The Pink Ghetto (10 page)

I put the dog down, then crossed my arms. “Aren’t you tired?”

“God, no. I slept all day. You look beat, though.”

“Well, I’ve been at work all day, while…” I couldn’t help staring at Wendy, who was sticking a pair of barber scissors down into the mouth of the toaster. It wasn’t plugged in, but still, it seemed odd. “What are you doing?”

Never taking her eyes off the task at hand, she said, “There’s a sizable chunk of bagel in the bottom of the toaster. If it’s left there, it could start a fire.”

“How did you find it?”

“What do you mean? It was in the toaster.”

“I know, but what made you look?”

Wendy’s voice rose in exasperation. “I was
cleaning
it.”

Fleishman and I exchanged glances. It was amazing, really, the things Wendy thought to do. It probably had something to do with all those home shows she watched on television. She was addicted to those, which was weird for someone who didn’t even have a closet to call her own.

As she surgically removed the old bagel chunk, Fleishman pulled a manuscript out of one of the tote bags and flipped through the pages as if it were one of those animation books from when we were kids. “This looks long.”

They all seemed long to me.

“Can I read it?” he asked.

“Why would you do that?”

He lifted his shoulders. “After this past week, I feel I have a stake in your career. Plus, I just like reading these books. It’s opened up a whole new world. Romance novel world.”

I tilted my head. “Well, just be careful. Don’t spill Red Bull all over anything. They have to go back to the authors.”

His eyes widened. “What if you want to buy it?”

I could feel my lip twisting in doubt. “That’s a long shot.”

“Got it!” Wendy cried. Sure enough, at the tip of her scissors was a sizable piece of bagel that now looked like a miniature charcoal briquette. She squinted at it more closely, then looked sidewise at me. “Aren’t you the one partial to sesame seeds?”

Caught!
“I didn’t realize it fell down there.” I couldn’t even remember the last time I had toasted a bagel.

“This little piece could have sent the whole apartment up in flames,” she lectured me.

I sank down in my chair, feeling like an inadvertent arsonist.

Fleishman scooted back on the couch to get comfy with his chosen manuscript. “I’m going to strike gold, I know it. I think I have a real knack for this job.”

“But it’s not your job,” Wendy pointed out.

The look she shot me contained some kind of warning, but honestly, I couldn’t see the harm in letting Fleishman read a slush manuscript.

I
fell asleep in the middle of something called
Special Delivery,
about a male obstetrician who falls in love with one of his patients. I saw several problems with this. First, there was a meet-cute where a doctor described as having bright red hair delivers a baby on a bus. I was imagining labor pains and Danny Bonaduce on the crosstown local. Would anyone find that appealing?

I got most hung up on the whole male obstetrician thing. What kind of guy decides he wants to spend his days measuring women’s cervixes and giving episiotomies?

Of course, there was the miracle of birth…

But there were also those episiotomies.

Was I the only person in the world wigged out by this?

Somewhere around chapter three, I sank down on the futon, closed my eyes, and never managed to come to again until four
AM
, when I crawled into my own bed. I could hear the sounds of Fleishman snoring softly in his corner of the apartment. I wondered how long it had taken him to give up his quest for gold.

The moment my head hit the pillow I was out again.

The next thing I knew, sun was squinting in through the open window blinds and Fleishman was towering over me with a cup of coffee. “You’d better hurry, or you’ll be late.”

I sat up and took the mug from him, with thanks. It was a Ziggy mug we had found at a thrift store one Saturday and for some reason had thought hilarious. Now it sort of reminded me of Mary Jo’s Cathy mug; it was probably of an even older vintage.

“I struck gold,” Fleishman announced.

I laughed. “Could you possibly have found anything more scintillating than
Special Delivery?
”

He wasn’t joining me in my mirth. “I found something that will make you.”

“Make me what?”

“Make your career,” he said. “And frankly, I’m beginning to wonder if you even deserve it. From your reaction, I feel like I’m casting my pearls before swine.”

