A Dangerous Fiction (4 page)

It was a mean-spirited blog, but funny and full of insider gossip. Like most people in the industry, I read it now and then for a laugh and joined in the speculation about the Ripper's real identity. I'd had my suspicions—the voice was familiar—but I wasn't sure until the day he posted a sampling of that month's slush-pile rejects.

I read the blog on a Wednesday night, six months ago. The first thing I did was call Molly. By then she'd turned the agency over to me, but Charlie was her hire and he'd worked there longer than I had. We talked it through and agreed on what had to be done. The next morning, I went in early, copied Charlie's files, and started sorting through his list. Lorna saw me doing it, but Lorna's loyalty was to me alone. At ten o'clock I heard Charlie stroll into the office. A moment later he tapped on my open door.

“Lorna said you wanted to see me?”

“Come in,” I said. “Shut the door.”

He took the visitor's seat and arranged his narrow face into a look of polite interest that told me he knew damn well why he was there. Carelessly, recklessly, he'd blown his cover.

“What were you thinking?” I said.

He stroked his mustache, a recent acquisition. “About what, Jo?”

“Let's not waste time. I read your blog.”

I watched as he considered playing dumb and wisely decided against it. “Were you amused?” he asked.

“I was the first time you said those things, in this office. It was a lot less funny online where anyone could read it, including the writers you ridiculed.”

“I didn't use names.”

“You summarized their stories; you quoted from their work. You don't think they'll find out?”

“What are the odds?” he scoffed.

“Quite good, I should think. Unpublished writers read agent blogs.”

“You should read what they write about us. I could show you some sites—they rip into literary agents like we're all a bunch of goose-stepping little Hitlers conspiring to squash their creative genius.”

“I've read them. So what? It's just writers blowing off steam. Rejection hurts, Charlie. Why would you think of pouring salt on the wounds?”

“Hey, it's a tough business. If they can't take the heat, let 'em self-publish.” He leaned back in his seat and stretched out his legs.

I would have fired him anyway, because sooner or later he was bound to be outed as Jack the Ripper, and when he was I didn't want his name associated with my agency. The arrogance of his posture just made it easier. Charlie had never been a writer, never lived with one. He had no idea what that life is like, starting with all the rejection on the front end, which is like hazing except that it continues even after you make the club. For every yes, there are a dozen nos. Once Hugo started publishing, rejection was not a concern, but he still bore the scars, along with every other writer in our large acquaintance.

“Pack your stuff and get out,” I said.

Charlie was too astonished to argue. If he'd imagined this encounter, none of his scenarios had ended this way. He left the room without another word, and a short while later I heard him stomp out of the office. By then I was already on the phone to one of his clients.

I called only those I wanted to keep, good earners or good writers or, in a few cases, both. “Charlie's leaving the agency,” I told them. I didn't say why, and though they probed and hinted, none came right out and asked. “I'm not sure what he'll be doing next, but I wanted to let you know that you won't be left hanging. We value our association with you, and if you choose to stay with Hamish and Donovan, I will undertake to represent you myself.”

Some agreed on the spot. Others, to their credit, asked for time to consider—time for Charlie to make his case. But in the end, every one of them accepted my offer. Charlie had the relationship, but I had the agency, the name, the connections, and the reputation. It was no contest. And there was no malice to it, not on my end. Those writers were agency clients; I had as much right to them as he did. If I'd wanted to hurt him, I could have taken his whole list.

Charlie, of course, didn't see it that way. He was furious, but there was nothing he could do except bitch online. According to Molly, with whom he stayed in touch, things didn't work out badly for him. He took his remaining list and set up shop in his apartment. Someone at Mediabistro put two and two together and outed him, but far from hurting, the publicity from the blog and his firing brought in a flood of submissions. I heard he'd even sold a book or two since then.

I could see that he still hadn't forgiven me. He smiled, and spite glinted in his eyes. He asked how I was doing and I said fine and he said he was glad to hear it, because he'd hate to think of anything bad happening to me. I said grow up, why dontcha, and we smiled some more. Max interrupted all this smiling by slinging an arm around my shoulders and walking me away.

