TEN

Bertoli looked up the unlisted number and punched the buttons on the phone. It rang once before she answered.

“Carla. Alex here. You got problems.”

“What’s the matter?” Carla Owens was sprawled on her bed with a pile of manuscripts, stuff culled by her staff that showed promise for new clients. Unfortunately none of it came up to the commercial quality of Gable Cooper’s book. She saw one of those every ten years, if she was lucky.

“I’m hearing some troubling stories out of L.A.,” said Bertoli. “Information that your friend Mel Weig has picked up the film rights on Cooper’s book for peanuts.”

“What are you talking about?” Owens dropped the manuscript she was reading and lost her page.

“I’m talking about a screw job, that’s what I’m talking about.”

“No film rights have been sold,” said Owens.

“Then somebody’s dealing behind your back. I thought we had a deal, Carla.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Slow down and tell me what’s going on.”

“Somebody from the studio—I don’t know who yet—got a hold of Cooper.”

“Where did this happen?”

“I don’t know.”

“When?”

“Yesterday. Maybe the day before. It wasn’t clear.”

“What happened?”

“What do you mean what happened? They cut a deal directly.”

“They wouldn’t do that,” she told him. “I talked to Weig the other day. He gave me his word. I was getting ready to negotiate a deal. Just waiting for the right moment.”

“Well, they aren’t waiting anymore. And it gets worse. From what I’m hearing they tied the thing up for pocket change. Stole it,” said Bertoli. “Not only the current book, but the new one he’s working on.”

“What do you mean?” asked Carla.

“I’m hearing twenty-five thousand.”

“You’re out of your mind,” said Owens. “Weig knows it’s worth more than that.”

“Yes, but the question is, does Cooper?”

“Who told you this?”

“You think we’re the only ones with a leak in the pipeline? I’ve got my sources.”

“Who?”

“My sources,” said Bertoli. He no longer trusted her. He couldn’t be sure whether she had been duped, or if maybe there was some devilish plan here and Carla was part of it.

In fact, she hadn’t told him everything, including the fact that Abby had called her that afternoon to tell her that Cooper was on his way home and would be in New York in two days. The timing of Abby’s call and now Bertoli’s information set off alarms in Carla’s head.

“It’s probably garbage,” she told him.

“No. I don’t think so. It comes from somebody in a position to know. And if it’s true, I’m not sure we’d still be interested in publication rights, certainly not for anything approaching the dollars we’ve been talking about.”

“Listen, Alex, don’t panic. If something’s going on I’ll find out what it is.”

“It’s a little late to find out, don’t you think?”

“Are you telling me Cooper’s already signed a contract?” There was actually cold sweat forming on her upper lip as she asked the question. If Cooper had signed away film rights for twenty-five thousand, they could all fold their tents and go home. Mega-bucks bestsellers and blockbusting films were not made in the bargain basement. The studio could recoup this kind of investment with something shot over a weekend in somebody’s garage. Cooper’s career would be over before it started.

“He hasn’t signed yet. But I’m told that the terms are already agreed to verbally.”

“Any money change hands?”

“That I don’t know. But I don’t think so.”

“Then you know what they say about verbal agreements,” said Carla.

“What’s that?”

“Not worth the paper they’re written on. Let me look into it. I’ll get back to you.”

The dial tone barely had time to stutter and Carla was punching buttons. It rang once, twice, three times and the taped message came on. She waited. The message beep lasted for several seconds. Abby hadn’t cleared the earlier messages. Carla tried to piece it together. Abby must have called her from somewhere else—the studio in L.A.; Carla’s devious mind.

“Abby. This is Carla Owens. If you’re there, please pick up.” She waited for a moment. No answer.

“There’s something that’s come up that we have to discuss.” She waited again. Still no answer.

“Listen, it’s urgent. If you haven’t left already or if you clear this message, please call me. I repeat, it’s urgent. It doesn’t matter what time it is, just call.” She left phone numbers for her home, cell phone, and office on the tape.

She waited several more seconds hoping someone would pick it up. All she heard was the hiss of the tape as it turned inside the answering machine. What she couldn’t have known was that it lay buried under broken glass and the rotting remnants of food from Abby’s refrigerator. Still the message wasn’t without an audience. Sitting in the corner killing time, playing mumblety-peg with a pocketknife into one of the kitchen cabinet doors, Joey Jenrico was waiting for Theresa.

Abby stayed in L.A. the next day and worked with Jess, briefing him on the book. She would take the red-eye from L.A. to New York.

Theresa was staying with friends in southern California. She would be there for at least a week. Terry was treating it as a vacation with Abby’s encouragement and blessing, especially after their row with Joey at the motel. For a few days at least, Abby wouldn’t have to worry about her friend.

The plan was that Abby would meet Carla alone in New York and that together the two women would pick up Jess at the airport the following day, presumably coming in from Mexico. Jess would transfer planes in Dallas so there would be no way for Carla to trace his point of origin.

Abby was the advance team. Meeting Carla alone would give her time to find out if Owens had any surprises in store. She and Jess had set up a signal; she would get sick if there was something he should know. They could regroup at the hotel for strategy and meet with Owens again once they’d made adjustments to their story.

He seemed to have it down pat, all the answers on how he wrote the book, how the story line came to him, how he selected the pen name and the title, what he was doing down in Mexico and where. For this Abby had brought some maps and travel brochures. Jess was even prepared to offer a few titillating details about the sequel, the follow-up book that Abby was now working on.

