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over the gardenia-white cloth. They were supposed to be humbled, supposed to see that in the long run, Clive was the most successful of the three of them, better, the best.
    “Shit,” said Bill, pulling himself sideways in his chair, blowing smoke from the cigarette he wasn’t supposed to be smoking there. “You know what we are? Pimps, that’s all.” He inhaled again, his brows rammed together, looking angry.
    This pretense of self-denigration might have fooled an outsider, but not Clive. Anyway, the denigrating was all for Clive, so that Bill could push Clive into pimpdom. One could hardly do that without generously including oneself. Clive slumped. He felt he had put himself in jeopardy for nothing. Hadn’t he known that their face-saving techniques were every bit as good as his? He couldn’t impress them; they were all unimpressible. It was rather a shock to think that.
    And there was still the unsigned Giverney contract. Hell.
    Without a care in the world for an expense account (as it wasn’t theirs), Nancy and Bill ordered up a couple of Remys.
    “Make it doubles,” Bill called to the waiter’s departing back. “Anyway, congrats, Clive. Good job. I’m glad I’m not going to have to take the heat, though, when Giverney doesn’t earn out.”
    Clive mumbled a response.
    “You know what one of Giverney’s demands is going to be, don’t you? He’s going to want Tom Kidd as editor. You know that, don’t you?”
    Clive stared at him. How in hell did Bill know that? Well, he wasn’t going to tell him he was right. “What makes you think that?”
    Bill shrugged. “Makes sense, doesn’t it? Giverney’d want the best. He’s such an arrogant bastard.” He had that stupid smile pasted back in place. “I’m only glad I don’t have to be the one to tell Tom Kidd.” He swiped at his knee with his hand, laughing. “I’m just glad I don’t.”
    Nancy said, straight faced, at least at first, “Tom will just take out a gun and shoot you. Fancy that. Poor Clivey.”
     
    When Clive returned to his office after lunch, feeling deflated, he found a book lying in the center of his desk blotter. It was one that Mackenzie-Haack had published two years previously, Fallguy. This was the book Bobby had mentioned, the one by Danny Zito, who took a lot of heat for it, but would have taken more, and worse, had he not gone into the witness protection program right before the book had come out.
    It had been one of Clive’s books, though he’d told Bobby Mackenzie another editor, someone like Peter Genero, would do a much better job (meaning, the book was beneath Clive) and that Peter would get on a lot better with Danny Zito.
    “Why? Because he’s Italian? You mean, it takes one to know one?”
    That had been Bobby’s response. He’d told Clive that the book needed some toning up, some class, however superficial, and Clive was just the one to supply it.
    Danny Zito had turned out to be a very down-to-earth (well, sure), entertaining guy. He was a hell of a conversationalist over pricey lunches (though Clive was always watching his back) and the book had done somewhat better than expected.
    Clive sat down then with the book in his hands.
    Why?
    He got up and went to the door. His assistant, Amy Waters, was working on some copy. “Amy, where did this come from?” He held the book up. It had quite a handsome black-and-white jacket with an embossed silver title.
    Amy squinted as if she couldn’t see the four-inch-high Fallguy from a couple of feet away. “Maybe Bobby left it?” She went back to her copy.
    “You put that as a question, Amy. The question is what I’m asking you, for God’s sakes.” Why did he bother saying that? Amy always put statements in the form of questions.
    “Oh. What I mean is: Bobby was in your office before.”
    “But what did he say?”
    “Nothing. Just walked in and walked out. He said, ‘Hi, Amy,’ but I wasn’t paying much attention; I’m trying to get this copy ready for