“It’s seven
AM
.”

“You’ve really got to read it, Rebecca. It’s
sooo
good! It gave me goosebumps, especially at the end.”

I frowned. “You read the whole thing last night?”

“Of course. You were out like a light at nine, but I stayed up well past midnight.”

I groaned. I was supposed to get so much done last night, but instead I ended up zonked out. Now I was going to have to drag all those manuscripts back to the office unread.

Cassie had probably been up all night finding the next big thing.

“I really was scared,” he said.

“About what?”

He let out an impatient sigh. “Earth to Rebecca—I’m talking about the book. According to the attached cover letter, it was intended for the Pulse line, but aren’t those supposed to be short books?”

I nodded.

“Well, this thing clocked in at five hundred pages. But they were five hundred of the best pages you’ll ever read.”

That was a pretty bold statement. I think Fleishman was just engaging in a little fantastical wishful thinking.

“What was it called?”

“
Heartstopper.
”

“Hm.”

“It’s got the creepiest villain,” he said excitedly, “and the heroine is this scientist who’s working with a cop to find out why all these patients are dying in the ER.”

“Hm.”

“And then she meets this hotshot surgeon, and for a while you think he’s the ER menace. But of course he’s wicked gorgeous and our lady scientist has the hots for him.”

I had to admit, it sounded better than clown-headed obstetricians on public transportation.

I showered and dressed, then headed out the door, weighed down with the same burden from last night. I had been thinking of getting a briefcase like the soft-sided leather one Ann from the office carried around, but now I wondered whether it wouldn’t be wiser to purchase a steamer trunk with wheels.

Luck was with me that morning. I managed to get a plum seat on the subway—next to a window even, so I wasn’t stuck in a middle seat wedged awkwardly between two thighs. I reached into the tote and pulled out a manuscript. It was
Heartstopper.
Fleishman had written up all his notes and placed them under the rubber band that held the thing together.

Great! Needs cutting, but pacing is terrif. Compelling characters and suspense. 2 thumbs up! (Heroine’s name is Eloise…shd probably be changed???)

I looked at the author’s name. Joanna Castle. It sounded fake. I’ll have to admit, I was skeptical of everything about this book, even after Fleishman’s sales pitch. Or maybe because of it. This didn’t even sound like that much of a romance, and it was way too long for Pulse.

Sighing, I started page one.

The ambulance screamed through the yellow twilight of street-lamps. Inside, on the gurney, a woman was dying.

Within moments, I was hooked. Honestly. The train clattered in its usual stop-start fashion, but I didn’t notice any delays. In fact, I didn’t even notice when we arrived at Delancey Street, where I was supposed to switch trains. I didn’t look up from what I was reading until we had already reached Wall Street, and by then I was screwed. I was doubling back into Brooklyn.

I leapt out of the seat and jumped off the train. The doors nicked my rear as they closed.

Two train changes, thirty minutes, and two chapters later, I had managed to get myself uptown.

I hurried to the office, forgetting to stop for a bagel. I wasn’t hungry anyway. I just wanted to know what was in Eloise’s test tube…and if it would implicate the hottie surgeon she’d just had sex with.

As I wheeled into the office, Muriel flagged me down. “Good morning, Rebecca. You have a message.”

“Oh.” I found my name on the wheely deal and pulled out a pink message slip. Dan Weatherby had called.

Suddenly, I forgot about the test tube.

“It appears that you have been busy,” Muriel said.

I looked up. She was staring at me expectantly. It took me a moment to register that she was making small talk. “Oh, right. I took some books home last night.”

“Mercedes said you seem like a real go-getter.”

I grunted. I wondered what Dan Weatherby wanted.

“Rebecca?”

I looked back up at Muriel. “I’m sorry?”

“I asked if you would care to go to lunch today? I have a coupon for Bombay Palace, which has a fairly extensive buffet you might care to try if you haven’t already.”

“Oh…” I couldn’t think of any reason not to go to lunch, except for the fact that I really wanted to get back to
Heartstopper.
But maybe I would be finished by then. “Okay.”

