have interesting news,” as they were led to a table.
He kept her in a little bit of suspense while they ordered drinks; no alcohol for her in the middle of the day and he also declined, both settling on iced teas.
“Here it is. My publisher, a man named Antoine Burris, very smart, very elegant type of fellow, loved your piece on Cummings, which, of course, I told him to look at.”
“Good of you.”
“It’s really a publisher-editor job he has, small press, interesting projects, good marketing. They took my book and got it onto the trade paperback bestseller list, so they must know something.”
“It was a good book.”
“Still, there are a lot of good books. So—he has a taste for the offbeat. And what he’d like to do is a book on the history of satanic possession. There isn’t a good contemporary one. And he wants you to write it.”
“That’s very nice of you, Richard. However—”
“It’s too soon for a ‘however.’ This is terrific stuff. You have everything from stories of convents in sixteenth- and seventeenth-century France where the Devil swept through possessing nuns like an epidemic, to the world today where possessions in one form or another are constantly showing up.”
“However, I have never written a book.”
“Nobody has, until they do.”
“And an additional however, I don’t believe in satanic possession. Try hysteria. Delusional behavior. I think a shrink would be better suited.”
“No, he loved the tone of your piece: bright, appropriately skeptical.”
“Do you have any proof you’re not married?”
“Would you not jump around?”
“You’re really not? You’re just inconstant because of the nature of your lecturing, conferencing, researching, et cetera?”
“Absolutely.”
“Tell me about this trip.”
He gave her an accounting and she said, “The thing about you, is that you seem so smart to me, your beat could be anything. I just don’t think you fit, physically, with your subject matter. Great blazer, light salad for lunch, what are you working such a dark side of the street for?”
“Because it’s fascinating. And you’d find this book fascinating. Look into it a little. I can recommend some things to read. And—what’s this? My publisher just walked in.”
“Oh, Richard, this is too obvious.”
“Talk to him.”
Antoine Burris was a broad-shouldered man in his fifties, five feet eleven, bald, wire-rim glasses; wearing an expensive gray suit, white shirt, and blue tie. After the introductions he occupied a seat at their table.
“An honor, Ms. Delaney. As Richard must have told you, I loved, no, respected your article, which is better than loving it.”
“Thank you, Mr. Burris.”
“Publishing being what it is, if I put this out with agents, in the morning I’d have two hundred writers recommended. But you’re my first choice, based on what I’ve read; the perfect fit of style with material.”
“This is all very flattering—”
“There was a marvelous book years ago, Possession and Exorcism by Traugott Oesterreich. William Blatty, when he wrote The Exorcist, was an admirer of it. But we don’t have anything that’s contemporary and smart. I know you can write. What I would need, from my end, is an outline, which we would pay you for, naturally. I don’t want you doing any work without being paid. Your agent is …”
Nancy’s boss, Jenna Hawkins, intervened on fees for a couple of Ronnie’s articles. Ronnie assumed Hawkins would handle a book deal for her, should she decide to proceed.
“Jenna Hawkins.”
“Excellent. Have her call me. Let’s go into business.” He shook hands and departed.
“Do you have somebody else coming in, to complete the salesmanship?
“I think it’s a wonderful opportunity. If you could come by at seven tonight, I could get you started on some things to think about.”
After she said good-bye to Richard at the restaurant Ronnie went to the Mid-Manhattan Public Library, where the
Carolyn Faulkner, Abby Collier