manuscript and send it flying, just to see her, once again, make that leap and pluck it out of the air.
“Hey! Hey!” she called, as if in standing they meant to run away from her.
By the time she reached their bench, she was out of breath. “I was going—” She stopped, breathed deeply.
“What is it?” Saul asked.
She didn’t look at Saul, but at Ned. Without preamble, she said, “They’re trying to get rid of you.”
Ned gave a little half laugh. “What’re you talking about? Who?”
“Clive and Bobby. I heard them talking. I just took over for Melissa for an hour or so, and the door was open an inch but they didn’t know—” Then she shook her head, as if with growing impatience at herself for bothering with details, even for being breathless. “It was open an inch and I wasn’t even conscious of their voices until one of them spoke your name. I didn’t think too much of that, there was no reason they shouldn’t, but then it was ‘Ned Isaly’ several times over.” And here Sally turned a stricken face upward to Ned. “They said ‘Isaly’ and ‘contract’ several times. So it wasn’t a casual mention of your name. The meeting was about you—”
Ned interrupted. “Was Tom there?”
It annoyed her immensely that Ned would look for some benign reason for this meeting. “No, of course he wasn’t! Wouldn’t I have said? That’s part of it, that he wasn’t there, that they were making decisions about you without him. Clive was upset, too. I could tell from his tone. And to upset Clive—he’s such a selfish creep—would take a lot. Listen: it sounded as if they were going to try to break your contract.” Her voice rose steadily, anxiety squeezing it out.
Saul laughed. “Oh, come on, Sally. Why the hell are you so worried? This is Oz you’re talking about. So you pulled back the curtain and found some damned fool was pulling the strings—”
Sally flashed at him. “Shut up, shut up!”
Saul did a little dance backward, a boxer’s step, threw up his hands.
Ned only shrugged and said, “How can they? It’s a contract for two more books, isn’t it?”
“How can they? This is publishing, Ned! They can do whatever freak things they want. You know what it’s like—” Then she shook her head in a kind of hopeless way. “No, you don’t. You never pay any attention to them.”
“Hear, hear,” said Saul.
Ned only laughed. “Well, there’s a limit to even what they can do.”
Sally, much shorter than Ned, who was over six feet, tried to shove her face into his by standing on her toes. “Didn’t I just say ? This is publishing and there are no limits. They can do whatever the hell they want to.”
“I doubt it,” said Saul, puffing on his cigar. “Come on, let’s go to Swill’s. Take the afternoon off.”
“I can’t. I have to work for a living,” said Sally.
Saul put his arm around her shoulders. “You call that ‘living,’ girl?”
FOURTEEN
B obby Mackenzie sat at a table not in, but near the front window of Michael’s, with Giverney’s new book on the table beside him. Michael’s was packed as usual at lunchtime. Bobby delighted in seeing Damon Rich, publisher of Queeg and Hyde, sitting a dozen tables behind him, in the back room. He delighted even more in seeing Nancy Otis, high-powered editor, who had left Queeg and Hyde for Grunge, sitting at a table just barely visible around the corner of the back room, which was where they put the real nonstarters.
When Clive had come up to the table an hour ago, Bobby had been eating bread sticks delicate as bird’s legs and was now rolling one of them across the back of his hand. He reminded Clive of a drum major sometimes; he moved through the corridors of Mackenzie-Haack as if he had a whistle in his mouth and was pointing the parade in the proper direction.
Bobby kept craning his neck to see who was coming through Michael’s double doors. “Where are these guys?”
Clive touched a napkin to the
“Hey! Hey!” she called, as if in standing they meant to run away from her.
By the time she reached their bench, she was out of breath. “I was going—” She stopped, breathed deeply.
“What is it?” Saul asked.
She didn’t look at Saul, but at Ned. Without preamble, she said, “They’re trying to get rid of you.”
Ned gave a little half laugh. “What’re you talking about? Who?”
“Clive and Bobby. I heard them talking. I just took over for Melissa for an hour or so, and the door was open an inch but they didn’t know—” Then she shook her head, as if with growing impatience at herself for bothering with details, even for being breathless. “It was open an inch and I wasn’t even conscious of their voices until one of them spoke your name. I didn’t think too much of that, there was no reason they shouldn’t, but then it was ‘Ned Isaly’ several times over.” And here Sally turned a stricken face upward to Ned. “They said ‘Isaly’ and ‘contract’ several times. So it wasn’t a casual mention of your name. The meeting was about you—”
Ned interrupted. “Was Tom there?”
It annoyed her immensely that Ned would look for some benign reason for this meeting. “No, of course he wasn’t! Wouldn’t I have said? That’s part of it, that he wasn’t there, that they were making decisions about you without him. Clive was upset, too. I could tell from his tone. And to upset Clive—he’s such a selfish creep—would take a lot. Listen: it sounded as if they were going to try to break your contract.” Her voice rose steadily, anxiety squeezing it out.
Saul laughed. “Oh, come on, Sally. Why the hell are you so worried? This is Oz you’re talking about. So you pulled back the curtain and found some damned fool was pulling the strings—”
Sally flashed at him. “Shut up, shut up!”
Saul did a little dance backward, a boxer’s step, threw up his hands.
Ned only shrugged and said, “How can they? It’s a contract for two more books, isn’t it?”
“How can they? This is publishing, Ned! They can do whatever freak things they want. You know what it’s like—” Then she shook her head in a kind of hopeless way. “No, you don’t. You never pay any attention to them.”
“Hear, hear,” said Saul.
Ned only laughed. “Well, there’s a limit to even what they can do.”
Sally, much shorter than Ned, who was over six feet, tried to shove her face into his by standing on her toes. “Didn’t I just say ? This is publishing and there are no limits. They can do whatever the hell they want to.”
“I doubt it,” said Saul, puffing on his cigar. “Come on, let’s go to Swill’s. Take the afternoon off.”
“I can’t. I have to work for a living,” said Sally.
Saul put his arm around her shoulders. “You call that ‘living,’ girl?”
FOURTEEN
B obby Mackenzie sat at a table not in, but near the front window of Michael’s, with Giverney’s new book on the table beside him. Michael’s was packed as usual at lunchtime. Bobby delighted in seeing Damon Rich, publisher of Queeg and Hyde, sitting a dozen tables behind him, in the back room. He delighted even more in seeing Nancy Otis, high-powered editor, who had left Queeg and Hyde for Grunge, sitting at a table just barely visible around the corner of the back room, which was where they put the real nonstarters.
When Clive had come up to the table an hour ago, Bobby had been eating bread sticks delicate as bird’s legs and was now rolling one of them across the back of his hand. He reminded Clive of a drum major sometimes; he moved through the corridors of Mackenzie-Haack as if he had a whistle in his mouth and was pointing the parade in the proper direction.
Bobby kept craning his neck to see who was coming through Michael’s double doors. “Where are these guys?”
Clive touched a napkin to the
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