The Agency

by Ally O'Brien

  “Let me worry about it, Dorothy,” I told her. “Just tell me who he is. What does he do, where does he work. That sort of thing.”

  “He’s a lawyer,” Dorothy said.

  Figures.

  “He has an office on the Upper East Side. I met him at Tavern on the Green. He seemed like such a nice boy. About your age, I’d say, late thirties, somewhere around there. How old are you now, dear? Thirty-eight? Thirty-nine?”

  “Thirty-six,” I said. I hope your kinkajou eats a strawberry.

  “Oh, dear, I’m so sorry—it’s not that you look older, although stress isn’t good for people’s appearance, you know that, don’t you? No, it’s me, I get confused when time passes.”

  “David Milton?” I prompted her.

  “Yes, I met him at Tavern. He’s nice looking, I suppose, tall, but everyone is tall to me. He has a rather odd nose with a kind of fold in it that makes it point a bit in the wrong direction, like it’s making a left turn. And you can’t help but stare, even when you try not to—do you know what I mean?”

  “Do you have his office phone number? And his address?”

  “Oh, yes, of course, I have his card.”

  “I’ll see him tomorrow morning,” I said. “Tell me about Tom Milton. His father. Anything you remember.”

  Dorothy nodded. She stopped long enough to take a sip from her glass of wine and smiled with a faraway stare. “Oh, Tom, Tom, what a sweet man. Very quiet, didn’t say much at all. We both joined the Ithaca library around the same time, when we were in our thirties. He was an animal lover, too, like me, so we had a lot in common from the start. Poor Tom. He had been married for a short time—that was where David came from, but David lived with his mother in Albany back then, so I don’t think they saw each other very often. Tom never remarried. If I had to guess, I would say he was one of those men who was gay but had difficulty admitting it to himself. He was very private, very reserved. Liked to wear bow ties all the time. I don’t believe he and his son were close; he rarely talked about David, and I only met the boy once or twice in the ten years that Tom and I worked together. Alan and I had Tom over for dinner regularly. At least once a month for ten years, isn’t that nice? And always bow ties. A tweed sport coat, like a professor. He was allergic to shellfish, didn’t know it until he ate a shrimp at our place and puffed up like a sumo wrestler. Well, it wasn’t funny—we rushed him to the hospital, but he was fine.”

  Never say “anything you remember” to Dorothy.

  I’m not a lawyer, but I knew one thing. No lawyer would want to put Dorothy on a witness stand or have her face a deposition. In my occasional dealings with the legal world, I remember being told one thing. Answer the question and stop. Don’t elaborate. Don’t embellish. Dorothy had never met a question she couldn’t embellish for half an hour.

  “What about Tom’s writing?” I asked.

  “Oh, well, I think I told you that Tom and I both loved children’s literature. It was our specialty at the library. Isn’t that funny? Tom and I had so much in common, whereas Alan and I were like opposites, and yet the heart knows what it wants. I find that interesting, don’t you?”

  “You said that Tom asked you to read a book he wrote,” I nudged her.

  “Yes, he did. Tom had aspirations of being a writer, which I never really did back then. It was never my life’s ambition. Tom wrote short stories and had me read them. He never published any of them, the poor man. He hated rejection, and when publishers and magazines said no, it crushed him. He couldn’t take it. He kept writing, though, which I thought was admirable. I encouraged him to keep trying.”

  “Were his short stories about animals?” I asked.

  Just please tell me they weren’t about pandas.

  “Not that I recall, not really. I mean, there may have been animals in them, but no, I believe many of his short stories were scary, rather Gothic, with ghosts and monsters. The kind you’d read around a campfire, that sort of thing. Not at all like mine.”

  Thank God.

  “What about his manuscript? You said there was something longer. A novel.”

  “Yes, as I recall, I read a longer work that Tom wrote years earlier. I believe he told me he had gone back to it off and on over the years. This was not long after I met him, so it was years ago. I’m afraid the book didn’t make much of an impression on me, although I would have been kind, because that’s the way I am. I have a recollection that the book was in the Gothic vein, too, like his stories, but I don’t know that for sure. Anyway, if it had been the slightest bit like my own books, then I would certainly remember, wouldn’t I? And I don’t.”

