A Smile on the Face of the Tiger

Wheeler Publishing

Chapter One

I thought I'd never see her again. But never is longer than forever.

The beveled-glass door of the downtown Caucus Club opened just before noon and drifted shut against the pressure of the closer, the way things move in dreams and deep water. While that was happening, Louise Starr stood in the electroplated rectangle of light wearing a white linen jumpsuit with matching unstructured jacket and a woven-leather bag on one shoulder. She had kept her pale-gold hair long, against the helmeted utilitarian fashion; in another six months most of the women who glanced up from their menus and kept on looking would be wearing theirs the same way.

She had lost weight. She hadn't needed to, but the loss hadn't done her any harm, just trimmed her down from a steeplechaser to a racer. I guessed tennis or badminton, although it might have been the white outfit that suggested it. I couldn't see her in leotards and a sweatband at Bally's with her hair in a ponytail. In any case the progressive-resistance machines would have surrendered without a struggle.

Inside the entrance, she paused to adjust her pupils to the muted light, then spoke to the man at the reservation stand, a plump sixty with a silver hairpiece and the knowing eyes of a vice cop. He nodded, body-checked the young waiter who stepped forward to offer assistance, and led the way to the corner table where I sat fighting a fern for my drink. In three-inch heels, she managed to stand a full head taller than her escort without towering. She was five-eight in her bare feet. I had seen her barefoot. I rose.

"I'm afraid our brunch has turned into plain old lunch." She leaned across the table and kissed my cheek. When she straightened she left behind a light trace of foxglove. "I had no idea the entire state of Michigan was under construction."

"Roadwork is our fifth season. How was your flight?"

"High. Which is what I intend to get as soon as possible. What are you drinking?" She got rid of her bag, slid out her chair, and sat down before the headwaiter could get his hands on it.

"Chivas." I sat.

She wrinkled her nose. She'd acquired little creases at the corners of her eyes since the last time we'd seen each other. They suited her, like everything else with which she came into contact. The eyes themselves were violet. "Bacardi, straight," she told the waiter. "We'll order food later. Unless you're famished." Her brows lifted.

"I had a big breakfast."

"When did this start?"

"Don't worry, I haven't reformed. I missed supper last night."

"A tail job?" The waiter had dematerialized, but she lowered her voice anyway.

"Novocaine. I broke a tooth on a fist."

"Business or personal?"

"It was an affair of honor. My family tree came up."

"You ought to consider another line of work."

"Do you think this one was my first choice?"

The waiter brought her Bacardi in a square glass with a thick bottom. "What should we drink to?"

"Telephones and airplanes."

We clinked glasses. She sipped, set hers down, and sat back. She wore a tiger-eye on a thin chain around her neck and earrings to match. No other jewelry. I remembered she was allergic to gold. "You look good, Amos. Gray is your color."

"I'm not wearing gray."

"I know."

I drank. "Are we going to be that kind of friend that exchanges over-the-hill gifts on birthdays?"

"No. I'm sorry. You really do look fabulous. Men still age beautifully while women just fall apart. You'd think after what's happened these past twenty years things would change."

"That won't float either. You know you're beautiful because every day strangers stop you on the street to tell you. You didn't need to come all the way out here to hear it. How are things in publishing?"

"Worse than ever. Three one-million-dollar advances went out last Christmas for books that didn't even make the list in the Phoenix Sun. Returns are running around eighty percent. All the big houses have pulled in their horns."

"Things can't be too bad if they flew you first class."

"How did you know I flew first class?" She smiled then. The sun came through the stained-glass partition behind her. It was probably coincidence. "Did you call the airport?"

"You were late. I can't afford the Caucus Club."

"Admit it, you were worried about me. I'm not with the firm anymore. I have my own company now. I thought you might have heard. Publishers Weekly gave me two pages last month."

"I dropped my subscription. Soldier of Fortune offered me a telephone shaped like a Claymore for signing up."

"What's a Claymore?"

"An explosive device. So is hanging out your own shingle in a bear market. What happened on the job?"

"You know Eddie Cypress?"

It wasn't a name I expected her to drop. It was like seeing Princess Di spit on a commoner. "Just what was on CNN. Glad Eddie never worked Detroit that I heard. He killed fifteen men on contract and the feds let him walk for turning state's evidence against Paul Lippo for ordering one hit."

"Court TV fell in love with Glad Eddie and so did the talk shows. He goes to a better barber than most hit men and doesn't have a cauliflower ear. The publisher told me to put in a bid for his memoirs. I told him I didn't offer money to terrorist organizations or cheap hoods. He fired me."

"That what it said on the pink slip?"

"The official reason was insubordination. I could have gone to NOW or Fair Employment Practices and sued to get my job back. I didn't. I was thinking of quitting long before Glad Eddie. Getting canned meant I could raid the inventory without guilt. I signed two New York Times bestsellers and a Pulitzer Prize winner right out from under them. They cried salty tears and threatened to sue me for industrial espionage."

"Congratulations. Want me to write my memoirs?"

"True crime's dead. Newspaper-clipping hacks and the Simpson case killed it. I wouldn't take a chance on it even if you weren't kidding. I need a detective."

"The last time you hired me it didn't turn out the way you wanted."

"If that's true I don't remember. What I remember is you delivered."

My glass was sweating on the polished tabletop. The ice cubes had melted. The restaurant was ducted for air conditioning, as was the rest of the Penobscot Building, but it wasn't scheduled to be turned on for another week; the summery weather in late May had taken the whole southern part of the state by surprise. I signaled the waiter and asked Louise if she wanted a fresh drink. She shook her head and the waiter went back for another Scotch. I was getting the kind of service I never got alone.

"I raised my rates," I said. "You might have to hike up the cover price on your books."

She leaned forward and rested her chin on her hands. "I'll let you in on a secret: Book prices rose ten years ago when the cost of paper went up. Paper came down, books didn't. I'll fold your fee into the profit."

My drink came. I raised it. "Here's to the lending library."

"Libraries? Love 'em. Guaranteed sale." She lifted hers. When she set it down the playfulness was gone. "I'm in a bind. I guess you could call it a book bind. One of my bestsellers isn't selling as well as expected. The other's blocked, he says, and the Pulitzer...