The Agency

by Ally O'Brien

I took the map from her outstretched hand. The plastic was sticky and greasy, as if she’d been looking at it while eating a bag of chips and a leaky cup of soda. My hands stuck to the plastic. I found the panel for Battersea Park and pointed at it. “You’re here,” I said. “Right between the Albert Bridge and the Chelsea Bridge.”

  “Oh, thanks so much,” she told me. She reclaimed her map and headed east away from me along the riverbank.

  I watched her go. When I looked back toward the Albert Bridge, I jumped. A man had taken a seat next to me on the bench.

  “Shit!” I said involuntarily.

  He smiled and lit a cigarette. “I’m sorry to startle you, Miss Drake.”

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “My name is Nicholas Hadley. I’ve left a couple messages for you, but you haven’t called me back. So I thought I would visit you in person.”

  Hadley was a small man in his fifties with thinning hair and a trimmed gray beard. He wore a chocolate-colored Burberry. Tan trousers, muddy black dress shoes. He coughed as the smoke hit his lungs.

  “How did you find me?” I asked.

  “That’s my job,” he said.

  “Your job?” I felt an itch to run away. “Look, if this is about a book you’re writing—”

  “It’s not.”

  “Then what do you want?”

  I smelled the smoke as he exhaled. I really wanted to beg a cigarette off him.

  “I’m a detective inspector with the Metropolitan Police, Miss Drake,” he said. “I’m looking into Lowell Bardwright’s death.”

  He showed me his identification, and I studied it carefully enough to see that he wasn’t lying.

  “What does that have to do with me?” I asked.

  “Well, you worked with Mr. Bardwright for ten years, is that right? I was hoping you could answer a few questions for me.”

  I hesitated. “Why? I thought his death was an accident.”

  “That’s one possibility.”

  “What’s the other?”

  He smiled. “That it wasn’t an accident.”

  I thought about Cosima hearing rumors of murder. “The papers all said Lowell was alone in his apartment. That he accidentally hanged himself as part of a sex game.”

  “Oh, you know the media, Miss Drake. They don’t always get it right.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning we don’t think Mr. Bardwright was alone.”

  “Oh.”

  I remembered what I’d said to Emma when I first heard about Lowell’s death: If I know Lowell, he found himself a Julia Roberts look-alike who freaked when he stopped breathing.

  “So again, what does that have to do with me?” I asked him.

  “We’re talking to everyone at the agency,” Hadley said. “It’s routine background.”

  “Well, what is it you want to know?”

  “What kind of person was Mr. Bardwright?” Hadley asked.

  “Lowell? He was a player. Knew everybody. Liked to be in the limelight, attend the parties, see and be seen.”

  “Did you work with him regularly?”

  “Of course.”

  “In what way?”

  I shrugged. “He was the head of the agency. Every deal went across his desk.”

  “Was he a person of integrity?”

  I thought about it. “Yes, Lowell usually played fair. I could trust him not to go behind my back. That’s not always the case in this business.”

  “Did he have any enemies?”

  “When you’re the head of an agency, you always have enemies,” I told him. “But nothing worth killing someone over.”

  “No? Doesn’t the Bardwright Agency handle a lot of multimillion-dollar deals?”

  “Sure.”

  Hadley nodded. “Then, believe me, he had things worth killing over.”

  “Are you saying he was murdered?” I asked.

  “I’m not saying anything of the kind.” Hadley added, “Did his death surprise you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Not that he died, but how he died. The sex thing.”

  “Nothing surprises me anymore,” I said.

  “Are you familiar with erotic asphyxia?”

  “I’ve heard of it. Beyond that, no. I’ve never tried it.”

  “Did Mr. Bardwright like to experiment sexually?”

  “I have no idea,” I said.

  “Did he ever make a pass at you?”

  I nodded. “Once or twice, in the early days. He made it clear that if I was interested, he was interested. But I wasn’t. He had the good taste to drop it. It was never an issue between us.”

  “So you never slept with him?”