“Sweet guy,” he said.

“For an asshole.”

“If your laptop doesn't show up, I know where to look.”

“He's not stupid,” I said. Then I had a vision of my computer lying at the bottom of the pool and my stomach clenched.

W
hen the presenters' reception ended, we were gently but efficiently herded toward the banquet room to be formally introduced to the conference attendees. My attempt to slip away was blocked by a genial giant with a Texan accent and an organizer's badge. He didn't actually say, “Git along, little dogie,” but it was too close for comfort. One by one, the anesthetized editors, agents, and authors filed into the banquet hall, which was airy and light and full of flowers, with picture windows framing the turquoise sky. The attendees, already seated, were buzzing with excitement but fell silent as we made our way to the reserved tables in the front of the room. Faces turned to us like flowers to the sun.

Over dinner I fell into conversation with a Doubleday editor named Marisa Deighton, a delightful girl, smart and funny. She said she loved fiction in any genre as long as it came in a distinctive voice, and I immediately thought of Keyshawn Grimes, a young writer I recently took on. Keyshawn had written a semiautobiographical novel about a black kid from Bed-Stuy who wins a full scholarship to an overwhelmingly white, Groton-like prep school and is suspected when a series of crimes occurs. It wasn't a big book, in industry parlance, just a promising one, and I hadn't yet found a home for it. The book was a genre cocktail: one part mystery, one part coming-of-age story, and two parts novel of class and race. This had presented definite marketing challenges, since editors tend to prefer their genres straight up. But the writer's voice was strong and original; it spoke to me, and I thought it might speak to her. A youngster like Marisa would have more room on her list than the senior people I usually worked with. Young writer, young editor: could be, as Molly would say, a match made in heaven.

We exchanged cards and promised to stay in touch. It was a pleasant dinner, but I was edgy, worried about my laptop. Over coffee, the presenters were introduced to the attendees; I stood when my name was called and smiled blindly into the klieg light of hopeful gazes. Then there were speeches and announcements, until at last, well past eleven o'clock, I was able to return to my casita.

Max walked me back to see if my computer had shown up. It was sitting on the desk, perfectly dry and looking no worse for wear. Beside it was a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and a note from the hotel manager. I read it aloud. “‘Dear Ms. Donovan, I am so sorry for the delay in delivering your laptop, which was misplaced within our luggage room. Please accept this small token, and if there's anything I can do to make your stay at La Posada a pleasant one, do let me know.'”

Max sniffed disgustedly. “I'm going to talk to this guy.”

“Don't bother. No harm, no foul.” I yawned, jet lag setting in. It amazed me how often men felt compelled to play the protector around me, most recently Jean-Paul and now Max. As if I needed protecting. That had been my role in Hugo's life, and they hadn't called me the Dragon Lady for nothing. It must be my size, I thought. Five-foot-three was not an impressive height, however high one's heels.

Thinking about Jean-Paul reminded me that I hadn't yet given him an answer. I ought to have said yes on the spot, before he started looking around—there were three or four of my colleagues who would snatch him up in a moment if they heard he was available—but I still worried about aiding and abetting such a reckless decision.

“Do you remember my intern, Jean-Paul?” I asked Max, who had taken a seat at the desk and was examining my computer.

“Who could forget that lovely?”

“He wants to come work for me full-time instead of going to law school in the fall.”

“Of course he does. The kid's gaga for you.”

“Be serious, Max. Do you think I should hire him?”

He looked up, considering. “Is he as useful as he is ornamental?”

“Yes. Takes initiative, speaks three languages, very bright and good with people. I could absolutely use him on staff.”

“So what's the problem? A pretty face never hurt anyone, as you may have noticed yourself.”

“Are you suggesting that I got where I am on looks?”

“Absolutely. That and being the best at what you do.”

I blew him a kiss. “Have I ever told you you're my favorite client?”

“Every payday,” Max said.

•   •   •

I didn't check my e-mail until the next morning. There were several dozen messages, including one from Molly, which I read first.

