18. Paperback Writer

The latino-flavoured sushi featured a lot of raw beef and I wondered what they would have made of it out on the Pampas. I could almost hear Don Carlos Guerrero crying with laughter at the fate of his Aberdeen Angus's descendants. Still, it was something to do while I watched Sam Sara in action.

A notebook, pen and digital recorder had appeared from her handbag. She had been invited to sit down on production of these bona fides. Armando had come good with the cocktails a couple of times since the out-of-town posse had arrived, so perhaps they were talking louder than usual and I wasn't really eavesdropping.

'Oh, like, we're so totally excited.' The woman in the red dress gushed.

'Yeah, totally, Sondra.' The black skirt-suit couldn't quite manage a gush.

Sondra made a face which managed to make her look both childish and stupid.

'We are pleased, naturally.' The woman in the blue pant-suit cut in, 'Aren't we Angela?'

Angela lifted one shoulder. The woman in the funky lemon number nodded vigorously and gave a huge and unbecoming sniff,

'Yes, yes, oh yes we are, especially me I mean I'm...'

'She's the writer.' The other three rolled eyes and shrugged and waved manicured fingers.

I didn't quite catch what Sam Sara said, but Claire, the woman in blue answered

'Of course, winning the prize is wonderful, it is, but...'

Angela in black finished her sentence, 'the fact that our client, Tabitha Vanderbilt, is being presented with the prize by the First Lady is priceless for sales.'

Tabitha gave another vigorous nod and I could see the powder from my seat at the bar.

Sondra adjusted a strap on her shiny dress and pointed out that she should get the credit for the PR campaign that had got the book short-listed and finally chosen as the Nabisco Woman's Novel of the Year. This earned her a steely look from the lawyer and the literary agent. The giant of letters excused herself at this point and made for the Powder Room. The others gave a wry shake of the head.

'Creatives,' Angela picked a speck of dust from her midnight skirt.

Sam Sara said something which resulted in a demand for her notebook, which she refused. I wandered over to their table and asked if there was a problem.

'No, no problem at all. Get the bill, Gabby We're leaving.'

I paid. Mastercard in the name Gabriel Chandler of Alexandria, Va. Sam Sara saw what she expected to see, every time I walked into her office: rumpled pants, creased jackets, world-weary smile. I'd have worn a hat if it would have convinced her I was Spade S. or Marlowe P. made flesh. Maybe one day she'd see what the hinkiness was all about. Till then I was carrying a torch as well as a gun.

It was dark and I felt the cold right down to my furled pin-feathers. Sam shivered and I moved to put an arm around her shoulders. She shrugged it off,

'Nope. Not today, not ever.'

I said nothing, then asked, 'What was all that about? You're following publishing types around, why?'

'It's not exactly a fix they're putting in, more a ringer in the race.'

'What in Hades are you talking about?'

'You saw her, Tabitha Vanderbilt. She look like the author of 700 page “literary tour-de-force” to you?'

'What do they look like?'

'They look like Jackie Gleason in drag or that Britisher woman who writes about Henry VIII all the time.' She paused and let out a sigh. 'Or they look like men. Because they are men.'

'Who's the client?'

'What do you care?'

I shrugged.

'It's one of the biggies.'

'Which one?'

'The one that isn't publishing Tabitha's book, dummy.'

'Is it any good?'

'Hell if I know... Oh, you mean the money? Damn' right it is.'

I thought it would have to be, but didn't say so.

'So what exactly is the job?'

'Some idiot at Haphazard Hall thinks I'll be able to get proof that some 200-pound, cat-keeping recluse really wrote the book, just by following them around.'

'Expenses?'

'That's the down-side, 300 dollars a day flat-rate.'

Her eyes did light up when I showed her the no-name invitation card, especially when she saw the words 'and partner.'

'Everything that happens, no matter...'

She called me a jerk and gave me a slap on the shoulder. It felt swell.