fussing with papers on her desk, looking for something that wasn’t there. I found a pack of Monk’s Inn matches, lit up, and threw the spent match and a handful of scrap paper into Dana’s Steuben glass ashtray.
“I thought you were bringing Sarah English with you,” she muttered. “Now what the hell—” She brushed her short, Vidal Sassooned hair out of her eyes. “I’ve lost the specs, of course. I’ll have Fanny bring in another set.” She buzzed through on her desk phone. “You’ve got to tell Miss English to come in and talk to Jane Herman. As long as she’s in the city, we might as well get things straightened out.”
“Jane Herman?”
Dana sighed impatiently. “Jane sold Miss English’s book. I don’t read unsolicited mail anymore. Even recommended unsolicited mail.” Her mouth twisted wryly. “Maybe I should start. That was the best romantic suspense this office has seen yet, and Jane didn’t have the sense to submit it to our line. She just shot it straight off to Austin, Stoddard & Trapp. Without even telling me.”
“I thought your line had to have brand-name authors.”
“And celebrities,” Dana said. “Yes, it does. Gallard Rowson took one look at the competition and insisted on a hook. Assholes.”
“Right,” I said.
“Not that it wasn’t a good idea,” Dana said again. “It was a great idea. You should see the orders. You should see the subscriptions. Subscriptions are sales. The readers want celebrities.”
“Figures,” I said.
Dana took a pile of proofs out of a drawer and tossed them to me. Passionate Intrigues was written in red and black script across the top of each cover. The cover paintings bled into the spines. The one for Mysteries of the Heart showed a man and a woman, locked in lecherous embrace, dangling from a rope suspended from the bottom of a glider descending into the Grand Canyon at dusk. The man had his lips as close to the woman’s nipple as genre romance covers will allow, which meant he was half a breath from swallowing it. The woman was wearing an off-the-shoulder peasant blouse and four-inch high-heeled sandals.
“The competition is awful,” Dana said. “Judy Sullivan over at Walker. Bernstein and Marcel—you know Bernstein and Marcel? They’re general agents, but they somehow managed to sew up half the decent mystery writers in the world, it seems like, and most of romance. They’re packaging for Avon and they’ve got everybody.”
“You’ve got Verna Train,” I said.
“Oh yes,” Dana said. “I’ve got Ivy Samuels Tree and Hazel Ganz writing as Harriet Lowry and God knows who else. I’ve got the names; I’m just not sure I’ve got the quality. What does Hazel know about romantic suspense?” She tapped her teeth with the tip of her silver Tiffany T-pen. Then she put the pen in her pocket. She was careful to position the T-shaped clip exactly in the center of the linen flap. “You wouldn’t want to try romantic suspense?” she suggested. “I could pry your Jeri Andrews pseudonym out of Farret.”
“Jeri Andrews has retired,” I said.
“I was afraid of that.” There was a knock on the door. Dana called “Come in” and sat looking regal while a thin, pimply-faced secretary scurried to the desk with a sheaf of photocopies in a blue plastic folder. “Excellent,” Dana said. “You can go to lunch now.”
The secretary did everything but kiss her feet. Dana tossed the photocopies to me.
“Look them over,” she said, “but a quarter of a million on signing is a quarter of a million on signing. Plus residuals. As long as you deal with network programming, you’re dealing with business people. The movie people think they’re one up on God and they rob you blind. And you can’t prove it.”
“Double cost accounting,” I said wisely.
“People should stop teaching you buzz words.”
I threw the folder onto her desk. “Okay,” I said. “I’m not crazy. It’s a big, unusual deal and you’re a brilliant
“I thought you were bringing Sarah English with you,” she muttered. “Now what the hell—” She brushed her short, Vidal Sassooned hair out of her eyes. “I’ve lost the specs, of course. I’ll have Fanny bring in another set.” She buzzed through on her desk phone. “You’ve got to tell Miss English to come in and talk to Jane Herman. As long as she’s in the city, we might as well get things straightened out.”
“Jane Herman?”
Dana sighed impatiently. “Jane sold Miss English’s book. I don’t read unsolicited mail anymore. Even recommended unsolicited mail.” Her mouth twisted wryly. “Maybe I should start. That was the best romantic suspense this office has seen yet, and Jane didn’t have the sense to submit it to our line. She just shot it straight off to Austin, Stoddard & Trapp. Without even telling me.”
“I thought your line had to have brand-name authors.”
“And celebrities,” Dana said. “Yes, it does. Gallard Rowson took one look at the competition and insisted on a hook. Assholes.”
“Right,” I said.
“Not that it wasn’t a good idea,” Dana said again. “It was a great idea. You should see the orders. You should see the subscriptions. Subscriptions are sales. The readers want celebrities.”
“Figures,” I said.
Dana took a pile of proofs out of a drawer and tossed them to me. Passionate Intrigues was written in red and black script across the top of each cover. The cover paintings bled into the spines. The one for Mysteries of the Heart showed a man and a woman, locked in lecherous embrace, dangling from a rope suspended from the bottom of a glider descending into the Grand Canyon at dusk. The man had his lips as close to the woman’s nipple as genre romance covers will allow, which meant he was half a breath from swallowing it. The woman was wearing an off-the-shoulder peasant blouse and four-inch high-heeled sandals.
“The competition is awful,” Dana said. “Judy Sullivan over at Walker. Bernstein and Marcel—you know Bernstein and Marcel? They’re general agents, but they somehow managed to sew up half the decent mystery writers in the world, it seems like, and most of romance. They’re packaging for Avon and they’ve got everybody.”
“You’ve got Verna Train,” I said.
“Oh yes,” Dana said. “I’ve got Ivy Samuels Tree and Hazel Ganz writing as Harriet Lowry and God knows who else. I’ve got the names; I’m just not sure I’ve got the quality. What does Hazel know about romantic suspense?” She tapped her teeth with the tip of her silver Tiffany T-pen. Then she put the pen in her pocket. She was careful to position the T-shaped clip exactly in the center of the linen flap. “You wouldn’t want to try romantic suspense?” she suggested. “I could pry your Jeri Andrews pseudonym out of Farret.”
“Jeri Andrews has retired,” I said.
“I was afraid of that.” There was a knock on the door. Dana called “Come in” and sat looking regal while a thin, pimply-faced secretary scurried to the desk with a sheaf of photocopies in a blue plastic folder. “Excellent,” Dana said. “You can go to lunch now.”
The secretary did everything but kiss her feet. Dana tossed the photocopies to me.
“Look them over,” she said, “but a quarter of a million on signing is a quarter of a million on signing. Plus residuals. As long as you deal with network programming, you’re dealing with business people. The movie people think they’re one up on God and they rob you blind. And you can’t prove it.”
“Double cost accounting,” I said wisely.
“People should stop teaching you buzz words.”
I threw the folder onto her desk. “Okay,” I said. “I’m not crazy. It’s a big, unusual deal and you’re a brilliant
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