ONE

Abby Chandlis was approaching her middle years and suffered the anxiety of nearly every woman—that she would not age gracefully.

This morning the image in the mirror did nothing to diminish this fear. Her hair looked like something left in the aftermath of a tornado, spikes in every direction. Even with the fine features of her face, a few lines had begun to creep under her eyes. She was a candle burning at both ends.

She stood five-six, slender, and approached mid-life with the velocity of an earth-bound meteor, sharing a sense of its common destiny. Abby was beginning to feel like a burnt offering in a culture where youth is the state religion.

On top of it all, this morning she was late for work. By the muted light of the bedside lamp, Abby groped in her dark closet for something to throw on. She grabbed the first thing that felt warm and long. She had no court calls today, just a pile of paper on her desk.

She flung the flowing peasant dress over her head and slipped the Birkenstocks on over a thick pair of red cotton socks. It wasn’t stylish, but it kept out the chill of the cold winter winds of western Washington—short days and long dark nights.

It took her nearly forty minutes to traverse the seven miles between home and work during rush hour. She huddled in her office on the seventeenth floor, a skyscraper pitched on a hill over Elliot Bay. She had a partial view of the Seattle skyline to the south, and if she leaned with her face close to the glass she could see the edge of the Space Needle in the distance.

She was pushing papers on her desk when the com-line rang.

“Yes.”

“A woman out here to see you.”

“I left a message not to be disturbed.”

“She’s very insistent. Something about a book.”

Suddenly Abby felt the blood drain from her head. Who would come to her here at her office?

“Who is it?”

“I didn’t get a name. You want me to ask?”

Abby thought for a moment. “No. Give me two minutes, then send her back.” Abby didn’t need them talking about the book at the firm. She glanced down and realized that she wasn’t dressed for this.

She grabbed the small mirror and lipstick from the second drawer of her desk.

A few seconds later there was a light rap on the door and it opened. Abby ditched the lipstick and mirror.

“Ms. Chandlis?” The female voice that inquired was not familiar, but still it raised tiny hairs on the nape of Abby’s neck.

“Yes.”

The woman was tall, well dressed, and carried an expensive leather briefcase. She made her way across the office and held out her hand. “I’m Carla Owens. You spoke with my office last week.”

Abby’s jaw went slack. She stood there staring at the woman with a vacant expression. It took her a moment before she collected herself.

“Oh yeah. Sure.” She smiled brightly as a wave of apprehension washed over her. Then absently she wiped her hands on the skirt of her long peasant dress and reached out to take the other woman’s hand.

“Can we talk here or is there somewhere else?” said Owens.

“This is fine. Please. Sit down.” Abby pointed to one of the client chairs.

As Owens adjusted herself in the chair, Abby fidgeted with her appearance. The premature graying wisps at her temple, and the long shapeless dress over Birkenstocks, offered the picture of some earth mother off the prairie. Abby smoothed her hair in hopes that somehow this might improve the image. She wished that perhaps she’d had a court call so she’d dressed better.

“You probably think I’m foolish to have come all this way especially after the call from my office?”

Abby said nothing but gave a tilt of the head, an indication that the thought had crossed her mind.

In her most frenzied fantasies Abby had never imagined that Owens would show up here. Five days ago her office had called Abby’s house looking for Gable Cooper. Abby had told them that he was out of town and that she would have him call as soon as he returned. She figured she had bought some time, at least enough to find Cooper. Now what she had set in motion was suddenly careening out of control, and for Abby there was no way back.

Carla Owens was one of most powerful literary agents in New York. She performed marketing magic for the written word. The hottest book deals on earth passed through her fingers. She represented presidents, people who wrote romances, and more recently the pope, of whom it was said it was easier to obtain an audience with than with Carla herself.

Protruding from the top of Owens’s briefcase was a package that Abby recognized, a large FedEx envelope that had traveled many miles and showed the wear.

“Actually I was traveling in the area. So I thought I’d stop in and say hello.”