  “No. Is that something you’re asking everyone at the agency?”

  “Do you think I should?”

  “I have no idea. I just wondered why you’re asking me.”

  Hadley didn’t answer. “Have you ever been in Mr. Bardwright’s apartment?”

  “What the hell is this about?”

  “It’s a simple question.”

  “No, I’ve never been in Lowell’s apartment.”

  “Never?”

  “Never. I’ve never been in his apartment. I’ve never slept with him.”

  Hadley nodded. “I understand you’ve been telling people that Mr. Bardwright was found dressed in a white corset.”

  “I have a crass sense of humor,” I said. “Is that a crime?”

  “Not at all. Except that Mr. Bardwright really was wearing a corset, and we deliberately didn’t release that information to the press. So I was wondering how you knew about it.”

  Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck! What are the odds of that? Did God think this was funny?

  “It was a joke!” I insisted.

  “That’s quite a coincidence.”

  “I’m sorry, but that’s all it is. I simply made it up, because I know how the rumor mill works in this industry. It was stupid. I had no idea he was really dressed that way.”

  “Where were you the night that Mr. Bardwright died?” Hadley asked.

  “In my apartment. Sleeping.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yes, of course, alone. Look, I can understand why this corset thing would make you suspicious, but I swear to you, it is just a hideous coincidence.”

  “You never had any kind of sexual contact with Mr. Bardwright?”

  “None.”

  “You were never in his apartment?”

  “I already told you, never.”

  “Did you have any dispute with him? Problems at the agency?”

  “No. I think this conversation is over, Mr. Hadley. I’m not answering any more questions.”

  I got up from the bench. My legs felt like rubber.

  Hadley made no move to stand up. He reached inside his Bur-berry and slid out a magazine that had been folded in half. It was a month-old, wrinkled copy of the Bookseller. He opened it and found a dog-eared page.

  “Do you remember this photo?”

  I thought about walking away without looking, but I gave in to my curiosity. It was a photo of Lowell and me at a Christmas publishing event. His arm was around my waist. We were both mugging for the camera.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “The two of you look pretty cozy.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, it was a Christmas party. Two hundred people, most of them drunk. There are probably photographs of Lowell with his arm around half the women at the party.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” Hadley said. He added, “Nice dress.”

  I looked at the photo. I was wearing a navy blue cocktail dress, low cut, just barely above the knee.

  “So?” I asked.

  “I was wondering if you still have that dress,” Hadley said.

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  I stared at him. “Actually, no.”

  “Oh? Where is it?”

  “The dry cleaner lost it. That was a couple of months ago.”

  “Ah, I see. Too bad.
”

  He smiled at me again and sat there, tapping the ash off his cigarette onto the wet ground. I turned and jogged away, but I was so shaken I was afraid of falling down. It was obvious what was going on, but I couldn’t bring myself to believe it.

  They couldn’t possibly think I had anything to do with Lowell’s death.

  Could they?

  II

  11

  I FINALLY REACHED Dorothy Starkwell from my office on Monday afternoon, which is Monday morning in New York. It was my ninth attempt to call her, which is by no means a new record. I had to dial the calls myself, which is a hardship, because I’m hopeless with international dialing codes. Emma had decided to take the day off, either to get past a hangover or to spend the day in bed with her latest whirly girl.

  My end of a conversation with Dorothy usually goes like this: “Dorothy, it’s Tess.”

  At that point, I put down the phone, answer a few e-mails, head out for noodles at Wagamama, take the Tube to Oxford Street, pay my mobile bill in the Orange store, buy a new skirt at Selfridges, walk back, toss some bread cubes to the pigeons in Trafalgar Square, and then saunter into the office, by which time Dorothy is ready to take a breath.

  “Dorothy, it’s Tess,” I said when she answered the phone.