Look, kiddo, I got hold of Vogel's proposal. It's called
The Secret Life and Loves of Hugo Donovan
and it's exactly what you'd expect from her. I'll send you the outline if you're not convinced, but I promise it'll make you sick. Only one way to stop her and YOU KNOW THIS. Call me!! M.

She was right, of course: the only way to stop Gloria Vogel was to get a better book out there. So much for privacy. My life would be an open book. Hugo's, too.

Once, a month or two after I moved to New York, I was groped on the subway. It was rush hour and the uptown local was jammed. A man rubbed himself against my ass. I spun around and smashed my knee into his groin, but his pain didn't assuage my sense of disgust and humiliation. The prospect of some stranger picking and prying at my life with Hugo hurt me in the same deep place. It's not that I had anything to hide. Ours had been a whirlwind, romantic courtship followed by ten years of love and perfect companionship. Though we'd had no children, Hugo had given birth to four novels during our years together, a prodigious output and by all accounts the best work of his career. He called me his midwife; we were partners in every sense of the word. The thought of an outsider dissecting that perfect time, deconstructing the life we'd created to tell some lesser story of his own, filled me with the most intimate disgust.

I called Molly.

“So?” she said. “What do you think?”

“There must be another way.”

“Let's hear it.”

I gazed out the window as I tried to come up with an answer. A steady trickle of people passed on their way to breakfast. I recognized Charlie Malvino, arm in arm with a leggy brunette who wore an attendee's badge around her neck. Naughty Charlie. Writers' conferences were notorious hunting grounds for horny agents and authors; my own barricades had been assailed, though never stormed, on many such occasions. But the protocol was that you stick to your own kind; no casting couches, no screwing of aspiring writers.

“I could threaten to boycott any company that bought her book,” I said. No idle threat, not with a list like mine.

“At the expense of your clients who work with that publisher? It wouldn't work, anyway. Vogel's last so-called bio was on the list for five months. Don't kid yourself, Jo: if the numbers are right, even your best friends will bid.”

“I'll refuse her access to Hugo's papers.”

“Like she needs them! She's writing about his life, not his work.”

“It'll be a hell of a dull book. We led a fairly quiet life, you know.”

There was a pause, then Molly said carefully, “He had a long and eventful one before he met you.”

As if I didn't know. Three marriages, countless lovers, several scandals. “Those stories have been done to death.”

“Then she'll make things up, with just enough truth blended in to give credence to the lies.”

“I'd sue her and her publisher from here to Kingdom Come.”

“For what?” Molly said incredulously.

“Slander.”

“Hugo's dead. You can't slander the dead. Not to mention she'd love you to sue. The publicity alone would sell a million copies.”

She was right, as usual. There was only one thing that could stop Vogel's project in its tracks, and that was a better book in the pipeline. The trouble was, I didn't want any biography, good or bad. What Hugo and I had was unique and beautiful and private. When I died, the vultures could write what they wanted about us. They could already write what they liked about Hugo's work. The writer belonged to the world, but the man was mine and mine alone, in death as in life.

“Talk to Teddy,” Molly commanded.

•   •   •

That morning I gave my standard “Writers and Agents” presentation to a standing-room-only crowd of aspiring writers. A stripper at a frat party could not have commanded more rapt attention. Molly always claimed that agents go to writers' conferences not to find clients but to feel like rock stars for once in their lives. Maybe so, but to me it felt uncomfortable to be the focus of such avid desire; dangerous, too, for as any rock star knows, the B-side of adulation is resentment.

And even as I thought this, I felt it: a concentrated beam of malevolence, directed at me, hidden amid that mass of admiring gazes.

I am not a fanciful person. I don't see ghosts, I don't have visions, I don't believe in angels. Clarity, not imagination, is my forte. So it was strange to feel so convinced of something for which I had no evidence at all; and yet that was what I felt, as clearly as one hears a single flat voice in a choir.

After the lecture came the Q and A, all the usual questions until the last one: “What if you know the perfect agent for your work and you can't get her to pay attention?”