“Where are you headed?” asked Abby.

“Oh, just up from L.A., on some business. On my way back to New York.”

The woman’s idea of traveling in the area was a triangle that spanned the country. She was in hot pursuit of Cooper and Abby knew it.

“I just thought I’d take a chance and drop in,” said Owens. She looked around as if she was half expecting to see some sign of the man.

“I didn’t know you were a lawyer,” said Owens.

“Hmm. I guess I forgot to mention it.”

“Is Mr. Cooper a client?”

“Just a friend.”

This seemed to please her.

“Is he in town?”

“No.”

This did not.

“I told you on the phone he’s traveling.”

“I took the chance that he might be back by now.”

“I’m sorry you went out of your way,” said Abby. “I told your office he would call.”

Owens offered a deep sigh as if her trip was for naught, spread her elbows on the desk, and smiled at Abby.

“How about some coffee?” said Abby. “The least I can offer you after coming all this way.”

“Sure.”

Abby went outside and got two cups of coffee. When she came back in Owens had removed the large package from her briefcase and had it on the desk in front of her, still in the bright red and blue envelope that Abby had used to send it off nearly two weeks before.

“It’s magic,” said Owens. She looked up at Abby.

“There’s something absolutely beguiling about a man who can write in such a seductive voice. And the way he gets inside the female mind,” said Owens. She rolled her eyes. “It’s very important that I talk to him. The sooner the better.”

Owens wasn’t exactly sure how much to tell this woman. As little as possible was the general rule. The agent’s credo.

“I take it Mr. Cooper asked you to send the manuscript tome?”

Abby swallowed hard. In her mind this was the literary equivalent of war, and in every war truth was the first victim. “Right,” said Abby.

“If you don’t represent him, do you mind my asking what you do?”

“Some typing. A little editing. Sometimes we talk about ideas.”

Owens was fishing. She was trying to find out if Abby was someone important in Gable Cooper’s life. If she wasn’t his lawyer, where did she fit?

She measured the woman. Abby was to the late side of thirty, but not unattractive. There was a possibility for beauty, but she had obviously taken no pains with her appearance. Owens was forming a picture in her mind. A little editing, the occasional back rub, a long night of work that might turn into an indolent morning of slumber. It was possible that they were lovers.

“Then you collaborate with him?”

“I don’t know if I’d go so far as to say that.”

Owens offered a smile that made evident what she was thinking.

“Let’s just say we’re friends. We spend time together. When he leaves he tells me where he’s going, and he usually comes back.”

“I see.” Suddenly Carla’s face was a curling smile. Abby was someone to contend with. Perhaps the trip wasn’t wasted after all. If she couldn’t bend Cooper’s ear, Abby was the next best thing.

The two women huddled over their cups taking stock of each other.

“Do you know where Mr. Cooper is?” Maybe Owens could run him down herself.

“Last I heard Mexico.”

“Big area.”

“Somewhere down by Cancún.”

That was smaller. Should she try for the name of a town? Owens wasn’t sure. “Is he at a resort?”

“No. Gable hates those places. People around pools all baking on cement. He’s into remote areas. He’s out in the Yucatán someplace. Beating the weeds.” This clearly put him out of touch.

Owens took a sip of coffee and considered the next question.

“What’s he doing down there?”

“Gathering color for the next book.”

“He has another in the works?”

Abby nodded.

“Like this one?” Owens touched the package on the table in front of her as if it possessed healing properties.

Abby nodded again.

“It’s vital that I talk to him,” said Owens. “Could we try to reach him? Maybe tonight? I’d be happy to hold over. Pay for the call.”

Abby shook her head. “No. No. That would be a waste of time. It’ll take a number of phone calls to run him down. If he’s where I think he is, there’s no phone in the area. Besides, when he’s working, he doesn’t like to be disturbed.”

“Believe me,” said Owens, “when he hears what I have to say, he’ll want to be disturbed.”

Abby looked at the woman over her coffee mug.

