A Dangerous Fiction by Barbara Rogan Page B

and I lost. It would be as obvious to them as it was to me that the muse in Spade’s story was a stand-in for me, with the author cast in the role of Well-Hung Starving Artist. It disgusted me to be the object of this perv’s sexual fantasies, and I felt that letting my colleagues read his story would diminish me in their eyes. But Max said that someone in the office must have read some pages of the manuscript when Spade originally submitted it, and the summary might ring a bell.
    Chloe, the first to finish, pushed the pages away with the tip of one finger. “This is so creepy. Who
is
this guy?”
    â€œAt the very least,” Max said, “he’s someone with boundary issues and a fixation on getting Jo as his agent.”
    â€œNot just as his agent!” Jean-Paul said. His face was bright red.
    â€œRight,” Max said calmly. “Which is why we need to figure out who he is.”
    â€œThen it’s a shame you didn’t check with the conference organizers,” Harriet said. “He must have been registered.”
    I was used to her patronizing tone, but Max, who wasn’t, answered coolly. “Sam Spade was a walk-in registrant. He paid cash and registered with a nonexistent New York City address and phone number. If he was staying at the hotel, it wasn’t under that name. But I doubt he was; the hotel had been booked up for months.”
    â€œSo how do we find him?” Jean-Paul asked.
    â€œWell, the guy claims he submitted a manuscript to the office and it was rejected. We can assume this happened not long ago, say within the last six months. Someone in this office read his submission. Did anything sound familiar in the pages you just read? Either the content or the voice?”
    They all shook their heads except Lorna, who never read.
    â€œDo you keep track of all submissions?” Max asked.
    She looked up from her pad. “I do that.”
    â€œEven rejections?”
    â€œEvery submission, with the date received, who read it, how and when we responded.”
    â€œExcellent,” Max said. “I’d like a copy of that log.”
    â€œIt’s confidential,” she said repressively, with that mulish look she got whenever anyone trampled on her secretarial turf.
    â€œMax has appointed himself our chief of security,” I said.
    â€œHe appointed
himself
?”
    I frowned at her, but Max laughed and said, “No, she’s right. Jo, give me a dollar.”
    I looked in my wallet and, finding no singles, handed him a five.
    â€œEven better,” he said. “No one should say I work cheap. Now we’re official. All right, Lorna?”
    â€œNo problem.”
    â€œIs there some reason,” Jean-Paul cut in, “why Jo shouldn’t go straight to the police and get a restraining order?”
    â€œAgainst whom?” Max said.
    â€œLet them find out! He’s stalking her; that’s got to be illegal.”
    â€œUnless bad writing is a crime, and writing as bad as his should be, nothing Sam Spade has done so far is actionable. And we want to keep it that way, which means that apart from IDing this guy, our goal is to prevent another approach. We need to make Jo impossible to reach.”
    â€œHe’ll never get past me, I can tell you that!” Lorna said stoutly. She had forsaken her notebook for once and was gaping at Max. It wasn’t a good look for her, not that she’d care. Ever since she’d come to us, I’d been trying tactfully to get Lorna to do something about her appearance. She had lovely skin and youth to offset those extra pounds, but she hid her face behind thick glasses and mousy brown bangs and her body in shapeless corduroy slacks and calf-length skirts. For her birthday I’d taken her shopping at Bloomingdale’s and bought her two charming outfits, youthful but professional, perfect for work. She’d thanked me earnestly and repeatedly, but what she did with them