The Max

Twenty-Two

Paula Segal was stunned. She had written what she felt was a very compelling proposal for The Max, which included a synopsis of the entire book, and pretty soon expected to be living the literary high life – author tours, press conferences, award ceremonies. One thing she wasn’t expecting – rejection.

Her agent broke the news to her over – yep – lattes at Starbucks.

He said, “There was a fairly strong consensus among the editors I went out to. The material’s simply too dark.”

Paula was in shock. This had to be a bad dream, or at least a bad joke. Her agent would crack a smile at any moment, say, Had you going there, huh? And then unveil the real news, that there was currently a bidding war going on for the book. All the major houses wanted it, and it was only a matter of whose eight-figure deal to accept: Knopf’s or Harper Collins’. Or maybe there was only one major player, Sonny Mehta from Knopf, and on a signal from her agent Sonny would come through the door, ear-to-ear smile, and give her a big welcoming hug and say, “Welcome aboard, hon.”

But, nope, her agent was still looking at her with that helpless expression that she’d gotten to know all too well over the years as her fiction-writing career had descended farther and farther into the toilet. But this wasn’t fiction, this was non-fiction, true crime. This was supposed to be where all the bucks were, and she had the inside track on the hottest crime story of the year.

“What the hell do you mean, too dark? It’s crime, it’s murder, it’s drugs, it’s a riot, it’s a prison break, it’s IRA hit men, it’s cold-blooded murder. It’s supposed to be fucking dark.”

Paula was yelling. A few customers and the baristas were looking over.

“Believe me, I understand where you’re coming from.” Her agent was looking around, smiling apologetically. “But there’s dark and there’s dark. As Ken Wishnia says, there’re twenty-three shades of black.”

She didn’t want to hear about fucking Wishnia, she wanted to hear about a fucking book deal.

“Okay, so we got some rejections,” she said. “Big whoopty shit. What’s the next move?”

Her agent looked discouraged again, said, “Well, there’s the second tier, but if I’m being completely honest I think it’s unlikely the second tier will be interested. I went out with this fairly wide and, just to be completely up front, we didn’t hear anything very encouraging from anybody. They all said the same thing: subject matter too dark, characters too unlikable.”

“Wait,” Paula said, knowing what was coming next. “What do you want me to do? You’re saying you want me to-”

“How about writing a young adult novel?”

“You’ve gotta be kidding. You want me to give up The Max, my baby?”

“It’s not a matter of what I want,” he said. “It’s what the market wants. And the market doesn’t want Max Fisher.”

“Bullshit,” Paula said. “Bull fucking shit.”

She stormed out of the Starbucks, deciding, Fuck agents, she’ll sell it herself. How hard could it be to sell a hot property, the next In Cold Blood?

She sent the proposal out with a well-thought-out cover letter to practically every editor in New York and they all had the same response – story too dark, characters too unlikable. It had to be collusion, some kind of conspiracy. Or maybe her agent was bad-mouthing her all over town? Something like that. Years as a telemarketer had primed her well for rejection, but hearing all the negativity about The Max was tough to take. She was doubting herself, starting to lose hope.

She was almost ready to give up, head back to the call center, when she opened a copy of Time Out New York and saw that Laura – yes, her Laura – was reading tonight from her latest book at the Barnes amp; Noble on Union Square. She thought, Has to be a sign.

She rushed to her salon, demanded an appointment even though her hairdresser’s schedule was full for the day. When Sergio asked her what she wanted done she took out a copy of Mystery Scene with Laura on the cover and said. “I want to look like her.”

Sergio gave her the Lippman do, a short bob, flirty and sexy but not too showy about it. Afterward she couldn’t have been more pleased. She looked as classy as Laura herself. When Laura saw her she’d have to realize they were meant to be together. Drinks would follow, maybe dinner, another meeting or two. Maybe she’d eventually move in with Laura in Baltimore, or they could just travel around the world together, two hot literary goddesses on the road…

And in the meantime Laura would help her get The Max into the hands of an editor who didn’t have his head so far up his ass he couldn’t see Pulitzer Prize material when it was handed to him.

A few minutes after Paula arrived at Barnes amp; Noble, Laura entered, rushing in, taking off her coat as she went, elegant and graceful as always, smiling, saying hello to all her adoring fans. Paula, in the front row, was staring at her, trying desperately to make eye contact. Surely Laura would remember her from the bar in El Paso and from their Internet exchanges. But after apologizing breathlessly for being late – traffic, her cab couldn’t budge – and telling an effortlessly witty story about her signing the night before at the Mystery One bookstore in Milwaukee, Laura went right into her talk, and then read from her latest Tess Monaghan mystery. The book was another winner, no surprise there. A line of about thirty people formed, and Paula got on it at the end. Her heart was racing.

She was worried that she might actually pass out. How embarrassing would that be? Fainting at her future lover’s book signing.