Jess was a quick study and by the time she left for the airport Abby was confident that he could pull it off. On the way to LAX she took care of a little business. She made a telephone call to Charlie’s answering service and dropped an envelope in the mail. In the phone message she told Charlie that his credit card was in the mail. What she didn’t tell him was that before she mailed it, she booked two round-trip tickets to New York as well as rooms in a modest hotel not far from Carla Owens’s office using Charlie’s card. Then she took a cash advance against the card to pay for the rooms and meals. In terms of expenses, she was not yet even with Charlie for their marital debts, but it was a good down payment. She told him this in a note that she sent along with the card. He would be wasting his time if he tried to file charges. There were some things the criminal law did not handle well, among them ex-spouses fighting over money. Prosecutors usually wouldn’t get involved, and Charlie would know civil court was a loser. She’d clean his clock. After all, while the method of collection may have been unusual, the debt was valid.

Abby slept for most of the flight. She didn’t arrive at the hotel in Manhattan until after two in the morning. She paid cash for the room, followed the bellman with her bags upstairs to her room, and was asleep within twenty minutes.

The wake-up call came at seven the next morning. Abby rose and showered. She didn’t see it until she passed the closed door to her room the second time on her way from the bathroom to dress; a small white envelope on the floor. Someone had slipped it under the door in the middle of the night.

She opened it. Inside was a note on a hotel message slip scrawled in the hand of what she assumed was the clerk.

Ms. Chandlis: Sorry to do this to you at the last minute, but I won’t be able to make it to New York. Something has come up. I’ve made arrangements. Trust me. Everything will work out.

Jess.

The adrenaline raced through her body like molten lead. If he had been there at that moment, she would have killed him. “Trust me. Everything will work out.” He had the brains of a banana.

Abby had been warned by Morgan and Theresa, and even that little voice inside her conservative lawyer’s mind, not to trust a piece of beefcake with the dreams of her life. Now she was paying the price.

She had told Carla that he would be there the next day. If he didn’t show up, Owens would start to suspect that something was going on. If Abby came clean and told her that she had in fact written the book, Owens would never believe her. It’s the problem with coming clean after a lie, even the truth takes on the tinge of deceit.

Abby made a beeline for the phone. She called Jess’s number in Los Angeles. It rang four times and was cut off by the mechanical voice of an operator: “Your party is not answering. If you wish to leave a message, press the pound sign.”

Abby hit it so hard she broke a fingernail.

“Leave your message at the sound of the tone.”

“Listen, you son of a bitch. You made a deal. If you don’t get your ass back here I’ll wrap a lawsuit around your head like an iron mask. You won’t live long enough to pay off the judgment. Do you understand me? And don’t give me any excuses, just get your ass on a plane and get back here.”

Then she wondered whether by scaring him he might simply avoid her. It was something Charlie had told her in dealing with his special breed of clients. The first instinct of every flake is to run. She softened her tone a little. “Wait, Jess. I’m sorry. I’m upset. I just want you to call me. I mean it. If there’s a problem, we can work it out, but call me.” She left the phone number at the hotel and hung up, then sat by the phone and waited.

An hour went by. There was no response. She rubbed sleep from her eyes and looked at the red light on the phone. She cupped it with her hand to make sure. Maybe he’d called and left a message and they hadn’t put it through. But the light was not on.

She called the front desk. No messages.

By now his plane would have left L.A. Jess was not coming, and Abby knew it. She saw her life going up in flames. She had spent two years writing a novel to die for, and now all of her work as well as her dreams were being undone by some Hollywood jock. She had visions of Jess lying in bed with some starlet bimbo, figuring ways to convert Abby’s plane ticket into a trip to Vegas for two.

There was nothing she could do. She looked at her watch.

It was now eight o’clock. She was scheduled to meet Owens downstairs in half an hour for breakfast to talk, before they went to pick up Gable Cooper at the airport. Gable who was not coming.

There was no sense prolonging the pain. She picked up the receiver and punched Carla’s office number. If she couldn’t get her, perhaps her staff could head her off before she got to the hotel. Abby had no desire to meet with her, or to talk.

The phone was answered almost before it had a chance to even ring. The voice was exuberant, high-pitched.

“Hello.”

“Who is this?” Abby thought she’d dialed the wrong number.

“Who are you trying to reach?”

“I was calling Owens and Associates.”

“Abby, is that you?” It was Carla herself. “I’m glad you got in. Did you get any sleep?”

“Not much.”

“Listen, if you’re tired we can push everything back a few hours.”

“That’s what I wanted to call you about. There’s been a problem. It’s Gable . . .”

“Oh, listen, darling. He’s everything you’d said he would be, and more. We’ve been having a wonderful time here in the office talking.”

“What?”

“We’ve been visiting for the past hour. I guess you guys must have messed up on the flight arrivals. He came in by taxi early this morning and my service called me. We’ve had breakfast and have been talking ever since. Oh. And by the way, disregard that message I left on your answering machine. Somebody got their wires crossed. We’ll get to the bottom of it when you come in. How long are you going to be?”

Abby was dazed, confused. Maybe the note was a mistake. It felt like a reprieve from the hangman. She looked at her watch, and then at the mirror. She was a mess.

“Give me forty minutes.”

“Good. See you then, darling.” With that, Owens hung up in her ear. It seemed Carla had what she wanted.