you look like George Sanders.”
“I’m in no condition to sit with ladies, Mrs. Starr. I’m a razor and a clean shirt away from that.”
“Dear, I didn’t think anyone troubled about such things these days. I’ll wait, if you want to go ahead and shave and get dressed. My plane landed two hours ago. I haven’t been in town long enough to make any appointments I’d be late for.”
“I’ll just be ten minutes,” I said. “There’s more juice in the refrigerator and some magazines there on the table. No Publishers Weekly, sorry.”
“Thank you. I’m all right on my own.”
I didn’t argue with that. In the bathroom I hung up the robe and washed and scraped my face until it shone. I brushed my hair and looked at the gray and opened the medicine cabinet and considered a bottle of cologne in a box wrapped in green and gold foil, a present from a grateful client, then closed the door on it without touching it. I put the robe back on for the short trip to the bedroom and selected a powder-blue dress shirt and the pants to my gray suit and put them on. I wiped off my shoes with Kleenex and returned to the living room. She was still on the sofa, reading that week’s TV magazine.
“Those are some pretty old movies you’ve circled,” she said, laying it aside. “I would have guessed you’re a buff. You talk and act just a little like a character in a black-and-white film.”
I broke a pack of Winstons out of a carton in the drawer of the telephone table and held it up. She nodded with a smile. “It has its advantages,” I said, stripping off the cellophane. “Sometimes it pays to let the people you meet in this business think you’re into some kind of trip. When they think they’ve pegged you your job’s half over.”
“It’s not all an act, though, is it? You’re really that way.”
I lit up and sat down in the easy chair, said nothing. She got the hint.
“Someone called my office a few days ago and spoke to my assistant,” she began. “I was in a meeting at the time, but when I learned who it was I called him right back. He was writing a book and he wondered if we’d be interested in publishing it. He said you’d given him my name.”
I uncrossed my legs. “Barry Stackpole?”
“He’s syndicated across the country. A book with his name on it carries a guaranteed sale of fifty thousand. His biography alone—Vietnam, the attempt on his life that crippled him, his personal
“I’ve got an appointment this morning, but not for another hour and a half. How’s Tolstoy?”
“You didn’t know? That’s right, you couldn’t. After we went to so much trouble to protect Alanov and ensure that his book got finished, he paid us back our advance and went with another publisher. Our lawyers are talking to his lawyers. In the end we’ll get the bill for their lunches and no Alanov. We don’t need him anyway. We’ve got Andrei Sigourney. He’s one of the reasons I’m in town. He’s having trouble with his novel and I’m his shoulder to cry on.”
“He’s going with the name Sigourney?” His real name was the reason I knew him and Alanov and Louise Starr.
“It’s what he’s comfortable with. He’s visiting his grandmother these days,” she added, and sipped at her juice.
There had been evidence that he had had more than her shoulder in the past. I didn’t press it. Instead I said, “He’s one reason you’re here. What’s another?”
“Yes, your appointment.” She set down her glass and looked at me. The room was full of jasmine, as any room would be that contained her. “I’ll talk to you about it if you’ll sit down. Standing like that with your hands in your robe pockets you look like George Sanders.”
“I’m in no condition to sit with ladies, Mrs. Starr. I’m a razor and a clean shirt away from that.”
“Dear, I didn’t think anyone troubled about such things these days. I’ll wait, if you want to go ahead and shave and get dressed. My plane landed two hours ago. I haven’t been in town long enough to make any appointments I’d be late for.”
“I’ll just be ten minutes,” I said. “There’s more juice in the refrigerator and some magazines there on the table. No Publishers Weekly, sorry.”
“Thank you. I’m all right on my own.”
I didn’t argue with that. In the bathroom I hung up the robe and washed and scraped my face until it shone. I brushed my hair and looked at the gray and opened the medicine cabinet and considered a bottle of cologne in a box wrapped in green and gold foil, a present from a grateful client, then closed the door on it without touching it. I put the robe back on for the short trip to the bedroom and selected a powder-blue dress shirt and the pants to my gray suit and put them on. I wiped off my shoes with Kleenex and returned to the living room. She was still on the sofa, reading that week’s TV magazine.
“Those are some pretty old movies you’ve circled,” she said, laying it aside. “I would have guessed you’re a buff. You talk and act just a little like a character in a black-and-white film.”
I broke a pack of Winstons out of a carton in the drawer of the telephone table and held it up. She nodded with a smile. “It has its advantages,” I said, stripping off the cellophane. “Sometimes it pays to let the people you meet in this business think you’re into some kind of trip. When they think they’ve pegged you your job’s half over.”
“It’s not all an act, though, is it? You’re really that way.”
I lit up and sat down in the easy chair, said nothing. She got the hint.
“Someone called my office a few days ago and spoke to my assistant,” she began. “I was in a meeting at the time, but when I learned who it was I called him right back. He was writing a book and he wondered if we’d be interested in publishing it. He said you’d given him my name.”
I uncrossed my legs. “Barry Stackpole?”
“He’s syndicated across the country. A book with his name on it carries a guaranteed sale of fifty thousand. His biography alone—Vietnam, the attempt on his life that crippled him, his personal
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