Free Foul Matter by Martha Grimes Page B

of them was given to talking off the top of his head. Neither was given to epiphanies in their writing, either. Any page or paragraph that seemed prompted by “revelation” they each saw as suspect.
    Saul stood up. “Listen: let’s go to Swill’s. Early yet, but I want to get out of the house. At least, go to the park or for a walk.”
    Then Ned wondered if he’d been wrong, too, about the house. Perhaps it wasn’t a refuge, a “safe house.”

ELEVEN
    C live was still in his office, where he’d been waiting for Amy to go home since 5:30. He still heard papers rustling, the printer stuttering out pages, drawers opening and shutting with a jarring clatter. What in hell was she doing? At times he found Amy’s devotion to her job irritating as hell. But it wasn’t really “devotion”; it was merely its semblance, imitation “devotion,” which she hoped would carry her up the ladder to editor. There were enough titles sailing through the windy corridors of most publishing houses that Amy should have been able to snatch one out of the air. And a lot of them meant the same thing: executive editor, editor in chief, managing editor; then there were publisher, president, vice president. And God knows what else.
    He would have to tell her to go home. He did not want to be overheard when he made this telephone call.
    Just as he was getting up, Amy stopped in the doorway, wearing her coat, and said, “Well, good night?”
    As if it were a question. “Yes, good night, Amy. Did you finish that copy?” Stupid of him not to leave it at “Good night.”
    “I told you before?” It was close to a whine. “I finished it, yes.”
    “Good, good. Well . . .” He nodded. She didn’t move. Would there be any closure here at all? He picked a rubber band from a little jar and started snapping it.
    Then “Bye!” she said, as breathless as if she’d been running past the door and the sight of him had taken her by surprise.
    With her gone, he had no further reason for procrastinating. What he needed was a drink, a bracer, a snort of cocaine, an anesthetic. He kept a bottle of Bombay gin in his bottom desk drawer (homage to Sam Spade and the others), but decided against the gin, which would, at this point, have traveled to his brain like a cruise missile. Bobby had Scotch, which would warm him without putting his mind out of commission.
    Clive rose, pocketed the Rolodex card (afraid that it might be discovered by someone), and walked out of his office, through the open-office pen, and down the corridor to Bobby’s office. He walked through the outer to the inner office, where he opened the little doors of the burled mahogany cabinet, took out the Scotch, and poured a couple of fingers into one of Bobby’s Venetian glass tumblers. Bobby didn’t mind anyone helping himself to his private stock. Bobby was, in things like this, quite generous. Then he sat down on the old soft sofa and stretched out his legs.
    Yes, Bobby would’ve been a great guy to work for if only he could stay the same guy for three days running. Some of this erratic behavior could be explained by the man’s being a kind of publishing genius. But, really: wasn’t all of this business about Paul Giverney pretty childish? He finished off the first drink, got up, and poured himself a second. He felt a little looser, more relaxed, composed, in charge of the matter, and decided to make the call from Bobby’s office. Lie on the couch and call. The image pleased him. This whole half-baked plan was so crazy he might as well relax.
    One of the telephone extensions was sitting on an end table by the arm of the couch. He took out the card, dialed the number. It surprised him that it was a 212 exchange; he would have thought Danny Zito would have gotten as far from New York as he could.
    He coiled the phone cord and listened through six rings and was about to hang up (with thanks to God) before he heard the receiver’s being lifted. He wondered how big this apartment