Walk” signs don’t mean anything on Lexington Avenue at half past twelve. Crowds form an unbroken stream. In the restaurants, they form the breathing equivalent of an unsplittable atom. I took a look into Hamburger Heaven. Even if I could fight my way to the counter, I’d never carve out enough room to eat. I let three girls in dirndl minidresses and Art Deco legwarmers push past me and took comfort in the fact that Dana never ate lunch. If Dana ever started eating lunch, her wardrobe would become inoperative.
I turned south and west, running a little to keep myself awake. It got the adrenaline flowing, but it didn’t clear my head.
In the lobby of Dana’s building, the stream was running against me. Assistant art directors in black tights and black turtlenecks and rose jumpers, assistant personnel directors in navy blue wool and frilly white blouses, assistant editors in tweed skirts and “good” (single-ply) cashmere sweaters and last year’s slingbacks—all of them were on their way out of the elevators and into the street. I ducked through the nearest pair of air-lock doors, realized I was in a “30th Floor Only” car, and ducked out again. I waited by a set of doors with a sign on them saying “22-49,” flattened myself against the wall to let the horde disgorge, then darted in to push the button for “26.” At certain times of day, finding the right elevator going in the right direction in a New York office building can be the emotional equivalent of storming the beach at Iwo Jima.
The twenty-sixth floor was one of the reasons I’d hired Dana. Most agents work out of their apartments, or rent two- or three-room suites in modest little buildings in the Forties. Dana had the entire floor. She had three telephone banks. She had wall-to-wall Bigelows on the floor and framed publicity posters for half a dozen bestsellers on her walls. The bestsellers were a little dated—Dana used to specialize in mainstream fiction, which has been losing out to the genres and the nonfiction how-to books (Fifteen Minutes to Thinner Thighs and Your First Million) —but they were very famous. Some of them were famous enough to have made six-figure movie deals before anybody had ever heard of six-figure movie deals.
I rapped my knuckles against the receptionist’s desk, smiled a greeting, and took a very full, very black cup of coffee from the blue plastic Dripmaster on the end table next to the John Homans couch. I looked at the little plastic dish of rat pellets on the floor in the corner and wondered if there was anywhere in New York without a rodent problem (cockroaches are not a problem; cockroaches are an Alternative Population). I swallowed the coffee in one long chug and headed for Dana’s office. The receptionist would buzz me through, but I wasn’t worried about interrupting anything. Dana does not see people in her office during lunch. Dana sees them on the phone during lunch.
She was getting off the phone as I walked in.
“You wouldn’t believe who that was,” she said. “You wouldn’t believe what that was.”
“Haven’t had any sleep either, I take it.” I dropped into a chair and started searching for cigarettes.
“That was some idiot in PR over at Gallard Rowson,” Dana said. “She’s got an idea to promote Verna’s book. She wants to put Verna’s bio on the back cover and start the text with”—Dana paused dramatically—“‘She lived dangerously and died violently, but before she did, she left us this book.’”
“Well,” I said. “The syntax is interesting.”
“Oh, come now,” Dana said. “Doubleday can’t be that bad.”
“Doubleday isn’t bad at all,” I said. “It’s PR. PR people aren’t Doubleday, or Dortman & Hodges, or Avon, or Austin, Stoddard & Trapp. PR people are PR people. They have schools for them.”
“I suppose they must,” Dana said.
I found my cigarettes wedged into the envelope of my American Express bill. I extracted them. Dana was
I turned south and west, running a little to keep myself awake. It got the adrenaline flowing, but it didn’t clear my head.
In the lobby of Dana’s building, the stream was running against me. Assistant art directors in black tights and black turtlenecks and rose jumpers, assistant personnel directors in navy blue wool and frilly white blouses, assistant editors in tweed skirts and “good” (single-ply) cashmere sweaters and last year’s slingbacks—all of them were on their way out of the elevators and into the street. I ducked through the nearest pair of air-lock doors, realized I was in a “30th Floor Only” car, and ducked out again. I waited by a set of doors with a sign on them saying “22-49,” flattened myself against the wall to let the horde disgorge, then darted in to push the button for “26.” At certain times of day, finding the right elevator going in the right direction in a New York office building can be the emotional equivalent of storming the beach at Iwo Jima.
The twenty-sixth floor was one of the reasons I’d hired Dana. Most agents work out of their apartments, or rent two- or three-room suites in modest little buildings in the Forties. Dana had the entire floor. She had three telephone banks. She had wall-to-wall Bigelows on the floor and framed publicity posters for half a dozen bestsellers on her walls. The bestsellers were a little dated—Dana used to specialize in mainstream fiction, which has been losing out to the genres and the nonfiction how-to books (Fifteen Minutes to Thinner Thighs and Your First Million) —but they were very famous. Some of them were famous enough to have made six-figure movie deals before anybody had ever heard of six-figure movie deals.
I rapped my knuckles against the receptionist’s desk, smiled a greeting, and took a very full, very black cup of coffee from the blue plastic Dripmaster on the end table next to the John Homans couch. I looked at the little plastic dish of rat pellets on the floor in the corner and wondered if there was anywhere in New York without a rodent problem (cockroaches are not a problem; cockroaches are an Alternative Population). I swallowed the coffee in one long chug and headed for Dana’s office. The receptionist would buzz me through, but I wasn’t worried about interrupting anything. Dana does not see people in her office during lunch. Dana sees them on the phone during lunch.
She was getting off the phone as I walked in.
“You wouldn’t believe who that was,” she said. “You wouldn’t believe what that was.”
“Haven’t had any sleep either, I take it.” I dropped into a chair and started searching for cigarettes.
“That was some idiot in PR over at Gallard Rowson,” Dana said. “She’s got an idea to promote Verna’s book. She wants to put Verna’s bio on the back cover and start the text with”—Dana paused dramatically—“‘She lived dangerously and died violently, but before she did, she left us this book.’”
“Well,” I said. “The syntax is interesting.”
“Oh, come now,” Dana said. “Doubleday can’t be that bad.”
“Doubleday isn’t bad at all,” I said. “It’s PR. PR people aren’t Doubleday, or Dortman & Hodges, or Avon, or Austin, Stoddard & Trapp. PR people are PR people. They have schools for them.”
“I suppose they must,” Dana said.
I found my cigarettes wedged into the envelope of my American Express bill. I extracted them. Dana was
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