  “Tell me again, when did you start writing? Was Tom still alive then? Did he see any of your books?”

  Dorothy laid her index finger over her lips. “Tom died ten years after I met him. Very sudden, very tragic. How terrible that was. I don’t recall when I started fooling with The Bamboo Garden, but I certainly didn’t finish it while he was alive, and I know he never read it. I do credit him for being an inspiration, though, as I said in the acknowledgments, because I’m not sure I would ever have tried my hand at writing if it weren’t for Tom and his little stories. It seemed to give him such joy to do, and when I tried it, I understood.”

  “You’re sure you don’t remember anything about that original manuscript that Tom wrote?”

  “I really don’t, my dear, I’m sorry. Is it important?”

  “Well, keep thinking about it, and maybe something will come to you. Did David Milton actually show you any portions of his father’s manuscript?”

  Dorothy shook her head. “No, he just showed me a note I had written to Tom, which I didn’t remember, but I’m sure it was my handwriting. My penmanship has always been distinctive, I’m rather proud of that.”

  Elaborate, embellish, elaborate, embellish. Sigh.

  Dorothy sat down on the sofa again. “Tell me honestly, dear, do you think I should be concerned? I’ve been just frantic since this happened.”

  I reached over and patted her hand. “I know you have, darling, but I’ll get this all straightened out. If David Milton didn’t show you this so-called manuscript, then I suspect that means he has something to hide. For all we know, he found your old note to Tom and thought he could use it to scare us into a settlement. That’s the way lawyers work, the slimy bastards. I’ll be in his office first thing tomorrow morning, and unless he can produce that manuscript, I’ll tell him exactly where he can shove his lawsuit. Okay?”

  Dorothy’s tiny chest heaved. “Oh, that is such a relief.”

  “I know.”

  “Well, I’m just so pleased to get this nonsense cleared up. Would you like to have some dinner? My chef prepared a vegetarian lasagna. But maybe we could run downstairs to Starkwell South first and you can meet Kinky.”

  “Sure,” I said, trying to muster appropriate enthusiasm.

  “But remember, don’t startle him.”

  Screaming. Charging. Vicious biting.

  “No, I definitely won’t do that.”

  19

  MIRACULOUSLY, A CAB WAS DEPOSITING a man half a block from Dorothy’s building when I left an hour later. I waved at the driver, elbowed a nun who was running in the same direction—okay, I’m kidding about that—and fell into the backseat with a groan. We headed uptown on Sixth. My eyes kept blinking shut, and I propped my chin on my palm as I stared through the dirty cab window. It was eight thirty at night, still daylight in May if you were up in a skyscraper, but gloomy and gray down on the street.

  I called David Milton’s office. He wasn’t in. I left a message that I would be stopping by in the morning and gave him my mobile number. I didn’t call him a liar, but you can read between the lines. I gave no hint of being concerned.

  Actually, I felt better. Even confident. If Milton showed Dorothy an old note she wrote—but not any portions of the manuscript itself—that smelled to me like a con job. If he thought we would roll over and pay him in order to avoid the time and
expense of swatting him down in court, well, he could think again.

  No, the only thing that worried me was the timing of it all. Which was curiously coincidental. On the week that I’m planning to launch my own agency—and with Dorothy’s next deal waiting in the wings—this man suddenly appears with a nasty charge of copyright infringement? Maybe I’m paranoid, but I can’t help wonder if David Milton really came up with this idea on his own.

  As if to reinforce my suspicions, I glanced out the right-side window as we crossed West Twenty-second and realized we were near the Flatiron Building, which was home to a gaggle of publishers and agents. Including Saleema. I had been inside with her many times in happier days but not at all since our falling-out. I knew she still worked there. I also knew that Evan, her ex-fiancé who had rocked my world in New York and London, still worked there, too. That must make for interesting agency meetings.