A shiver ran through me. That deep voice was infused with an intensity tinged with hostility. The room fell silent; people craned in their seats, seeking the speaker. I searched too, for I'd recognized the voice, but I could not distinguish its owner.

“You move on,” I said.

•   •   •

At lunch I sat at a presenters' table beside Sikha Mehruta, the writer whose acquaintance I'd intended to make during the conference. She was a striking woman of about forty, with a regal bearing and long black hair gathered in a bun at the base of her neck. Her first novel had won the PEN/Faulkner Award for fiction, and her second, which came out a few months ago, was even better. I introduced myself and told her how much I'd enjoyed them both. We talked for a while, then Max joined us and the conversation turned general. I was content. One day, not too long from now, Sikha would discover what I already knew, that her agent, Percy Ailes, planned to retire at year's end; and then perhaps she'd think of me.

I was busy for the rest of the afternoon—the conference was lavish with amenities but not the time to enjoy them—and it was growing dark by the time I made my way back to my casita. I poured a glass of the manager's wine and took it and the conference folder out to the patio. Santa Fe was hotter than I'd expected in June, but a fresh breeze had come up, and the mingled scent of sage and lavender was delicious.

I settled in to read the synopses of the four writers I'd be meeting tomorrow. The first was another zombie mash-up, yesterday's news. The second was a Harry Potter clone. So many of the proposals we see are poor imitations of successful books that I should be inured by now. Instead it seemed as if the more I saw, the more they irritated me, the way exposure to allergens can trigger the development of allergies. Some degree of imitation can't be helped. How many tough private eyes were spawned by Dashiell Hammett and Raymond Chandler? Generations of them: the DNA of Sam Spade and Philip Marlowe is in the genes of contemporary detectives whose authors never even read their stories. But this proposal was outright theft, set in New England but otherwise lifted lock, stock, and broomstick from Rowling's original.

Sighing, I refilled my wineglass and turned to the next synopsis.

An artist, famous but long past his prime, meets a beautiful young woman named Clio who becomes his model, his muse, his lover, and his wife. The artist is inspired to a final, frenzied burst of wild creativity, doing his best work before dying suddenly. Devastated, the young widow buries herself in the anonymity of New York City. One day she is sitting in a diner when a thin man with haunted eyes walks in carrying a canvas. “I'm starving,” he tells the owner, whose name is Gus. “I will trade you this painting for a bowl of beef stew.” “Get outta here,” growls Gus, not an art lover.

As the thin man trudges past, Clio glimpses his painting of a clown so sad it brings tears to her own eyes. She knows genius when she sees it, and she's seeing it now. “Wait!” she cries, but the artist has already left. She throws some money onto the table and chases down the painter, who can't believe that this beautiful woman is talking to him.

“Are there more?” she demands, pointing at his painting.

“Many more,” he replies morosely. “A lot of good they do me.”

“Show me!” she exclaims.

He takes her home to his studio. There are paintings everywhere. When he ran out of canvas, he used the walls. There is genius in every stroke, yet something is missing. The painter watches as Clio moves from one painting to the next, and suddenly he sees what is missing.

“I need to paint you,” he blurts out.

She turns and gazes deeply into his intense eyes. “Yes,” she murmurs. “I see that.”

He shoves a pile of canvases off a divan and covers it with a red silk cover. “Take your clothes off,” he demands. He can hardly believe his own words, but he knows it's right, and so does she. She undresses without embarrassment in front of him. She has a body like Madonna's in
“Body of Evidence.”

“How do you want me?” she asks.

“Let me count the ways,” he thinks to himself. He arranges her on her back, arms flung over her head, one leg bent, heel resting on the couch, the other trailing off it. He stands at his easel and starts to paint, but his hands are shaking so bad he can barely hold the brush.

She sees what is happening. “Come here,” she beckons. He crosses to her side like a man walking in his sleep. She reaches out with greedy abandon, pulling his clothes off impatiently, and gasps when his throbbing manhood stands revealed.

“My God,” she cries, “you're even bigger than—”