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Lincoln stares at the computer screen in disbelief. Wendt was the first editor hired by Duddleston. He didn’t come up with a lot of interesting books, but he had connections in academia, and he could provide the slog of an edit to convert a professor’s manuscript into something approaching readability. And his books sold steadily. Every now and then, Lincoln checked the numbers, and in fact, cumulatively, Wendt’s books notched more sales each year than did Lincoln’s.
What has happened? Lincoln has no one to ask. Wendt himself was the only gossip in the company. As comptroller, Matt Breeson must have some insight, but he’d never betray his vows of discretion. And as for Duddleston—Lincoln can’t imagine asking his Presbyterian boss, who considers personal privacy the cornerstone of the country’s founding principles and who conducts his business, and his life, on a need-to-know basis. Lincoln briefly thinks about calling up Amy, who might have picked up some intelligence sitting outside the owner’s office, but her cubicle is just feet away from the desk of the loyal Mrs. Macintosh. Lincoln has no choice but to suppress his curiosity and get back to work.
An hour or so later, another e-mail arrives from the owner. In this one, the entire message is contained in the subject field: “Pls stop down.” Lincoln immediately assumes the worst. So that’s the way the word arrives—in the banal shorthand of officespeak. Duddleston must be picking off his editors one by one. Maybe the owner has suffered a sudden setback and now he’s cleaning house. Is this the end of Pistakee? Lincoln prolongs his agony for a few minutes, wandering the Web, scanning the news on Jim Romenesko’s media site, trying to distract himself and slow his heartbeat. Finally Lincoln does some deep breathing exercises and makes the Dead Man Walking march down to Duddleston’s office. Just outside, Amy looks up at him and silently signals doom with her face. “Go right in,” says Mrs. Macintosh solemnly.
Duddleston commands from a large, carpeted western-facing corner office, the scene of a constant war between the afternoon sun (here the building’s renovators have replaced the portholes with wide windows) and tall, fusty shelves of Duddleston’s first editions and favorite books. In winter’s low light, the room can resemble a London men’s club of Edwardian vintage. But on sunny days like today, even with the shades drawn, the relentless brightness reminds Lincoln of a hospital operating room. Duddleston sits at his desk, the taut, athletic body firmly erect. “Come in,” he tells Lincoln. “Close the door.”
Lincoln follows orders and takes a seat in an Aeron chair across the desk from his boss.
“You saw my note about Arthur?” Duddleston asks.
Lincoln nods.
“I need you to take on his books, at least until we can bring in someone else.”
Lincoln blinks. Suddenly, the overbright office transforms from the clinical setting for a risky and perhaps fatal surgical procedure to a sunlit meadow on a lovely spring day.
“I know you’ve already got a lot on your plate, particularly crashing the Lemke book,” Duddleston goes on. “But you’re the only one who can handle this kind of work. It’s not really Hazel’s métier.”
“I can do it!” Lincoln chirps. (Of course he can—he can do anything, as long as he still has a job!)
Duddleston bathes him in a patronizing smile, and the thought crosses Lincoln’s mind that he’s squandered a tactical opportunity—that perhaps he should have held out a bit, acted slightly beleaguered (finagled for a raise? a title change?). But the moment passes as the two men discuss the status of the two books Wendt has on the fall list and the handful that lie in the pipeline. By taking on Wendt’s projects on top of Wrigley Field and Walking Tours, among other things, Lincoln realizes he’s facing a frenzied autumn—where will he get the time to edit Amy’s novel?
“I’ll start looking for a replacement for Arthur immediately,” Duddleston promises, perhaps sensing Lincoln’s concern. “And if you have any candidates, don’t hesitate to steer them my way.”
“About Arthur,” Lincoln says, then pauses, hoping Duddleston will take the bait and explain what happened. After a silence, Lincoln adds obliquely, “This was very sudden.”
Duddleston fusses with papers on his desk, signaling the audience is over. “These personnel matters are never easy,” he says, looking away. “The part of this business I like least.”
“I understand,” Lincoln consoles and takes his leave.
At about six that evening, after the rest of the office has cleared out and Lincoln is packing his briefcase, the phone rings. “It’s me,” says Amy. Lincoln can tell by the faint throb in the connection that she’s calling from a cell.
“Do you know what happened?” he asks.
“You can’t tell anyone. Byron would fire me in an instant.”
“Of course I won’t.”
Amy pauses, takes a breath. “Sexual harassment. Arthur kept hitting on Kim.”
Lincoln lets out a low whistle.
“Really,” Amy continues. “He never did anything—just lurked. She used to complain to me about it, but I figured, grow up, the world is full of creeps. But apparently Arthur said something to her last week, and Kim went to Mrs. Macintosh.”
“What did he say?”
“I don’t know. I’m sure it was innocuous—he probably complimented her on her figure, or something. And she does have a nice figure. I mean,
give the guy a break—he’s got a wife and two kids.”
“Whew.” Lincoln sighs into the phone.
“Yeah.” Amy waits, then says carefully, “Byron doesn’t fool around.”
Lincoln gets her meaning exactly.
On his way out of the building a few minutes later, Lincoln’s curiosity leads him to detour past Wendt’s office. The room is already bare, Gettysburg after the battle. Bookshelves emptied, family pictures gone. Lincoln thinks of a cheap motel room whose endless string of weary visitors leave no trace.
