G Malliet - Death and the Lit Chick

The latte of the title was nowhere to be seen but perhaps that oversight was explained in the narrative.

A scene ripped from today's headlines, thought St. Just. He picked up the book and leafed through it rather furtively, like a man in a lingerie store shopping for his wife's Valentine's Day gift. The story seemed to be about-as much as it was about anything-a young woman in a low-level publishing job with a tiny apartment, a shoe fetish, an unlimited clothing budget, and a philandering boss she finds dead of a gunshot wound. St. Just flipped back to the front cover at that point, wondering what had happened to the shoe, the stocking, and the martini glass. Shrugging, he flipped through a few more pages. Ninety percent of the book seemed to be taken up with the protagonist yakking about either this shooting or, in equal measure, her ex-boyfriend with her two "gal pals" and a gay decorator. These breezy discussions generally were held over cocktails in one trendy nightspot or another. Midway through, the heroine accosted the ex-boyfriend and gave him a good bollocking. Henry James it was not.

"A Kimberlee Kalder fan? You?"

The low, honeyed voice at his side startled him so the pink horror of a book nearly flew out of his hands. He blushed, as if he'd been caught reading porn.

"Who, as they would say in America, would'a thunk it?" the soft voice added.

He turned toward the speaker. Looking down, his eyes met a blue gaze the color of the sea at midnight. He felt as if he'd again slipped sideways through a time warp, for it was the dark-haired woman from St. Germaine's restaurant, the one he'd glimpsed again yesterday. Since he thought it was doubtful she'd remember him, he was reluctant to mention their former "acquaintance," for reasons of pride or whatever that he didn't care to examine too closely.

He closed the book and replaced it carefully with its ghastly pink sisters.

"Just curious," he cleared his throat, smiled. "There's been so much talk."

"Hmm. Oh, about the book, you mean?" she smiled mischievously, a smile to light any room. A smile he decided instantly he wanted to-had to-see every day of his life.

Whatever it took.

He'd learn to tell jokes, memorize joke books, if that's what it took, to make that smile appear.

He didn't care who this woman was.

He didn't care where she came from.

He didn't care if she snored.

St. Just was a goner.

"Yes, I suppose," continued the vision. "The roman a clef always arouses a certain amount of curiosity, at least among the people who think they might have been portrayed in it."

He stood transfixed by that curious blue stare.

Make her keep talking, he thought. About anything. It doesn't matter. Don't let her leave.

His brain, at least the part that connected to his tongue, refused to obey.

She'll think I'm an idiot, he thought frantically. Say something!

Providentially, she seemed not to have noticed she was talking to an idiot.

"But in this case, once the lawyers were through pecking at the Latte manuscript, I hear there wasn't any real meat left. Assuming there ever was. I've only read a few excerpts."

"You said, roman a clef, " he managed to croak.

She nodded.

Doing great there, Arthur, he thought. She probably knows what she just said.

"I mean," he went on, stopped, tried tearing his eyes from her face and found he could not. "What I meant was, the author worked in publishing?"

"Apparently. Magazines. All the more surprising since Kimberlee seems barely able to spell or construct a sentence that does not contain the word 'like.' Although the spelling may be the typesetter's fault. You can never be sure. My last book had the word 'pratmatic' sprinkled throughout."

The Kimberlee remarks were said without rancor. She was merely reporting her observations.

She. She must have a first name. Must find out name, telegraphed his brain.

"You're-" he started.

"Although," she was saying, "perhaps that's no longer a requirement in the publishing world. Spelling. Well, I'd better get a move on," she said, starting to turn away. She had a smile like a lightning strike. "It was nice talk-"

" No! " he nearly shouted.

She turned back, looking stunned, as well she might.

Jesus!

"I'm sorry. What I meant was…"

She was of course connected with the conference-what else would she be doing here?-but he could hardly ask her where in the castle she was staying, could he?

"I meant to say, it was nice talking with you."

Nice and lame, a phrase he trotted out ten times a day. Then he rescued himself by adding:

"My name is Arthur St. Just, by the way."

"I know." Smiling, she stuck out her hand.

She knew? She knew who he was? Merciful heaven. He was so flattered he nearly missed taking the small white hand she proffered. Her skin was as soft as a newborn's.

"Bye now," she said.

Spellbound, he slowly raised one hand in an answering wave. "Bye."

He had somehow lost all interest in these books and their authors. Sidling his way, crablike, out of the crowded seller's room, he leaned against a Grecian column to watch the milling multitude, which continued its amoeba-like splitting into ever-changing groups. Apart from the large Kimberlee Kalder cluster, there were others centered around perhaps six authors whom St. Just gathered were to be much praised and emulated for their sales figures. These focal points included Tom Brackett. But the mother of all groups had collected around the handsome young agent, Jay Fforde, who was beginning, rather frantically, to eye the exits.

Just then, a commotion could be heard above the generally deafening noise level, and the words "stars of yesteryear" carried clearly across the room. Magretta had apparently brought to bay the author of the Edinburgh Herald piece.

"I mean really, how dare you print such libel," Magretta said, in her now-familiar clarion tones. "Quentin, I demand a retraction."

The offending reporter, much like the agent, seemed to be seeking escape. St. Just was stirred to pity. Quentin sported an assortment of metal studs in his ears and hair moussed into wilted maroon spikes. Against Magretta's own swirling red locks, one would have thought that corner of the room had caught fire.

"Look, I can't print a retraction for something like that. I mean, it's not like I really said anything much, did I? Stars of yesterday-it's a compliment, like. Depending how you look at it."

"Yester year. Yester year. I've told you how I look at it. You said quite enough, my young man. I'll have you know my fans are legion. Legion. I can promise you'll be hearing from them, as will your editor and publisher."

If there is one thing the young cannot stand to be reminded of, reflected St. Just, it is that they are, in fact, young. A mulish look rumpled Quentin's face.

"Look, I'll tell you what. I'll make it up to you, like. How's about you give me an interview? I'll plug your latest book, give you a leg up, like."

A moue of distaste settled over Magretta's features. A leg up, indeed. Still, Quentin had learned enough in his short time in the company of crime writers to know that the offer of an interview-any interview, anywhere, with anyone-was an irresistible siren call.

She tipped back her head and eyed him from half-closed lids, a queen considering a stay of execution.

"When?" she demanded.

"What's wrong with right now?"

Kimberlee Kalder, having disengaged from her fan club, materialized at St. Just's side, likewise watching the proceedings.

"Magretta-such a silly old moo," she said, beaming at him. She tossed her head like a shampoo model, swinging her gleaming hair into slow-motion action. "I've come to rescue you. A good-looking man like yourself shouldn't be, like, left at the mercy of this crowd."