A Dangerous Fiction

by Barbara Rogan

  Clearly I was not forgiven.

  “Of course,” I said, as if I hadn’t spent most of the night wavering back and forth. By forging on, I was endangering the people I cared for. But the best way of protecting us all was to catch Sam Spade, and the best way to do that was to put myself out there as bait. I had to go back.

  But no sooner did I make that decision than I began to second-guess it. What if he didn’t come for me? What if, instead, I got a call one day informing me that Jean-Paul or Chloe or another of my writers had been murdered? How would I live with that?

  I didn’t know what was best, and with Molly gone, there was no one to ask. In the end, my choice was a selfish one. I would go on because I wanted to go on. Molly’s last words were etched in my heart. You’re not who you are because Hugo married you. He married you because of who you are. For the first time in my life, faced with the loss of the agency, I acknowledged the truth in that. Hugo was a genius and I am far from that, but I had been as good for him as he had been for me. When I read his drafts, I saw not only what the story was, but also what it wanted to become. The first time we met, Hugo and I didn’t bond over sex and a shared predilection for May-December romance, as everyone assumed. Our first night together was spent chastely talking about his work. I’d read all of his published books, most of them more than once, and I’d read the new manuscript on the train from New York. Of all living writers, Hugo was the one I admired most. Did I, as Molly claimed, purposely misunderstand her instructions in order to engineer a meeting? If I did, I have no memory of it; but I wouldn’t put it past the starstruck little bookworm I was back then. I’d loved Hugo’s stories before I loved him, and he’d loved my understanding of them before he ever thought of loving me. Perhaps it was always what he loved best.

  I marched past Harriet to my office and sat at the desk I’d inherited from Molly; and from somewhere deep inside my head, I heard the echo of her voice. Once more unto the breach, kiddo.

  There was a ton of work to catch up on, starting with several hundred e-mails. I worked my way steadily through them, deleting the ones from reporters, delegating others to Jean-Paul and Lorna. Two hours later, I was down to a few dozen that needed a personal response when Harriet walked into my office without knocking. “We need to talk.”

  Never a harbinger of good news, that phrase. I waved her to a chair and waited with what I would call a sense of impending disaster, if that were not now my normal state. Harriet lowered herself stiffly into the chair. She did not look good. Her face was pale, with red splotches on her cheeks, and her gray hair was in a state of anarchy. She looked like I felt, which was where we differed.

  “I need to know where I stand,” she blurted.

  “Where you’ve always stood,” I said. “Nothing’s changed.”

  “That’s not good enough. I’ve been with this agency for longer than you have. It’s time I became a partner.”

  It was out now, the five-hundred-pound gorilla crouching between us, and I hadn’t so much as a banana to feed it.

  “Harriet,” I said, “I’m incredibly grateful for everything you’ve done, not only this past week, but in all the time you’ve been here. I understand your feelings, and I’m willing to discuss your future here, but frankly, your timing amazes me. You must understand that I’m in no shape to make major decisions right now.”

  “No—you must understand that I can’t go on waiting and hoping for you to do the right thing. I know this is a bad time; it’s a bad time for me, too, in case you haven’t noticed. But this should be a no-brainer. I’ve earned this. I deserve it.”

  She had a point. She’d paid her dues and then some. But a partnership is a bond almost as profound as marriage, and as I looked at Harriet’s haughty, pinched mouth and censorious eyes, I felt the dawning of something like dread. It was one thing to work with her, but the agency would be different with Harriet as a partner, and not, I feared, in a good way.

  And yet I didn’t want her to leave, either. Prickly though she was, I respected both her taste and her toughness. Her clients were a reliable bunch who brought in a steady stream of revenue and added heft to the agency. If she left, she would take them with her; I could not and would not do to her what I’d done to Charlie. If it was simply a matter of money, if she wanted a larger share of the pie, I could accommodate her. But how could I submit to a shotgun wedding?