  “Oh, Tessie, how lovely to hear from you! I called you three days ago, and I was beginning to wonder if you were ill, because I hadn’t received a call back. You are all right, aren’t you? You work too hard, Tess. I know it’s all day and all night for you agents, but honestly, dear, you’re going to have to take some time for yourself. Did I tell you that I’m fostering a kinkajou? Yes! He is adorable! Although I understand you can’t give them strawberries, which I find a little odd. Can you imagine any creature being allergic to strawberries? I’d die, I really would. I just got back from breakfast in SoHo, and I had strawberry-stuffed French toast, which was lovely, dear, absolutely lovely, we will have to go there when you’re in New York. Are you coming over soon? It’s been eons, simply eons. Oh, by the way, I heard from my publisher in Milan, did I tell you, and even though I still think the pandas on the cover look anorexic—and pandas are roly-poly, dear, not anorexic—which reminds me, did you see what that Nicole girl looks like these days? My God, her forearms look like chopsticks, it’s so sad. Where was I? Oh Milan, yes, anyway, Maria tells me that the books are selling over there like, well, what sells well in Italy? Pasta, I suppose. See, that’s another reason why the pandas shouldn’t be so thin. People in Italy love to eat. Although it is true that they themselves are thin as rails, and I don’t know how that’s possible. Do you think they work out? I mean, if I ate Italian every night, I’d be the size of, well, one of my pandas, don’t you think? Can’t you just imagine that?”

  I heard Dorothy inhale, and I broke out of my coma and jumped in with the most important question.

  “What’s a kinkajou?” I asked.

  Okay, second most important question.

  “Well, this fellow looks a little like a monkey, or maybe a ferret, although I’m told he’s part of the same family as the red panda, which I thought was very ironic and appropriate for me, don’t you think? However, if truth be told, the red panda isn’t in the same family with the giant panda at all, and since they don’t really look at all like each other, you have to wonder why they wound up with the same name. Both Chinese bamboo eaters, though, so perhaps that’s the reason. Strange. That’s life in the animal kingdom, I guess. I imagine they think all the names we give them are pretty silly. Someone says ‘kinkajou,’ and I want to say gesundheit! Do you think they come up with names for us?”

  “I heard that lions give names to other animals,” I said. “They call them dinner.”

  Dorothy giggled. She is in her early sixties, no bigger than a kinkajou herself, with a helmet of gray hair. She wears jewelry that is so gaudy and heavy her earlobes droop and her back is permanently slumped. Her body, bathroom, condo, and car smell of Crabtree & Evelyn. When she laughs, she has all the innocence of a ten-year-old girl. “Oh, Tess, what am I going to do with you? You are too funny, dear.”

  “What do the girls think about the kinkajou?” I asked.

  Dorothy has five female white standard poodles that she walks every morning and every afternoon. They’re clipped like balls of cotton candy and look like a poofy street gang taking over downtown Manhattan.

  “The girls are in Starkwell North, dear, and I keep the kinkajou in Starkwell South. I don’t suppose they’d get along.”

  Dorothy owns the two top floors in a Tribeca loft, which should tell you that her panda books have generated an awful lot of bamboo.

  “I guess you can’t risk having an apartment full of kinkajoodles,” I said.

  Dorothy giggled again and snorted. “Kinkajoodles. Oh, that’s funny, I love that.”

  “I suppose you want to hear about lunch with Guy,” I told her quickly, before she could recover.

  “Oh, yes, that’s why I was calling! Now I remember! Dear Guy, I suppose he was as crusty as ever, the pudgy ol’ poop. I really do love him, almost as much as I love you, dear. There aren’t many people who understand my pandas so well, who really get their personalities. I was so lucky to find him. I know you had lunch on Friday, so just send me the contract, I’m ready to start, I’ve got some wonderful ideas.”

  “Yes, about that—” I began, but I wasn’t fast enough.

