The next morning Janet Lehman sat at her desk on the twenty fifth floor looking out the window at the Capital bridge, a majestic gold-colored landmark that stretched across the Sacramento river.

Some in the office thought the bridge would looks better if it were painted red, but Janet didn’t like the color red; it reminded her of the many blood-splashed crime novels she had to read, not by choice but by necessity. Her employer, Finegold publishing, specialized in crime novels, thrillers and mysteries; she had dozens of manuscripts piled on her desk.

As she looked out across the river to the fields and mountains beyond, Jan reflected on what happened, or almost happened, the night before. A real life crime had been committed; assault and attempted rape. She knew the attacker was a creep, but she couldn’t help wondering if she had provoked him. That mock kiss in the nightclub might have set him off, she thought. Or maybe that ‘lover boy’ crack did the trick. To hell with it, she decided. He was no good, no better than her x-husband. She spun her chair around, and looked at the pile of fiction on her desk.

But wait! Does he know where I live, she wondered, or where I work? No, I couldn’t have been that drunk. On an impulse she reached into her handbag on the corner of the desk and checked her wallet. Yes, everything was there; her driver’s license, credit cards, electric bill. What about fingerprints on that damn fire extinguisher? No, she hadn’t touched it. And who is this mystery man who came to her rescue? Grungy looking fellow; he looked like he lived in that stinking alley. Ah well…he did what any decent person would do in that situation. Better to forget about him. In fact, better to forget about men.

She pressed the intercom on her telephone. “Susie, did we void that contract with Mister Lipschitz?”

“Not yet. Your husband, I mean your x-husband, met with Harry yesterday. He says his new novel may be a bestseller.”

“And you believed him?”

“He sounded sincere. What if he does have a bestseller this time?”

“With a name like Lipschitz he’ll need a bestseller. I’ll talk to Harry about it.”

“Do you need hot tea?”

“Please…my head’s killing me today.”

Janet sat back in her chair, pulled a manuscript off the top of the pile, and opened it. She reflected for a moment on the dangers of mixing business and pleasure. Never ever marry someone you do business with. It puts an immediate strain on the relationship, which inevitably, in Janet’s case, leads to cheating. Peter Lipschitz wasn’t a great writer, but he was a damn good lover, which was unfortunate, because he knew that he was a damn good lover, and that other women would eventually find out he was a damn good lover, and it was inevitable that he would exploit his only true talent. Janet smiled to herself. Good-riddance, lover boy. I have a PHD in English Lit and you have a Bachelor’s degree in borscht. I’ll use my education to get me through life. When your rod wears out you’ll be left with a cold-water flat, no hair on your head, and a welfare check to keep you warm at night.

“Here’s your tea, Jan.”

Janet’s loyal, ambitious assistant, Susie Hampton, came in carrying a silver teapot, a dainty looking cup and saucer on a tray. Susie was one of those perky, wide-eyed girls; she had a cute, Barbie-doll face, the little up-turned nose, the blond-haired pony tail, and a rather enticing figure. She had a high-pitched, rather squeaky voice that irritated certain people, but she was sharp, a good deal smarter than she looked. Her warm, friendly personality made people underestimate her, but Janet knew better. This babe wants my job, she thought, as Susie put the tea tray on her desk and gave her a warm, ingratiating smile.

“Can I bring you something for your hangover?”

Janet shot her an irritated glance. “What makes you think I have a hangover?”

“I’m psychic.” Susie giggled, an irritating high-pitched giggle. Janet was not amused. “I’m kidding…you told me yesterday you were going out on the town to celebrate your divorce.”

“Oh yes, I did tell you.” Janet took a bottle of advil from her purse. “What appointments do I have today?”

“None, so far.”

Janet looked surprised. “No appointments? It must be the holidays.”

“Yes…it could be the holidays.” Susie sounded skeptical.

“Something going on?” Janet took two advil and sipped her tea as Susie leaned over the desk and lowered her voice.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

“I heard Harry and one of the executive editors talking in the break room. They want to off-load some of your business, some of your contacts.”

“Why?”

“You better talk to Harry.”

Janet fumed. “Damn right I’ll talk to Harry.”

Susie started toward the door, then turned abruptly. “Oh, the retirement home called, to remind you about your visit today.”

Janet’s face darkened. “Yes, today’s Friday. I always visit him on Friday. Thanks Susie.”

“You’re welcome.”

Janet relaxed a bit. “You look extra happy today.”

Susie smiled. Her voice rose an octave. “I’m seeing someone.”

“Oh…is it serious?”

“Could be, it hasn’t been that long. But I really like him.”