  I told her I needed time to think. Harriet didn’t soften at all, which, under different circumstances, was one of the things I liked about her.

  “Think fast, then, because I do have other options. I love this agency and it would break my heart to leave it. But I won’t go on as before.”

  I wondered then if she knew about Molly’s bequest. “If you’re thinking of going solo, that’s your right, of course. But I’m sure we can come up with a less risky solution.”

  “That is not my only option,” she said testily.

  Mingus didn’t like her tone. He sat up and gave her a hard stare, which she ignored. I nudged him with my foot and motioned him down. The trouble with a German shepherd for an ally is that you can’t actually deploy him. What was Harriet talking about? Where would she go if she left me? She wouldn’t leave just to go work for another agent; someone must have offered her a partnership, but who? No sooner did I ask the question than the answer came to me. I gasped. “Not Charlie Malvino!”

  “Never you mind,” Harriet said, but a blush broke through her pale skin and I knew I was right.

  “No, really, Harriet? How could—I mean, the two of you are so different.”

  “You and I are different; that never stopped us working together.”

  “Yes, but you and Charlie are at opposite ends of the spectrum.”

  “Which some people might say makes us perfect for each other.”

  “Some people meaning Charlie?” It explained so much: their lunch, her indignation on his behalf, even the whispering at Molly’s funeral. And yet I could hardly wrap my mind around it. When they were both on the agency staff, they used to squabble incessantly in staff meetings. Harriet was nearly twenty years older and far more experienced, but Charlie, always a cheeky devil, had no respect. He used to imitate her accent and manner right to her face. “Queen Harriet,” he’d called her, and “Your Ladyship.” If Charlie was courting her now, it could only be to hurt me.

  I looked closely at Harriet, who now wore a smug, secretive little smile, and a dark thought struck me. Could Charlie have gone so far in his malice as to actually seduce her? I tried to banish that thought to the pit from which it had escaped, but it left its traces, which mingled with those left by Lieutenant Rosenbaum into a noxious brew.

  “Class and crass, he calls it,” Harriet said, dropping all pretense now. “I’m the class, he’s the crass. We balance each other out.”

  “Or cancel each other out. Harriet, be careful.”

  “You be careful.” It sounded like a threat. We stared at each other. The room was so quiet I could hear Mingus breathing.

  Harriet composed her features. “I meant you should consider the matter carefully. I belong here. We both do. But things have to change.”

  I thought about that, disliking both my options. Losing Harriet now would leave a big hole in the agency. I’d never replaced Charlie; so I’d have to find another agent or two. Jean-Paul was too green for promotion, and Lorna wasn’t agent material. Chloe was, but she was Harriet’s assistant and would probably go with her. I’d lose all those clients, too.

  Maybe I could I live with Harriet as a partner, I thought. Would it really be so different from the way things were presently? Maybe if she got what she’d wanted for so long, she’d be less abrasive. Still, something in me recoiled from the thought of giving in to her. Why now of all times? Was Charlie pressuring her, or had Harriet herself decided to strike when I was most vulnerable? I wished I could talk it over with Molly.

 
“I’ll think about it,” I said.

  The door had barely closed behind her when Lorna staggered in under the weight of an enormous vase of lilies. She set it down on my desk.

  “What’s this?” I said.

  “No idea. There’s a card.”

  I opened the card.

  Dear Jo,

  My deepest sympathies for your loss.

  Your devoted, Sam Spade

  Chapter 26

  For the next two days I subsisted on black coffee and aspirin, sleeping in fits. When I wasn’t obsessing over Sam Spade, I was dithering over Harriet’s ultimatum. On the second night I dreamed that Molly called me from Frankfurt. There was static on the line, other conversations bleeding through, but I knew it was her. “Molly?” I called, pressing my ear to the receiver. “Molly, I can’t hear you.” Men were shouting in the background, and a woman cried out in pain or fear. There came another burst of static, then, in a sudden patch of clarity, Molly said, “Can you hear me now?”