“Is there a publisher interested in his manuscript?” The lawyer bearing down.

“You might say that. But the details I have to give to Mr. Cooper directly.”

“I see.” Abby had blown it, deviated from her planned cover story. Owens had surprised her by showing up here in her office. If Abby represented Cooper as a lawyer, she could have demanded answers. Now Owens had smoked out of her that they had no legal relationship. It was as if Abby were being denied a key to her own safe deposit box. She would have to produce Gable Cooper before she could find out what was in it.

“Does he do this often?” asked Owens.

Abby gave her a questioning look.

“Mr. Cooper. Does he disappear like this very often?”

“Sometimes.”

“How long is he usually gone?”

“Depends. Sometimes a month, sometimes more.”

Owens said something under her breath that sounded a lot like “shit.”

“Somebody must be able to get in touch with him.”

Owens should have been the lawyer. Every answer gave birth to another question. “What if there was an emergency? Doesn’t he have family?”

Abby raised her eyes in thought. Shrugged her shoulders. “I think there’s a sister somewhere down in California, but Gable never talks about her much.” If Abby had a special gift, it was the ability to create.

“Do you have her name or number?”

Abby shook her head.

“You think her name might be on his Rolodex?” She was now suggesting prying into Cooper’s private places.

“Gable keeps all his notes, including phone numbers, on scraps of paper in his pockets. Organization is not his middle name.”

Owens seemed to accept this without question.

“Is that real?” she asked.

“What?”

“His name?”

Abby considered for a moment, then fessed up. “It’s a pen name.” She shrugged. “He likes classic movies. The golden age. His two favorite actors.” She offered an expression that said, “Childish, but what can I say?”

“I thought so. What’s his real name?”

“Oh no.” Abby started to shake her head, first gently and then with more conviction. “I can’t tell you that. Not until after I talk to him. I know he would be very angry if I did.”

Owens had checked Books in Print and a number of other sources to see if the name Gable Cooper showed up as authoring other works. It didn’t.

Abby’s reluctance to tell her his name fed a theory that Owens had been nurturing, a reason why the author might not want his true name to be known. If the theory was correct, the manuscript was worth vastly more than any of them figured.

“Tell me a little about him?” Owens played for time and information, a slip of the tongue.

“What’s to tell?”

“How old is he? Is he good-looking?”

Though Owens didn’t notice, Abby’s eyes for a fleeting instant drew a dark, cold bead. The agent had wandered onto dangerous ground. Abby now knew with certainty that she had done the right thing.

“Is that important?”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong. The book is wonderful. I’m sure we can find an enthusiastic publisher.”

“But if Gable is good-looking it helps?” said Abby.

Owens’s face was a million expressions, all of them adding up to the word “yes.”

“For television, and print ads, it’s a consideration. It helps,” she said. “Please don’t misunderstand, we’re interested in talent, and the book’s a great read . . .”

“But a little beefcake doesn’t hurt.” Abby said this in a frank fashion, smiling, woman-to-woman. She might dress like a peasant, but she wasn’t one.

Owens gave her a face of concession, winked at her over the coffee mug, and they both laughed. The ridges in Abby’s cheeks as she did this were hard as steel.

“You know I’m not exactly sure how old he is. It’s not something he talks about. We’ve had a couple of birthday parties for him, but he’ll never tell us how many candles.”

“Sounds like a state secret,” said Owens.

“Chalk it up to vanity,” said Abby.

“What do you think, fifty?” Owens dipped her toe in this pool of uncertainty hoping she wouldn’t have to go deeper.

“No. No. Late thirties, early forties tops.”

Relief blossomed on the agent’s face.

“Has he ever been married?” She was nibbling around the edges.

“Twice.” This would mean that at least two women thought he was enough of a catch to go after.

“Good-looking?” Finally she stepped in it.

“Very. In fact, he’s done a little modeling, years ago,” said Abby.

Owens’s eyes grew like two oval saucers. “Any pictures?”

