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?“Sure, babe,” Jeff said, and put down his briefcase on the way into my tight kitchen. I always believed that it was supposed to be a hallway that some crazy contractor made into a kitchen when the apartment got subdivided sometime in the ancient past, long before we moved in. Then, years later, the building went condo, which gave me a chance to buy my own apartment for an outrageous sum, as well as continue to pay rent, though it was now called “condo fees.” It was the only apartment I’d ever had in New York City.
?Jeff turned on the blower in the hood over the range, lit his cigarette, and took a long hard drag that relaxed him at once.
?“Meetings all morning,” Jeff said, his words highlighted with pale smoke. “Couldn’t smoke at all. I tell you, a couple more laws and I’ll move to Canada. I can get marijuana on any street corner, but tobacco will be illegal.”
?“To what do I owe the pleasure?” I asked.
?“Checking up on you, babe,” Jeff said, and took another drag. “I see you are still wearing your stylish outfit.”
?He looked at me from head to toe, and took in my pajamas, bathrobe, and worn slippers.
?“I am wearing different pajamas since your last visit, and I did shave, last Tuesday or Wednesday,” I sassed. I felt a little vexed. If I wanted to stay in my damn pajamas all day, it wasn’t any of his business.
?He blew a well-aimed burst of nicotine-laced vapor into the blower and gazed at the floor.
?“Babe,” he said quietly. “It’s been two years—”
?“Christ, Jeff,” I responded, my voice loud. “I don’t need a damn cuckoo clock—”
?“I’m worried about you, all right?” Jeff shot back. His voice exceeded mine easily. In spite of his cigarette habit, all those years he’d spent as an actor still gave him excellent vocal control.
?“I’m fine,” I said, and rubbed my face. This was what it was like every time Jeff showed up. “Please don’t start on that, ‘Susie wouldn’t want this’ crap, okay?”
?“I get it!” Jeff conceded. “I’ve tried to talk to you as a friend. I won’t do that today.”
?“Good.”
?“Today I am here strictly as your agent.” Jeff crushed out his cigarette. He stormed over to his briefcase, loudly put it on the table, and opened it. “Your last hardcover, The Crime Of The Casual Crook, was published over two years ago, and the follow-up paperback stopped being printed six months ago.”
?“So, no new royalties will be forthcoming,” I agreed. “I’ve put enough away. I don’t have to worry.”
?“Look, Mark,” Jeff went on with that I-know-this-game tone he adopts when he wants to wheedle something out of me, “you know the publishing business as well as I do. Unless you come out with a book every year, you’re sunk. Publish or die.”
?“Unless you’re John Updike,” I pointed out.
?“Even he couldn’t get away with it in this market,” Jeff quipped. “Look, you struggled for so many years with books that didn’t take off—good reviews but no sales.”
?“And you got me editing deals on those anthologies,” I affirmed. “I know it, and I appreciate—”
?“You finally hit it with the Sherlock Holmes books—approved by the Conan Doyle estate—and I don’t have to tell you, that took a lot of negotiations.“
?I exhaled heavily. “I know.”
?Jeff was about to go into his ten-minute song and dance about how much tougher it is these days, and how there used to be a lot more money and a lot less competition and so on. I’ve heard it all before, and it just annoys me.
?Jeff’s a good agent, and the need to persuade and cajole authors is part of his job. Authors tend to be lazy animals, unless we need the cash.
?He just didn’t understand. Susie was more than a wife. She was my editor, as well as my number one fan.
?I wrote the Sherlock Holmes stories for her.
?She was the biggest Conan Doyle fan on earth. It was a delight to watch her face as she read my novels and enjoyed every morsel like a fine meal.
?I’d tried to tell Jeff that the idea of writing another book, another Holmes book, would just be too hard if I couldn’t see her brown eyes peer at me over her glasses, and her insights into my characterizations.
?“Look, Jeff,” I blurted out. “I can’t do it. Not right now. I’ve…tried…really I have. But all I can produce is junk of the worst order.”
?“Babe,” he continued, “you’ve got to keep trying. For Chrissake, you’re a great writer. And a great writer should write!”
