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for two books. That’s what we’re celebrating.”
    They seemed to turn to stone right before his eyes. He thought about Lot’s wife . . . but, no, that was a pillar of salt, wasn’t it? Their mouths looked as thin as fissures in rock. He wanted to chortle out loud, but constrained himself. He had bested them, no doubt of it—grabbed the gold ring, kicked the ball into the end zone, gone for broke, and hit the jackpot.
    But it was rather a thin payoff. They both recouped, stone turning back to flesh, and congratulated him and began the process of pretending they hadn’t lusted after the same writer.
    “Naturally,” said Bill, “we considered Giverney—”
    Didn’t you just! Clive wanted to yell.
    “—but his agent—what’s his name?”
    As if he didn’t have it carved in blood on his wrist!
    “Mort Durban.” Apoplectic Mortimer, the agent’s agent.
    “Ah, yes. Anyway, he was demanding so much we knew the advance would never earn out. We’d lose a helluva lot. But Bobby Mackenzie can probably afford to carry the loss. He’s got millions to throw around.” Bill flashed a smile.
    As if, of course, Bobby was some spoiled kid who had no idea how to run a publishing house. Raging inwardly, Clive kept on smiling. “Lose? I guess our people must be using different figures. We’re planning a one-million first printing.”
    Bill laughed. “With a fifty, sixty percent return?”
    “Giverney’s books never have that kind of return. Twenty-five at the most.”
    “Come on, Clive. Half those books’ll come back, they always do. It gets worse every year; publishers just can’t afford these humongous advances anymore—”
    Oh, Christ! Bill was turning this to his advantage. Bill pontificating about publishing excess? The very man who’d tried to lure Rita Aristedes away from Mackenzie-Haack by brokering a Tuscan villa? (Rita was mad for everything Italian except their love of the earth and each other.) Clive just sat, swordfish forgotten, arms folded, featherweight smile on his face.
    Nancy’s turn: “Thing is, Mackenzie-Haack always had this absolutely fabulous list—I don’t mind admitting I envy you (a supercilious smile meant to belie that envy)—until lately.”
    Clive had to respond to that, he couldn’t help himself. “ ‘Lately’? Mackenzie’s still got the best list of anybody in town.”
    “Better than Fritz Pearls?”
    Fritz Pearls was the most literary of all of them. “Of course not.” Clive grimaced as if surely it was clear F.P. outshone all of them. “Mackenzie’s size, I mean.”
    Nancy went on: “You just signed on Dwight Staines. So you’ve got him, Rita Aristedes, and now Paul Giverney. I’d say”—she slugged back her half glass of wine—“you’re getting as commercial as Disney.” She smiled widely, showing her platform teeth.
    Clive managed a hearty, false laugh. “Not much chance of that, Nancy girl. Not when we have writers like Eric Gruber or Ned Isaly. In addition to a dozen others.”
    Bill strode in again. “Yeah, but they’re all midlist writers, except maybe Isaly. And he only turns one out every four, five years. You haven’t got a Mailer or an Updike. You haven’t got any literary heavy hitters.”
    “Saul Prouil.” This was a lie, but Clive was getting used to it.
    “What? Come on. You haven’t got Prouil under contract. Hell, Saul Prouil hasn’t published a book in a decade.”
    “No. But what he’s working on is brilliant.”
    “Like, what’s he working on?”
    Clive laughed. “You know Saul. He doesn’t like anyone talking about work in progress.” God, why had he brought Saul Prouil up? He hadn’t as much as said hello and good-bye to him in nine years. And he had never been the man’s editor.
    “Yeah? Maybe that’s because he’s not making any.” Nancy was helping herself to the last of the wine.
    This whole lunch was not going the way it was supposed to, damn it. They were supposed to cut open a vein and bleed jealousy all