Randall #03 - Sherwood Ltd. by Anne R. Allen Page B

new leather jacket and tight jeans.
    “Mr. Sherwood here? I wanted to talk to him about that manuscript. Has he read it? From the lady in California.”
    I started to speak, but Liam stopped me with a sharp look. He turned to Alan and spoke in a flat voice. “Peter’s not available.”
    Tom went back to the couch as the others kept their eyes on the snooker.
    Peter’s disappearing act was apparently not to be shared with outsiders.
    Alan was undeterred. “She’s coming here—my authoress friend—flying into Heathrow from Los Angeles next week, and she plans to come straight to Swynsby.” He gave a nervous laugh. “I may have given her the impression I work here…I did read English literature at Balliol, you know.”
    The Professor gave a hoot—only half-pretending to address it at the snooker players. Alan did not project the image of an Oxford scholar.
    But Alan took a belligerent tone. “Google me. Alan Greene, Balliol College, Oxford.” He turned to me. “What about you, Duchess? Maybe you could put in a good word with Peter? It’s exactly what this place needs—a Robin Hood book or two. That’s what the tourists come for—the home of Lincoln Green: Robin Hood’s haberdashers. Rosalee’s got a publicity campaign planned. She worked in marketing for Hollywood. Her dad was in films.”
    I didn’t know the exact location of Buttonwillow CA, but I was fairly certain it wasn’t a major hub of the film industry.
    “How fascinating,” I said with a polite smile. “I’ll tell Peter.” I was a co-conspirator now.
    “She have big tits, this authoress?” said Tom, over his shoulder.
    Alan chortled and took out his cell phone. He brought up a picture of a woman in what looked like a Renaissance Faire costume. He passed the phone around the room.
    “Oh, yes. I see immense literary talent there,” said Tom.
    “Two immense literary talents,” said Davey, lifting a furry eyebrow. “Does Brenda know about her?”
    Alan gave a wounded shrug. “The book’s a damned good read. How about Peter’s partner? That Weems bloke. I want to talk to him.” His phone rang. “That’ll be me ball and chain. When’s a good time to stop by and talk to Mr. Weems?”
    “He usually comes in around half ten,” Davey said.
    Everybody was silent until Alan went out the door.
    “Except tomorrow,” Davey said in the direction Alan had gone. “Never comes in on Wednesdays, Henry.”
    I couldn’t help laughing with the rest of them.
    The snooker was only marginally more interesting than watching fungus grow, but I wanted to stay amidst the comraderie in the canteen rather than go back to my little hole. When the match finally ended, the Professor took his leave.
    “My taxi will be here soon. Better get myself assembled. I’ve work to do tonight.” He picked up his messenger bag from a nearby table. “Henry’s got me reading the slush. If I’m not in tomorrow, you’ll know I’m dead of a toxic overdose of bad prose.”
    This was disturbing news. Had Henry given my job to the Professor?
    “You’re reading the slush too? How many submissions does the company get?”
    “Too many,” the Professor said. “But you’re reading for Major Oak, aren’t you? If you run into any pervy ones, save them for me. Dominion’s my job, more’s the pity.”
    With relief, I told him about The Prisoner of Zelda and offered to run down to fetch it. I’d be happy to have the thing out of my sight.
    Down in the neat little room, I grabbed the envelope. Next to it was the manuscript from Buttonwillow, CA. I wondered if I’d been too hasty in my judgment of Rosalee’s book. Alan had a point about the probability of Robin Hood stories selling well to tourists. I grabbed both manuscripts and caught the Professor on the street outside as his taxi pulled up to the curb.
    “This is Alan’s friend’s novel—the Robin Hood thing. Since the author is arriving so soon…it’s full of awful mangled Elizabethan syntax, but maybe you