Miguel's manuscript was coming along nicely. Colin had met with him several times to talk about his childhood and other aspects of his life that no one yet knew. They looked at old photos, scarce though they were, and pulled together a plan for the biography. Colin had even been given permission to interview his mother, sister and some school friends. Miguel Costa was truly a remarkable man and had overcome obstacles most people couldn't begin to imagine. While it had been a challenging upbringing, it made for great copy.
The final draft was due by the end of June, so there was absolutely no time to spare. His colleagues, knowing the pressure he was under, gave him a wide berth. So it was odd that Randy chose to interrupt him.
"Sorry to bother you," he said, leaning in the doorway.
If it were anyone else, Colin would have ignored him. Instead, he looked up with a deliberate smile. "What can I do for you?"
"I know you're really busy, but . . ." The poor man looked scared out of his wits. "This looked rather important. I thought you might want it delivered personally." He handed over a small rectangular box tied with a navy and silver ribbon. "I'll leave you to your business now."
"Thanks," he said as Randy shuffled off down the corridor.
Under the ribbon was an envelope containing a note from Eve. She was forwarding the package on behalf of Grace and inside, wrapped in white tissue paper, was a smaller rectangular wooden box; black with a decorative silver clasp and hinges. He opened it and let out a low whistle. It was a sterling silver Viceroy Grand Victorian Fountain Pen with 18K gold nib, handmade by Yard-o-Led. This thing was a masterpiece of craftsmanship. He looked back in the box for a card and found it at the bottom beneath a black leather Claire Fontaine notebook and bottle of Pelican Edelstein Onyx ink. It was a very simple card bearing a picture of a single quill on the cover. Inside it read:
To help you start your novel and save your shirts. Grace xo.
He unscrewed the pen and inserted the converter, then dipped the nib in the bottle. Ever so slowly he screwed the plunger upwards, sucking up the rich black ink and filling the pen. He'd never owned such a premium writing instrument — he could never have afforded it. The money always seemed to be needed elsewhere. He turned to the first page in the notebook. "This Book Belongs To" — he hovered his pen above the page. As a matter of course he would normally have written Colin. Given the circumstances though, he wrote Marlowe. The Yard-o-Led skimmed over the page so beautifully, for a moment he entertained the idea of finishing Miguel's biography by hand.
Before he could play with his new pen further, his desk phone rang. "Colin Jackman," he said.
"Hey." It was Jen. "Henry is on his way to Mr. Staadt's office, and he said you should be there too."
Staadt was back from vacation now and no doubt wanted an update; with things finally rolling, Colin would have a lot of positive news to report. He wasn't naive enough to think his boss would be happy, but he'd finally be out of the doghouse. He smiled. That would make for a nice change.
Before Colin got to his boss's office, he received a message from Eve.
Stop what you're doing. The next rendezvous begins now. I'll be picking you up today. Adam is on his way to get Grace.
He sent her a reply as he walked.
Not today. OTW to a meeting. Sorry.
He dropped the phone in his pocket and entered the office. Charles Staadt sat behind his desk, flipping through a document. Whatever he was reading didn't make him very happy. So Colin gave Henry a silent nod of recognition and took a seat. After a few moments, Staadt looked up with a snarl that rivalled a pit bull. "Explain," he said and tossed the paper across the desk. Colin picked it up and scanned the page.
"It's Miguel Costa's contract."
"I know it's the contract," said Staadt. Bits of spittle flew from his mouth. "Explain the advance."
Colin turned to the page outlining the financial arrangement, and as per the agreement, $1.5 million was listed as the advance. Everything else seemed to be in order as well. "I'm not sure what you mean," he said.
"I told you not a penny more than seven fifty."
"Yes, but the bidding war drove it up."
"What bidding war?"
Colin looked at Henry for an explanation but none was forthcoming. He turned back to Staadt. "Sir, are you telling me that you weren't aware of this?"
"No, how could I? I've been in Florida since January."
While he knew that Mr. Staadt had been away, he also knew that the man was never really on vacation. He was notorious for reviewing files, taking meetings via teleconference and generally staying on top of every department within the company. An employee couldn't sneeze without Staadt knowing about it. The very idea that a contract, with a $1.5 million advance in it, could go unnoticed and unreviewed was inconceivable. Absurd, in fact. Yet, there he sat with a vein pulsing in his forehead, looking for all the world like he would eat Colin given half a chance.
"Henry," he said. "You told me that Mr. Staadt had approved this advance."
Henry looked positively aghast. "I did no such thing." The falsity of his reaction was obvious, but Staadt seemed to be buying it.
"You knew about the bidding war."
"I knew Pete Gorman had expressed an interest."
"You sat in my kitchen —"
"And told you to make the deal happen. Nothing more."
Colin replayed the scene over in his mind. He'd specifically asked whether Staadt had approved the advance. But the answer had been vague, and his gut had warned him something was wrong . . . damn. He'd obviously been set up, but hadn't the foggiest idea why. "Are you telling me that legal drew up this contract — a contract with an unprecedented advance in it — and no one in this entire company reviewed it?" Neither Henry nor Staadt spoke a word. "I find that very hard to believe."
"Things were moving quickly, Colin, and your name carried a lot of weight in this company," said Henry. "Employees trusted you. Hell, I trusted you."
"Trusted?" said Colin, questioning his use of the past tense.
Henry sat back and crossed his legs. "Well, you can hardly expect them to follow you so blindly after this. $1.5 million represents a significant investment. We may have to downsize to cover it."
Colin ran a hand across his chin and wondered what game Henry could possibly be playing. Surely this wasn't some kind of payback for the comment about him having been the third best man for the job. They weren't in high school, for Christ's sake.
The phone in his pocket rang again and he switched it to vibrate. "I'm at a loss, sir. It was my understanding that you'd approved the advance. And I made the assumption that our normal approvals process had been followed prior to presenting the contract to Miguel Costa." He shrugged. "Perhaps it's as Henry says — things were just moving too quickly."
"Tell that to the people we'll have to let go." Staadt's nostrils flared as he spoke.
"I'm concerned about you, Colin," said Henry. "Lately you seem to be slipping. You presented this to us as a done deal back in October, when really you had yet to even meet Miguel."
Colin's mouth dropped open. Surely Henry knew that was a flagrant lie.
"You've painted us in the corner financially, you haven't identified any other high sales novels in our stack of submissions and — I'm sorry to have to bring this up in front of Mr. Staadt — you've offloaded your regular duties to other people."
With each word his shock turned into fury.
"Frankly, you seem rather distracted," said Henry.
His phone continued to buzz and try though he might to ignore it, in the silence of the room the sound seemed to reverberate.
"That's exactly the kind of thing I'm talking about," said Henry, pointing to his pocket. "Look, there's a lot of pressure here. I get it. Not everyone can handle it." Henry looked at him with a phoney sense of sympathy. "There's no shame in that. Not everyone's cut out for it. I mean, just look at poor Randy."
Once again his phone buzzed.
"When this whole thing is done," said Staadt, "if we incur any losses, I'm taking it out of your salary. Now get out of my office and take that bloody phone with you."
Colin strode back down the corridor, fuming. He hauled out his phone with the intention of hurling it at a wall. There were six messages from Eve. The last one said she was in the bookstore waiting for him, and if he didn't appear in five minutes, she'd come up to his office and get him.
He got on the elevator and pressed the ground floor button.