  On an impulse, I told the driver to stop at the corner of Twenty-third. I climbed out, hurried down the long block to Fifth, and followed the pointed edge of the building around to Broadway. It was late, but Saleema was notorious for working late. Like me, she never had much of a social life. Even if she was still in the office, I wasn’t sure what I hoped to accomplish by seeing her. However, lack of a plan has rarely been an obstacle to my charging ahead.

  The security guard inside the lobby looked at me as if I might be a terrorist. It didn’t help when I told him I was there to see Saleema Azah. He took my picture and asked for identification, and I was sure the next steps would be a strip search and an FBI background check.

  Instead, he called upstairs. Saleema answered. I imagined her at her desk, feet up, wine in hand, reading manuscripts in an otherwise empty office. I wasn’t at all sure she would agree to see me, but to my surprise, the guard hung up and directed me to the building’s fabulous old elevators.

  Just like old times. I felt a little sick and wondered what I would say.

  The elevator let me out in a dingy corridor on the sixth floor between two locked doors. I waited. And waited. It occurred to me that Saleema might plan to leave me there until I got bored and left, but then I heard a crash bar and the east door flew open. Saleema stood there, hand on hip, giant brown eyes burning, coffee-colored skin turning pink with rage.

  “Hello, Saleema,” I said.

  She stalked out of the doorway and stood in front of me. She hadn’t changed much. Her cascading black hair was even longer than I remembered, practically down to her hips. I saw crow’s-feet hiding under the makeup around her eyes. Otherwise, she was petite, beautiful, and fiery, as she always was. An Indian goddess.

  I smiled. She didn’t. With the speed of a snake, she slapped me so hard I nearly toppled backward.

  Okay, now I know why she agreed to see me.

  “You slut,” Saleema hissed.

  Slut, cunt, bitch. My friends have such nice names for me. I massaged my stinging cheek. For a tiny woman, she packed a punch.

  “Now that you have that out of your system, can we talk?” I asked.

  “About what?”

  “I don’t know. I was passing the Flatiron, and I stopped for the hell of it. I wanted to see you. I still want to put this behind us.”

  “You were my best friend, Tess, and you fucked my fiancé. Put that behind you.”

  “Look, I have no defense. Slap me again for all I care. As long as you’ve known me, you’ve known I was an idiot when it comes to sex. I hurt you, and I’m sorry.”

  Saleema brushed her hair back. “I don’t care if you’re sorry. It doesn’t change what you did.”

  “I know.”

  “What do you want, Tess?”

  “The truth is, I miss you,” I said. And I did.

  “Poor Tess. Are you feeling sorry for yourself? Are you feeling lonely? Maybe you should ask yourself why. You think because you’re smart and funny, you can be a bitch to the world and get away with it. Well, you can’t. And you know what? If you keep it up, you’re going to wind up sitting in the rain somewhere wondering how the hell you fucked up your life so badly. When that happens, don’t bother calling me. You won’t have anyone to blame but yourself.”

  I didn’t know what to say. Maybe because, deep down, I had a feeling she was right.

  Saleema waited and watched me flounder, and then, with a fierce smile, she spun around and headed back to the door that led into the agency office. I decided I couldn’t let her go without throwing another punch.

  “I know you were in London,” I called after her.

  She stopped with her hand on the doorknob. Slowly, she turned around. “Okay, I was in London. Do I need to clear my itinerary with you?”

  “I saw you with Guy.”

  Saleema shrugged. “So?”

  “So what are you up to?” I asked.

  “That hardly concerns you.”

  “No?”

  “No. We’re both agents, Tess. We both do deals. Guy’s in the business.”

  “I hope to God you’re not sleeping with him.”

  Mistake.

  Saleema spontaneously combusted right in front of me. Or that’s what I thought was going to happen. I expected to see flames.

  “How dare you tell me who to sleep with!” she screamed. Her voice echoed back and forth in the tiny space.

  “You’re right,” I said quickly. “That was stupid. I apologize. I just meant that you can’t trust Guy.”