Harry Finegold – CEO of Finegold Publishing – was trying on a new toupee in his penthouse office. Standing in front of an ornate wall mirror, he wondered if it mattered. But he had always been a bit vain. He still looked good at age sixty eight, tall and thin, broad-shouldered, riveting blue eyes, although his silver hair had thinned until the overhead florescent bulbs lit up the naked pock-marked skin on top of his rather large, rounded head.

Harry was old money; he took over the business from his father, Jacob Finegold, who started selling comic books and cheap paperbacks during the depression. He graduated to westerns and war books during the forties and fifties, and went full tilt on genre novels – mysteries and assorted crime-related books – until he died in nineteen ninety.

Harry wanted to be an athlete. As a kid he didn’t like reading textbooks or doing homework, but he always enjoyed a good novel. When he broke his leg in three places during a college football game he gave up the idea of going pro and started working for his father.

But when he took over the business after Jacob’s death, an obnoxious glut of kiss-and-tell, self-help, and political scandal books began gobbling up market share.

And then came e-books and self-publishing. He lost some of his best editors and writers – they gave up, sold-out, and flushed themselves down the non-fiction drain. Harry was pissed. He was determined to be the last hold-out for a pure fiction house. But his company was on the rocks. He needed something…someone to bring them back from oblivion.

“Is my x-husband still under contract?”

Harry stopped fidgeting with his toupee and spun around as Janet waltzed into his office. “Jan, you still have to knock, my dear.”

“Sorry Harry, but you look better without the toupee.”

“You think I look better? I have a meeting with a writer’s agent in ten minutes. She’s new at the agency.”

“Does your wife know that?”

Harry removed the toupee and sat down behind his long, polished mahogany desk. Janet stood in front of the desk, her arms folded.

“What’s going on Jan?”

“What about Peter? I thought you were going to cancel his contract.”

“Jan, I told you I’d think it over. But what happened between you two is your own personal business. I can’t tear up a writer’s contract just because you hate the writer, who happens to be your x-husband.”

“I don’t hate him, I despise him. Hate is such a… hateful word.”

“Peter showed me some chapters from his new manuscript. It looks good Jan. We need a blockbuster. This could be it. We’re losing more market share to e-books, self-publishing…we need something big.”

“The only thing big about Peter is his ego, and his – no, I won’t go there.”

“Jan, you have to separate business from personal. Peter’s made money for us. Good novels are damn hard to find these days.”

“Peter’s novels were only as good as my edits. Wake up Harry; we have to go non-fiction. Everyone’s going non-fiction.”

“I get enough non-fiction on the six o’clock news. Why the hell do I have to read about it? Every little schlepper who puts his face on TV can get the worst piece of garbage published. If the public knows who you are they’ll buy your damn book; they don’t care what it’s about, or how good it is. Sometimes this business makes me sick. I wish we were publishing in the nineteenth century. Poe, Twain, Dreiser, Hugo, Melville…those were writers.”

Janet unfolded her arms and smiled across the desk at her boss. “Harry, you’re a true romantic. But we have to be realistic. By the way, I heard you were off-loading some of my work load, reassigning some of my writers. What gives?”

Harry gestured to the chair in front of his desk. “Sit down Jan.”

She took a seat. Harry leaned forward. “Jan, you’re one of our best editors. You have a hell of a good track record. You have a P.H.D. for God’s sake. But you have too much anger. Ever since this business between you and Peter you’ve been slipping.”

“Wait a second Harry – ”

“Jan, I can’t tolerate it. I’ve had some complaints.”

“Complaints? From who? Tell me who?”

“That’s unimportant. You’ve been coming back to the office from some of your luncheon meetings smelling like a Napa county winery. No more alcohol when your schmoozing writers or agents.”

“Come on Harry…you think I’m a lush?”

“I didn’t say that, but you’ve been falling behind on some of the workload. You have to do more reading at home, on weekends, holidays…read read read. When things are stabilized I’ll reconsider, and assign more work for you. Until then, look for something big. You still have a pile of manuscripts to go through.”

Jan stood up and frowned. “Better put your toupee back on Harry. You look like an old fart without it.”

“Read, Jan, read…”

She turned around and walked quickly toward the office door. Harry called after her, “Merry Christmas, Jan. I expect to see you at the office party.”

“You might…you might not.”

She left the office and half-slammed the door behind her. Harry reached across his desk and put on the toupee.

An hour later Jan read the last page of a manuscript, closed it, and threw it onto her ‘return’ pile. She pushed her chair away from her desk and checked her watch. “Oh…damn!” She jumped up, grabbed her purse, and almost ran out of her office.

Minutes later, as she exited the elevator and hurried through the parking garage, she pressed a button on her cell phone. “Hi…this is Jan Lehman…I’m running a little late but tell him I’ll be there in about twenty minutes. Thanks.”

Jan hopped into her Mercedes coupe and drove away as the tires on her car screeched and echoed through the hollow garage.