“Wonderful.” She handed me another pink slip.

“What’s this?”

“I wrote down the time you should meet me here. My break is from noon to one sharp.”

I nodded. She really had written it down, including checking off the appropriate boxes of the pre-written menu provided on the slip.
Reminder of appointment,
it said.

Damn, she was efficient.

As I was walking back to my office, it occurred to me that she must have had the slip filled out before I had even gotten off the elevator.

I called Dan Weatherby. “I’m so sorry I haven’t gotten back to you about the
Pursuing Paula
cover.”

“I’m sorry, too,” he said. “If only because I’ve missed hearing the dulcet tones of your voice.”

I laughed, but I had to admit that a little thrill went through me. I had to ask Andrea about this guy. I was curious to know pertinent facts…like what he looked like and did he have a wife.

“I called to ask about a book by Joanna Castle.”

I nearly fell out of my chair. “Is she your client?” If she was, what had she been doing in the slush pile?

“I just acquired her. She’s written a book…I believe it’s been buried in your office for quite some time.”

“
Heartstopper!
” I couldn’t help sounding enthusiastic. “I’m reading it right now.”

We discussed the book for a little bit, and I tried to reign in my gushing a little. I would have to run it by Rita, after all. What if she didn’t like it? I liked to think that she couldn’t disagree with both Fleishman and me, but of course she didn’t know who the hell Fleishman was.

Anyway, I told Dan Weatherby that I hoped to be getting back to him soon.

“I hope so, too,” he purred at me before ringing off.

It took a few moments for my pulse to calm down before I could settle down to reading again.

The morning flew. Before I knew what was what, my phone rang.

“It’s after twelve,” Muriel announced in my ear.

I looked up at the clock. It was two minutes after twelve. What the hell was she talking about? Then I remembered. The buffet at Bombay Palace! I jumped up, nearly spilling the last chapter of the manuscript on the floor. I scrambled to keep it all together, then ended up losing the receiver.

By the time I picked up again, Muriel sounded impatient. “Naturally if you are busy, I will understand that you cannot take the time to have lunch today.”

“No!” I wanted to finish the book, it was true. But my stomach was also rumbling like crazy. I hadn’t had anything but coffee all morning. “I’ll be right there.”

In what I could only guess was deference to Muriel’s schedule (and my tardiness) we sped-walked the three blocks to Bombay Palace. Soon I found myself seated in front of a plate of tandoori chicken and across the table from those unblinking eyes. I struggled to come up with something to say. I failed.

I started scarfing down food and was just to the point of wondering how I could make a second trip to the buffet without looking like a complete glutton when I noticed that Muriel wasn’t eating at all.

“Aren’t you hungry?” I asked.

“Actually, Rebecca, I don’t care for Indian food.”

I frowned. “I thought…” Well, it was hard to know what to think. I mean, she had picked the restaurant.

“I just had this two-for-one coupon and thought it might be a nice opportunity to speak to you.”

“Oh.” I put my fork down. “Okay.”

“To be perfectly honest, Rebecca, the reason I want to speak to you is on behalf of a friend. She’s written a book.”

I frowned at a little heap of curried eggplant on my plate. “You want me to read it?”

“Could you?” Muriel asked. “Would you? My friend Melissa keeps pressuring me to give her advice because I work at Candlelight, even though I persist in telling her that I am a receptionist, not an editor.”

“Do you have the manuscript?”

“It’s back at the office.”

She didn’t have to drag me out to lunch to ask me to read a book. I almost told her that, but then decided it might be impolitic. At any rate, she didn’t argue when I insisted on splitting the bill for the two-for-one buffet.

I was impatient to get back to the last chapter. I made a beeline for my office, shut the door, and finished
Heartstopper.
Then I typed up a report for Rita and trotted the project across the hall. When I plopped the five hundred page manuscript in front of her, she frowned. “What’s that?
War and Peace?
”

“You’ll want to read it,” I said. “It could change everything.”