  “Oh, and now you’re concerned with my welfare? Isn’t that sweet. I can take care of myself.”

  “Be straight with me, Saleema. Were you talking to Guy about Dorothy?”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “To steal Dorothy as a client,” I snapped. “Why else?”

  “It’s nice to see you’re still paranoid,” she said, smiling at me.

  “Dorothy tells me you ran into her at a dinner over the weekend. I suppose that’s just a coincidence.”

  “She was at a party. I was at a party.”

  “You told her you were a friend of mine.”

  “Would you have preferred I told her you were the whore who slept with my fiancé?”

  “Do you really think you can take Dorothy away from me?” I asked.

  Saleema shrugged. “Knowing you, Tess, I’m sure that Dorothy will soon find a reason to dump you on her own. In that case, I want her to know that she has options. If Guy puts in a good word for me, so be it.”

  “Did you hire David Milton? Is that what this is about?”

  “Who?”

  “You know damn well who he is. You know damn well why I’m in town. I can’t believe even you would stoop so low.”

  “I think you should take a Valium,” Saleema said. “You’re having a meltdown.”

  That was true. I had been awake for twenty-four hours, and I was starting to fall apart. I was practically shaking.

  “Oh, Christ, Saleema, why are you still holding on to this feud?” I shouted at her. “The thing with Evan was years ago. You’re better off without him. You sure as hell know that. He was a cheat and a liar.”

  “And it was noble of you to prove that by fucking him. Not many friends will sacrifice themselves that way.”

  “I said I was sorry.”

  “I said I don’t care.”

  “The David Milton thing is never going to fly. I’m calling your bluff tomorrow morning.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “We’re going to countersue Milton for fraud. And if I can prove you’re in it with him, we’ll sue you, too.”

  “Good-bye, Tess.”

  Saleema punched in the security code to open the door and disappeared inside, leaving me alone in the corridor.

  That went well, don’t you think?

  I shook my head, trying to calculate if there were any new ways I could find to screw up my life tonight. Nothing leaped to mind. Saleema’s words sounded like an ugly premonition. Me. In the rain. Alone. My life in ruins. It didn’t feel like I had a long way to fall
from where I was.

  I needed a drink. I needed to sleep.

  I pushed the elevator button and waited for the car to grind slowly back to me. I put a finger tenderly on my cheek. It was sore where Saleema had slapped me. And, yes, I know I deserved it. The elevator car opened, and I staggered inside and collapsed against the wrought-iron frame and closed my eyes. I couldn’t wait to get out of this building.

  As I waited for the elevator door to close, I heard the door in the corridor open again with a bang, and then I heard a male voice shout.

  “Hold that elevator!”

  Oh, no, no, no. Oh, shit.

  I recognized the voice. As if the day couldn’t get any worse.

  I stabbed the button over and over to close the doors, but this was an old elevator, and I wasn’t fast enough. The doors began to close with all the speed of a turtle crossing a motorway, but long before they did, the man’s hand whisked between them and forced them open again.

  I said a quick prayer for God to make me invisible. Not for long. Just for six floors. God didn’t listen to me. He usually doesn’t.

  The man eased inside the claustrophobic car, so close to me that we may as well have been naked, having wild, stand-up-against-the-wall sex. Which was certainly the first thought that crossed my mind when I saw his body and smelled his smell again. I thought I could save time and strip off all my clothes now. The elevator was slow. We could be done by the time we got to the lobby. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  He saw me, too, and his eyes widened with surprise, and then his lips curled into a wicked smile, as if he already knew what was happening between my legs.

  “Tess,” he said, drawing out my name and caressing it with that damn honey voice of his.

  It was Evan.

  20

  “I GUESS I SHOULD DO my Bogie impression now,” Evan told me, grinning. “You know, of all the gin joints in the world, you walk into mine. I never thought I’d see you again.”

  “Let’s pretend you haven’t,” I snapped, backing into the corner and staring at the elevator buttons so I didn’t have to see his face.