  “Speaking of lunch, did I tell you who I was seeing today? No, I don’t suppose I did, he just called me over the weekend. His name is David Milton. Have I ever mentioned his father? Tom? Tom was a dear, dear friend back in Ithaca, he worked at the library alongside me for years and years, but he died of a brain aneurysm, terrible thing, it was like losing a brother. I still miss him. I mention Tom in the acknowledgments of The Bamboo Garden, do you remember? He was so supportive of my career, so inspirational to me. David is his son. I don’t recall meeting him more than once, because he was busy in the city, and Tom would visit him here from time to time, but I suppose I understand now that once you live in the Big Apple, you don’t really think about going back to quiet little Ithaca. Did I ever tell you the town slogan in Ithaca? Ithaca is gorges! Really, because they have these wonderful gorges with waterfalls around town, but of course, it’s a pun, you know. Gorgeous? Get it? Well, David called me out of the blue and said we should have lunch, so I’m seeing him at Ono in the Gansevoort. They have some amazing vegetable sushi there.”

  Dorothy is a vegetarian, which is probably no surprise. I have to suppress my carnivorous instincts when I’m around her. I would happily devour roast kinkajou with mushy peas.

  “About Guy,” I said.

  “Yes, dear, tell me everything, I am yours.”

  I took a breath. I tried not to think about the fact that my whole life depended on what Dorothy would say to me in the next five minutes. I felt like a Mexican cliff diver with a fear of heights. Yes, I have other clients, but if I want to launch my own agency, I need Dorothy with me. It’s as simple as that. Her deals are my money-makers.

  “Well, I have a very important question for you, darling,” I said.

  “Now, Tess, I know what you’ve said in the past, and, yes, I’m sure I could get more money by going elsewhere, but Guy is the dearest person in the world to me after you, and he’s a crazy animal lover like me, and my books would be nowhere at all without his guidance. So don’t start in on me again about switching to a different house, because I just won’t hear of it. I love Guy, and I have more money already than I know what to do with, so there’s just nothing more to be said.”

  “No, it’s not that,” I told her, although I do wish she would give up her little crush on Guy and move to a house that does proper marketing. But that ship has sailed. “Some things have been happening here at Bardwright,” I added.

  I told her about Lowell. She was shocked.

  I told her about Cosima. She was appalled.

  “So the long and the short of it is that I’m thinking
about launching my own entertainment agency next week, which means leaving Bardwright, and I was very much hoping that you would allow me to keep representing you in my new business.” I said this all so quickly that I was afraid I had condensed the words into a little urp sound that was unintelligible to the human ear.

  “Oh, well, Tessie, of course,” Dorothy said.

  “I know you have a long history with Bardwright, and there are some fine people here, and anyone would be thrilled to have a gem like you as a client. But I truly value our relationship and would love for it to continue when I take the big step.”

  In fact, I can’t afford to take the big step without you, so please say yes, or I will be forced to swoon in front of the next Tube train that presents itself or follow Lowell’s example and play an abortive game of erotic asphyxia. I have to say, as death goes, the latter doesn’t sound so bad.

  “Tessie, dear, get the wax out of your ears. I already agreed.”

  “You did?”

  And then my brain caught up with my ears, and I realized that she had said yes. I think I may have had a little orgasm right then. Just a quick one. Oh my God, I’m free at last!

  “Dorothy, I can’t tell you how much that means to me,” I told her honestly.

  “Please, dear, you’d have to murder someone before I went with another agent. You know that. You’re everything to me.”

  I knew what she meant about killing someone, but I didn’t tell her that Nicholas Hadley seemed to be under the impression I had done exactly that. Better to leave that discussion for another day.

  “We can talk about the details later, but I’ll be hiring coagents for the international deals and accountants and bankers and people like that, and so for your purposes, it should be basically seamless. I’ll have even more time to focus on bigger and better things for you and your little black and whites.”

  “Will Sally still do the deals in Europe?” Dorothy asked. “You know I love Sally.”

  “Yes, I’m sure I’ll use Sally for Europe. I’m seeing her for a drink later. The only thing that will change at all in the short run is that I want to slow down the train a little with Guy and get the deal done as soon as the agency is launched. Does that sound okay to you?”