  After that I quit my bed and trudged into the kitchen. By the time the coffee had brewed, the sun was rising over Central Park; beyond it, the spectral city glowed. I carried my cup onto the terrace. A film crew was setting up across the street for an early-morning shoot. The morning air was chilly, but I was warm, wrapped in Hugo’s cashmere robe. I breathed the textured city air and let the bitter brew revive me.

  • • •

  Later Wednesday morning I was sitting in my office reviewing contracts when the door burst open and Lorna hurtled in, holding a phone to her ear in one hand and gesturing wildly with the other. “Can you hold on a moment, Mr. Spade? She’s on the other line, but I know she wants to talk to you.”

  My whole body jerked. Coffee sloshed onto the contract I’d been reading, but I didn’t stop to wipe it up. I speed-dialed Tommy on my cell. He answered immediately.

  “It’s him, Sam Spade,” I whispered. “He’s on the office line now.”

  “You know what to do,” Tommy said, as calmly as if discussing the weather. “Keep him on as long as you can. Make an appointment to meet, preferably in your office.”

  I hung up and nodded at Lorna. “Mr. Spade?” she said. “I slipped her a note. She said don’t hang up, she’ll get off as soon as she can. She’s very anxious to talk to you. Was it you who sent those beautiful flowers?”

  She was supposed to stall him at least three minutes before I picked up, then I would stall some more. If all went optimally, we’d hear him arrested. Lorna’s words were right, but the music was all wrong. She sounded like a bad actress reciting lines. If this guy was half as antsy as he ought to be, she’d scare him off for sure.

  I made an executive decision and picked up the phone. “Is this really the elusive Mr. Spade?” The words came out in a flirtatious Southern drawl. I don’t know why. Maybe it was easier to play a part with a voice other than my own.

  “Jo, is that you?” His voice was deep and raspy, as if he, too, were playing a part.

  “It’s me. Thanks, Lorna, I’ve got it now.”

  Lorna hung up but didn’t leave the room. Harriet, Jean-Paul, and Chloe hurried in, drawn no doubt by Lorna’s unprecedented scramble. I signaled for silence and put the call on speakerphone.

  “Sam,” I said, “I have to tell you, I loved the novel.”

  There was a pause so long I feared I’d lost him. Then he said, in a voice crackling with emotion, “You don’t know how long I’ve waited to hear you say those words.”

  “Well, you’ve kept me waiting too. Quite a tease, sending a manuscript like that with no contact information. I started reading the day you delivered it and couldn’t stop till I’d finished. I’ve been hoping you’d call ever since.”

  Was I laying it on too thick? But there is no “too thick” for writers. They’re all gluttons for praise.

  “I knew you’d feel that way,” Sam Spade said, proving the point, “if I could only get your attention.”

  “You’ve got it now.”

  “I’d have called sooner if it weren’t for recent tragic events.”

  I squeezed the phone so hard my knuckles turned white. I wanted to reach down the line and shove it down his throat. Instead I picked up my letter-opener, a short dagger with a mother-of-pearl hasp that Hugo bought me in Marrakesh, and started jabbing my mouse pad.

  “Thank you for the lilies,” I said.

  “You’re welcome. Sorry to cut this short, Jo, but I can’t talk now. We should meet.”

  I glanced at my watch. What felt like the longest conversation of my life had lasted less than a minute. “Absolutely, as soon as possible. Just a few questions first, while I have you on the line. Do any other agents have the manuscript?”

  He sounded hurt. “Of course not. You’re the only agent I ever considered.”

  Lucky me. “Have any publishers seen it?”

  “No, that’s your job.”

  “I know half a dozen who’ll be interested. We may even get an auction going, though I’m not one to count my chickens before they’re hatched. Is this really your first novel?”

  “The first of many, now that we’re together.”

  “I find that amazing, considering the level of maturity and sophistication in the writing. How long did you work on it?”

