right to label myself an alcoholic, or anything else, for life. That not doing so leaves the door wide-open for releasing the problem. Or, as he calls it, the challenge.”
That kind of approach made me a bit nervous. It was hanging out in bars and entertaining the other hangers-on with tales of past exploits and publishing successes that had started Craig on that downward slide. All too often talking becomes the highlight of the day, taking over an author’s life and keeping him from applying his butt to a chair and his fingers to the keys.
Nia knocked softly and opened my door. “No luck so far with the bars. You want me to go look for him?”
Her hair was even more disheveled now, and I knew she’d been tugging at it while on the phone. There were shadows under her eyes, too, as if she hadn’t slept well.
“No, I’ll go,” I said. “You’ve done enough today, fielding all those calls.”
She came over and sat tiredly in one of the chairs across from me. “Here are the messages.” She handed a monument-size stack of them across the desk.
“There must be a hundred here,” I said, groaning.
“Fifty or so, anyway.”
“Anything urgent?”
She shook her head. “Mostly the usual, authors calling to see if you got their manuscripts and if you’ve got them a deal yet. Editors returning your calls from yesterday. Most of the editors called early, while you were at the police station this morning. How did that go?”
I stared out the window, questions starting to whirl through my brain again. “I don’t think I was much help. They wanted me to tell them anything I knew about the private lives of Tony and Arnold. I haven’t known much about Arnold’s life, though, since we were divorced ten years ago. I told them I never asked for alimony, so there wasn’t much reason for us to stay in touch. We ran into each other now and then in restaurants, and once in a while he came by here to talk about that toy-creations book I sold for him years ago. As for Tony…” I shrugged.
“How are you feeling about Tony?” she asked pointedly.
“Oh, I don’t know. Confused, I suppose.” I looked at her. “Did you ever hear any rumors about either of them being gay?”
“Gay!” she said, her eyes widening. “Never!”
I remembered that she didn’t know about the Chinese dildo or the police suspicions about the murders being a gay crime. The cops had asked me not to divulge any information at all about the crime scene. Detective Rucker, the scruffy one, had told me that they wanted to keep certain information out of the papers, the better to catch the killer.
Even so, I was tempted to tell Nia about it, as I knew how well she could keep a secret. It was only my word to the detective that held me back.
“Do you think they were gay?” Nia asked.
I shook my head. “Just wondering. Since they were together in Tony’s apartment, you know? And other things.”
“Other things like the fact that they were both basically unattainable?” she asked, raising a dark eyebrow. “Mary Beth, we’ve talked about that. As long as I’ve known you, which is now about three and three-quarter years, you’ve never even looked at men who were available. When you get interested in a man, they’re always either married, engaged or gay. It’s that Conahan Wall. In this case, though, just because Tony and Arnold were both more or less unattainable, that doesn’t mean they were gay.”
“I know that,” I said a bit snappily, then took my tone back with a smile. A long time ago, I’d had to admit that Nia was right about me and the kind of men I chose to go for. I’ve even thanked her for pointing it out—not that I’ve changed any, just because I know about it.
“I wish you’d tell me what happened to you,” she said. “What’s that wall about, anyway?”
I opened the bottom drawer of my desk and took out my purse, then reapplied powder and lipstick. My hand shook from exhaustion, and despite the expensive black suit and Gucci heels I looked like hell. But since I wasn’t going anywhere except to Craig’s motel—which he’d told me was a run-down hole-inthe-wall—it didn’t much matter.
“Let’s talk another time,” I said, closing my compact with a loud snap. “I just can’t get into all of that now.”
“It’s not just now. You never want to get into it.”
I ignored that and stood. “You’ll hold down the fort till you go home at three?”
“Of course. And I’ll keep calling around for Craig, in case you don’t find him. Will you be back in time to talk to Paul Whitmore, one way or the other?”
“I’ll have my cell phone with me, and if I know anything by two, I’ll call him from wherever I am.”
“What if you don’t find Craig, and Whitmore calls here? What do you want me to tell him?”
I thought for a moment. “Tell him Craig flew to Maui yesterday to gather inspiration from his beach house there.”
She grinned. “So he’s supposed to be rich, confident and simply unreachable.”
I grinned back. “Tell Paul I’ve tried and tried, but according to his housekeeper, he’s incommunicado.”
I held out the packet of messages. “Anyone else in this stack…if they call again, tell them I’m sorry I missed their calls and I’ll be in touch tomorrow.”
“Right,” Nia said, smiling. “And would ye be wantin’ me to stand on me head as well?”
“Gee, a black woman from Dublin with an Irish brogue,” I said on my way out the door. “What a sight. Almost wipes away that scene at Tony’s last night.”
Traffic was heavy from Century City to El Segundo, which entailed going past LAX. I had time to think about Craig, Paul Whitmore, and what I was going to do to get Craig even more money—provided he wanted me to try.
Negotiating was a lesson I’d learned long ago, though more to survive in L.A. than anything. I’d worked in L.A. for a television station after finishing high school in San Francisco—just on the writing staff, but hoping to be on camera eventually. I’d even gone out to crime scenes on breaking news stories, both as an observer and to show that I had initiative and wanted to learn. I did learn, and as a result I knew more now about the law and crime than most people who aren’t actually in the field. In fact, when I decided to become a literary agent, it was largely because someone at work had shown me his book, a true-crime novel, and asked me to read it, to see if I thought it was any good. Arnold and I were on the edge of divorce and I had time on my hands, so I went for it.
The book was great, and after I’d fixed a few minor things for my co-worker, I encouraged him to send it to an agent. He asked me if I would act as his agent, and when I found out that all you really needed to represent a writer was a telephone and some letterhead, I went for it. I started making calls, telling editors I was “Mary Beth Conahan of the agency by the same name,” and leaving my home phone and fax number. Within two months I’d sold the guy’s book to a major publishing house, and negotiated a good contract for him, to boot.
I