Without thinking, Abby had dug herself another hole.

“I’m sure there are some. Unfortunately, I don’t have them. I’m sure as soon as he gets back he’ll be happy to send them to you.”

Owens probed for a little more description.

“Dark. About six feet,” said Abby.

“Sounds like a Ken doll,” said Owens.

“Ken dolls don’t look dangerous,” said Abby.

“Really?”

“And very well spoken. Articulate,” said Abby.

“Speaks as he writes?” said Owens.

“You could say that.”

A growing satisfaction spread across the agent’s face. The trip was not in vain after all.

“I can’t wait to see the real item,” said Owens.

“In the flesh, so to speak,” said Abby.

“So to speak.”

Both women laughed. Abby a little louder this time.

By now, Owens was running up a dead end. No Cooper, and no way to get in touch with him, except through this woman who wasn’t telling her much.

“Abby. Can I call you Abby?” Owens suddenly had one hand across the desk on top of Abby’s as if to impress upon her the significance of the moment.

“I assume that you know a little about my agency? I mean, being a lawyer and all, you checked us out?”

In fact, Abby knew a lot—everything she could find on the Internet. She knew, for example, that the agency had ties with one of the institutional talent shops in Hollywood, which in turn had under contract some of the largest box-office stars in film. Mass entertainment had become a vast communal meal served up in package deals by agencies that controlled every aspect of the business. If you could get your nose under that tent, you could draw up a chair and sit at the table. The manuscript had not landed at Owens and Associates by accident.

“I know a little,” she lied.

“We’re very selective. We take only a very few clients. I usually have fewer than a dozen. All very big.” She dropped some names, authors who if they sneezed left the entire publishing industry with a cold.

“Ordinarily we don’t take people unless they already have a proven track record. At least three or four major bestsellers to their credit.”

“That must be very nice for you,” said Abby.

Owens gave her a smile. The two women were talking the same language.

“Because of our contacts, the influence of my agency, we are usually able to take these authors to that next higher level.” What Owens meant was into the stratosphere where books sales and movie deals grew by geometric progression.

“What I’m saying is that based upon what I’ve read”—Owens tapped the package on the table—”we might be able to leverage your friend into an extremely favorable position.” Owens arched an eyebrow waiting for a reply.

“I see.” Abby sat sipping her coffee contemplating the good fortune of her friend, leverage being what it is in life. Owens fished in her briefcase for something.

“I’m going to be back in my office tomorrow, in New York.” Then she reached across the table and pressed several business cards into Abby’s hand as if she should paper the walls of her office with these lest she forget the agent’s number.

“My phone number.” She pointed to it on one of the cards.

“Do you think you might be able to find Mr. Cooper for me quickly? Time is of the essence. There are opportunities being offered, and if we don’t act quickly they may be gone. Do you understand?”

What Owens was worried about were her opportunities, the stream of sharks, other agents, who would swim in if word got out that Cooper was unrepresented.

“I can try,” said Abby.

“Do better than that. You’ve got to find him. It’s important. To his career. To his life. From this moment on we’re a team, Abby. You and I. You find him, and I’ll represent him.”

Rah, thought Abby. Am I in for a commission? If Owens had an article of Cooper’s old clothing, she would have rubbed it under Abby’s nose at this moment.

“Oh, he’ll come back,” said Abby.

“Yes, but will it be in time?” said Owens.

“Maybe if you told me what this was about? How long do I have?”

“Every moment is important. I can’t tell you any more than that. But believe me, it’s the biggest deal of his fife. I hope you understand.”

Having fanned anxiety, Owens buckled up her briefcase and slipped out of the chair. “It is important. You know that much.” She shook Abby’s hand and headed for the door. When she reached it she turned and waved, a big glossy smile.

“Your Mr. Cooper sounds fascinating. I can’t wait to meet him.” With that she was out the door, closing it behind her so that she didn’t hear Abby’s last comment.

“Sweetheart, that makes two of us.”