  “Twelve weeks,” he said proudly. “I was on fire. It felt like the story was being dictated, if you know what I mean.”

  “I do,” I said, avoiding the eyes of my staffers. “Many great writers have described that feeling. What’s your real name, by the way? I can’t keep calling you Sam Spade.”

  “Why not? You christened me; I’ve adopted the name.”

  “You can publish under any pen name you like, but as your representative, I need to know who you really are.”

  “When we meet, I promise you’ll find out all you need to know about me.”

  “Then let’s meet soon. When can you come in?”

  “To your office? No, I think not. Sam Spade, like many writers, is an intensely private person, as tongue-tied in person as he is eloquent on paper.”

  Pompous asshole, talking about himself in the third person, reciting from some imagined biography. I looked at my watch. Only two minutes had passed.

  “Lunch, then,” I said, “or a drink. I know some quiet places where we can talk. Before we get together, though, I’d like to do a little preliminary planning, maybe put out a feeler or two. Have you given any thought to who you’d like to publish you?”

  “We can talk about it when we meet.”

  “Of course. Can I take you to lunch? Michael’s, maybe, or the Four Seasons? Or would you rather meet for a drink?”

  “Columbus Circle,” he said, “in the entrance to the park. We’ll take a carriage ride.”

  Jean-Paul was shaking his head violently.

  “Not a fan of carriage rides,” I said. “Unlike you, I’m an intensely public person.”

  Chloe had to clap a hand over her mouth to mute a nervous titter, but from Sam Spade I got only a reproachful pause. “Indulge me, if you will,” he said. “I’ve been planning this for a long time. Six o’clock this evening, Columbus Circle. Till then, my dear Jo.” At once, as if to stave off a refusal, he hung up.

  “Wait,” I said uselessly, then dropped the phone into its cradle and scrubbed my hand on my skirt.

  The others stared at me. “Well, hello there, Scarlett O’Hara,” Harriet said, mimicking my drawl. “If you’re not just full of surprises.”

  I ran past them to the bathroom, slammed the door, and spewed black coffee into the sink.

  • • •

  “You don’t have to do this.” Tommy Cullen turned away as the female tech positioned a tiny transmitter inside my bra. “We have an officer on standby, your height, your shape. Slap on a wig and a pair of dark glasses and your own mother would mistake her for y
ou.”

  “She might,” I said, “but this guy knows what I look like.” The three of us were alone. I’d sent the others home for the day. Jean-Paul left last, under protest, to take Mingus back to my apartment. Neither he nor the dog could come with me tonight, lest they spook our quarry.

  “You’ll be fine,” the tech said, snipping a piece of tape. “There’ll be more cops than pigeons in the park. Just try not to sweat.”

  “How?” I asked, sweating already. Sam Spade wouldn’t show, I told myself. He’d been smart enough to call from a prepaid cell phone and keep the conversation short enough to evade capture, so why would he walk into an obvious trap? This was just another torment, another game for him. No doubt he’d be watching from a distance, laughing.

  But in my gut I didn’t believe it. I know writers’ fantasies, and during our brief conversation, I’d played into every one of Spade’s. I’d hooked him good, with the help of his monstrous ego, which told him he was a genius who deserved every word I said. There was another reason why I knew he’d come too, one closer to the heart of his obsession. Every story needs an ending. Everything Sam Spade did, he did to get at me. He’d invented a fantasy; then he sabotaged my business, tormented my clients, and finally murdered my friends just to bring it about. If he wasn’t building toward a personal encounter, none of it made sense.

  The tech finished and left, shutting my office door behind her. Tommy and I were alone. I tapped the transmitter. “Is this thing on?”

  “Not yet,” he said.

  “That Westchester detective asked me about you.”

  “Figured he would,” he said dismissively.

  “About our history. I said we were casual acquaintances.”

  “Figured that, too, since I’m still on the case. Look, Jo, are you sure you’re up—”

  “Positive.”