Finally it was Paula’s turn. She handed over a copy of Laura’s book and Laura, smiling, said, “Thank you so much for coming. Who should I make it out to?”

Paula thought, It’s not possible. She’s looking right at me.

Then she thought, Come on, cut the poor woman some slack. After all, she was a best-selling novelist in the midst of a major book tour. She was probably burnt out, that’s all.

“You can make it out to me. Paula Segal.”

Still no recognition.

“So how’ve you been?” Paula asked.

Now Laura looked at her, the first prolonged eye contact. She was squinting, trying to get it to click.

“You know, Paula Segal. We met at Left Coast Crime in El Paso a few years ago?”

Still nothing.

Trying to jar her memory, Paula said, “You know, Paula Segal. I was a Barry Award finalist. I write the McKenna Ford mysteries?”

After a few seconds Laura’s face suddenly brightened and she said, “Oh, right. It’s great seeing you again. How are you?”

“I’m fine, thank you.”

Paula was trying to hold Laura’s gaze, to let her know she was interested in a lot more than just getting a stupid book signed.

Then Laura said, “Should I make it out to you, McKenna?”

“No, my name’s Paula.”

“Oh, that’s right, I’m sorry, Paula,” Laura said. “It’s been a crazy day. How do you spell your last name?”

“S-E-G-A-L.”

Was it possible that Laura actually didn’t remember her?

Nah, Laura had to remember.

“Yeah, so, I’m writing the Max Fisher story,” Paula said. Then she couldn’t help adding, “For Knopf.”

Paula was proud of the way she’d just casually dropped that little lie, and prouder of how she’d been so modest about it. Like, Yeah, I’ve written the biggest true crime story of the new millennium, but it was no biggie, just another day in the life of a future Pulitzer winner.

Laura finished writing, handed her back the book, said, “I’m sorry, Fishman?”

“Fisher,” Paula said. “You know, Max Fisher? The infamous businessman-slash-drug dealer who escaped from Attica last month?”

Laura looked lost then smiled and said, “I’m sorry, I’ve been touring for three weeks straight and I’m a little behind on the news lately. But that’s great, congratulations. I wish you lots of luck with it.”

The next guy in line was holding a stack of books and was inching closer. Laura was already smiling in his direction, making eye contact with him. But there was no way Paula was moving along – not yet anyway.

She didn’t want to blow her one opportunity. After all, when would she get a chance like this again?

“I was thinking,” Paula said, “maybe we could go out for a drink after you finish up here. You know, just to catch up.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Laura said. “I’d love to, really, but I have plans.”

“Just one drink,” Paula said.

Shit, was she being too insistent? No, just eager, that’s all, and there was nothing wrong with eagerness. Eagerness was the way she’d made it as far as she had. If she weren’t an eager beaver she never would’ve landed the Fisher project in the first place.

But did Laura just say “I can’t”?

Nah, must’ve heard her wrong.

“So what time’s good?” Paula asked. “Maybe around eight o’clock, eight thirty?”

“I said I can’t make it.”

Paula was stunned, went, “Please, it’ll be so great. We have so much in common we can probably go on and on, talking all night long.”

“I’m sorry, but I’m actually having dinner with Dennis Lehane tonight.”

Den, it figured. Paula knew Lehane from the convention circuit. Nice guy, he’d bought her a couple of beers at Bouchercon in Chicago. For an hour she’d gushed to him about how much she loved Mystic River – the book, not the film – but did he ask for her room key or even her phone number? Um, no. God, Paula was so glad she was through with men. But there was no way Paula was going to let fucking Dennis Lehane or anyone else get in the way of her and Laura. She decided to take a chance.

“But I love you,” she nearly shouted.

Paula knew she’d rushed it, that she should’ve at least waited till they’d had a chance to talk a little. But desperate times and all that.

Laura seemed totally confused and maybe a little shocked. She said, “I’m sorry?”

“I’ve known it since we met in El Paso, Laura. We’re soul mates, we have everything in common, we should be spending the rest of our lives together.”

A bookstore employee came over and said, “You’re going to have to step away, ma’am. Other people want to get their books signed too.”

How had this happened? How had it all gone to shit so quickly?

“We have to be together,” Paula pleaded. “I’ve read Charm City twelve times. I nominate you for the Anthony every year. I even read your fucking short story in Bloodlines. ”

“Ma’am,” the bookstore employee said.

“Shut up, you skinny little bitch,” Paula said.

Shit, did she really just say that? Why was Laura getting up, backing away? Why was someone yelling for security?

“Laura, wait, come back here!”

Paula tried to go after her but a security guard grabbed her and hauled her toward the escalator. Laura was receding into the distance and Paula found herself screaming, “We were meant to be together! You were going to give me a fucking blurb!”

But Paula couldn’t even see Laura anymore.

“You’re off my top friends on My Space, bitch!” she yelled, her voice carrying as she was led out to the shameful street.