Murder on the Orient Espresso(12)

In these days of electronic bills and bill paying, I barely got any postal mail. What I did get were obvious solicitations which I had no trouble discarding. I couldn’t imagine, though, not opening something that was obviously personally addressed to me from one human being to another.

‘Really?’ I asked with the innocence of the uninformed. ‘What do you do with it?’

‘Either write “return to sender” on the envelope and give it back to the postal worker, or simply toss the thing, unopened.’

‘Michael York’ leaned forward to address us. ‘In truth, since September 11, 2001, and the anthrax scare, publishers don’t open mail unless it’s from a reputable literary agent.’

‘Are you a publisher?’ I asked.

‘No. A “reputable literary agent.”’ The man cracked a small smile, but didn’t extend his hand. ‘I hope you’ll forgive me for not shaking hands, but I fear contagion.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ I said, though he hadn’t shown any symptoms. ‘You’re not feeling well?’

‘No, no. I’m just fine,’ the agent said, hands still rotating his hat like the steering wheel of a car doing perpetual doughnuts. ‘Now.’

‘Our Carson is not only a renowned agent, but a renowned germaphobe,’ Potter said dryly.

Ahh, I got it. Not being contagious, the agent really did ‘fear contagion.’

‘I haven’t shaken hands with anyone for over ten years,’ Carson said proudly.

‘Truly?’ I was trying to imagine the business meetings and conferences, parties and receptions the agent must have been invited to during the span of more than a decade. ‘Isn’t that a little awkward in your line of work?’

‘My clients understand,’ the literary agent said, now with a genuine smile.

‘They understand he’s a nut job,’ Prudence cracked out of the corner of her mouth.

‘One that negotiates some of the biggest advances in our industry,’ Potter countered.

I glanced at my seat companion in surprise. It was the first time I’d heard Laurence Potter say anything positive about anyone.

Except himself, of course.

‘Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you,’ I said to the agent. ‘And your costume is wonderful. Count Andrenyi, the Hungarian diplomat.’

‘Costume?’ He looked down at the hat in his hand.

Uh-oh. I got a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. ‘I’m sorry. I just thought … umm, I mean, you look so much like Michael York, who played the role in the, umm …’

The man exploded with laughter. ‘I’m sorry, my dear, but I couldn’t help myself.’ He held up a badge encased in a plastic sandwich bag. It read, ‘Carson/Count Andrenyi.’

Oh, thank the Lord. At least the germaphobe had a sense of humor. ‘So you are playing the count tonight.’

‘I am, and apparently I’ve nailed the role.’ Carson the agent/count was pleased with himself.

‘Carson was originally on Broadway,’ the man in the checkered sports jacket said from behind me. ‘In fact, we worked together way back when. Rosemary Darlington was in theater, as well.’

‘What interesting career paths,’ I said, meaning it. ‘Actor, agent, writer—’

‘A lot of young people come to New York to study theater,’ Carson said. ‘Just as they flock to Los Angeles for the movie industry. Most of us end up doing other things. Only a very few can make a living at acting and even fewer become famous.’

‘That’s not so different to writing,’ Markus said. ‘How many writers give up their day jobs?’

‘More than should,’ Potter observed acerbically.

‘That’s true,’ Carson agreed, whether because the reviewer had bolstered the agent a minute before or not. ‘Writing fiction is, at best, project work. You start one book and hope you have a contract to publish another by the time the first is finished. And that the successor sells once it, too, is published. Nothing like a twice-monthly, automatically deposited payroll check, by any means.’

‘Even the best writers have gaps between books,’ Grace contributed. ‘Look at our Rosemary. Breaking and Entering came out nearly five years after her last book.’

‘Is she one of your clients?’ I asked the agent. The more I learned about these bizarre people, God help me, the more I wanted to know.

‘No, but she’s represented by another agent at my firm, Natanya Sorensen, who was supposed to be here and play countess to my count.’ He directed a smile toward me.

I returned it. ‘You’re … countess-less, then?’