Charles ducks into the damp dark of the midtown tavern. It’s eleven-thirty in the morning and the place is just gearing up for the lunch rush, waitresses getting their stations set up, the soft clink of glass and silverware, the comforting smell of simple food and decades of drinking. He orders a double Scotch and water. He needs a drink to steel himself for the job ahead. It’s really quite simple: Nina has to go. The paperback sale was a joke. And she hasn’t even sold the film rights. He needs a young agent, somebody hip, with a big L.A. presence. Someone who can make him a lot of money. Fast. And then there’s Nina’s gushing over Emma’s primitive prose. It’s damn good, sure- he’d been the first one to recognize that-but the way she goes on you’d think Emma was the second coming of Faulkner. The book is in much better shape now, thanks to him, but the last person he wants to give it to is some over-the-hill agent who would probably sell it for a fraction of its worth. Poor Nina.
The portly bartender comes out of the kitchen carrying a big plate of french fries, which he secretes under his bar, shoving two or three into his face at a time. Charles remembers a crazy midsummer day about fifteen years ago when he and Nina had cabbed out to Coney Island to satisfy a mutual craving for hots dogs and fries. They’d stuffed themselves like pigs at Nathan’s, giggling, celebratory, madly in love with each other’s success. And then they rode the Cyclone, Charles with his arm protectively around Nina, wanting the world to think they were lovers. They’d walked along the Boardwalk for miles, for hours, as the long day gave way to dusk and dusk to night. They were partners, and it was forever.
Well, forever is for fairy tales. This is a New York story.
As the elevator soars silently to the thirty-ninth floor of Nina’s office building, Charles sucks on his breath mint. He’s even worn a suit, a dark gray suit, to signify the solemnity of the occasion. He steps off the elevator and into the offices of the Nina Bradley Literary Agency. Esther-efficient, unflappable Esther, who’s worked for Nina since the early days-sits at the reception desk.
“Good morning, Mr. Davis.”
“Esther. Is Nina in her office?”
“She is. Shall I tell her you’re here?”
“I’ll just head down.”
Charles walks down the long, carpeted hallway, lined with publicity posters for books Nina represents, Charles’s prominent among them, past offices where well-dressed agents are working the phones. Jeffrey, Nina’s latest assistant, a stylish young man Charles assumes is gay, leaps up from his desk when he sees Charles approach.
“Mr. Davis. Good morning. Is Nina expecting you?”
“No.”
Jeffrey picks up his phone. “Nina, Charles Davis is here… Of course.”
Jeffrey hangs up and leads Charles across the hall.
Nina’s pale gray office is dominated by her Pollock, bought when he was still affordable. Every line cool and uncluttered, the room epitomizes a certain post-World War II vision of modernism, a Midtown soul mate of Philip Johnson’s New Canaan glass house. Guess what, Nina, the world’s moved on.
Nina rises from her desk and crosses to Charles, taking his hand in her own. He’s always loved the feel of Nina’s hands and in a rush of emotion he considers ditching his plan.
“Charles, what a surprise. Can Jeffrey get you a cup of coffee? Something to drink?”
Charles shakes his head and remains standing. Jeffrey disappears.
“Charles, I am on such a high about this new book. When will I get more? I want to send a chapter to the New Yorker.”
How can she do that? How can she think some unformed, uneducated kid from the outskirts of nowhere is a better writer than Charles Davis?
“Nina, please. This isn’t a courtesy call… This is difficult.”
Nina’s face grows grave. She sits behind her desk and waits for him to continue.
“For the first two decades of my career, I couldn’t have asked for a better agent, but the last two books have been a disappointment. I feel that you mishandled them.”
“You call the quarter-million advance I got you on Down for the Count mishandled?”
“I’m not talking about money. I need a fresh start, a rebirth. A resurrection.”
“You’re leaving me.”
“I’m leaving you.”
Nina looks down at her desk. Charles knows there won’t be any tears, any curses, a scene. Breaks like this are best accomplished quickly, cleanly. In the end, it’s all about the work. When she looks up at him all her polish and poise and sophistication are gone.
“Just like that, after twenty-four years?” she asks.
Charles meets her gaze; he owes her that.
“I’m hoping we can remain friends,” he says.
They look at each other for a long time, compatriots for whom things will never be the same. Nina runs her fingers lightly up the back of her neck and then, as if a switch has been flicked, her jaw tightens.
“I’ll call you next time I need a golf partner.” She stands, walks to the door, and opens it. “Let Jeffrey know what you want from your files.”
Charles knows how difficult she could have made this, could still make it, and he’s grateful.
“Good-bye, Nina.”
As he walks down the long hallway he feels guilty and exhilarated in equal measure. By the time he reaches the lobby the exhilaration has overwhelmed the guilt. Firing Nina is just the sort of bold move he needs to make a new beginning. Look at the work he’s been doing with Emma. Why, he’s practically writing her book, and doing it with a fervor and imagination that surprises even him.
Charles grabs an apple off the kitchen counter and takes a bite. He strides into his office and stops cold: Portia is sitting across from Emma, wearing black and smoking a Pall Mall. She looks tired and tiny, but fierce nonetheless.
“Jesus Christ, Charles, I know I’m a wrinkled old bag, but I don’t look that bad.”
Charles struggles to regain his bearings; as far as he knows, Portia hasn’t been to Manhattan for years. How jarring to see her here, in this apartment, in this room-with Emma.
“Portia…”
“Another of the old Dartmouth dinosaurs bought the farm, so I crawled out from under my rock to see the old bastard off.”
“Emma, why don’t you take a break, get some air.”
Emma stands up and puts on her coat.
“Don’t take any crap from this guy,” Portia says.
Emma laughs. “I’ll try not to.”
Charles watches as Emma walks down the hallway.
“Why, I’d love a drink,” Portia says, reaching for her cane. She follows Charles into his office and sits down with a sigh. He pours two shots of Scotch, fighting to control the slight trembling of his hands.
“Bright girl,” Portia says after taking a healthy swallow.
Charles notes the twinkle in her eye. “Oh, you two had a chance to talk?”
“No, I was too shy.”
Charles fidgets with a tiny iron sailor he uses as a paperweight. Even after all these years, Portia has the ability to reduce him to a rattled kid. She’s too fucking honest, like a moral flashlight aimed into his soul’s darkest corners. Charles is sure she can tell that he and Emma are sleeping together. What else can she tell?
“What did you discuss?”
“She was very tight-lipped. You have her well trained. She said how interesting it was to work for you, how much she was learning.”
Charles looks down into his drink. A pigeon coos on the window ledge.
“What’s her background?” Portia asks.
“She’s from some kind of broken home. I can’t get much out of her. Tight-lipped, as you say.”
Portia polishes off her drink and holds out her glass for a refill. “How are you, Charles?”
Charles wonders if he should tell her about firing Nina. They never talk career, only the work itself. Why bother her? Why get into all that explaining?
“I’m taking your advice, trying to stay in the game.”
“Good. When can I read something?”
“Why is everyone on me? You can all read it soon enough.” Charles immediately regrets his outburst. He stands up and walks over to the bookcase that’s filled with foreign language editions of his books. “This is the Japanese edition of Down for the Count. Some cover, huh?… Don’t look at me like that, Portia.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m going crazy or something.”
“Charles, you’ve never stooped to melodrama.”
“I’m sorry. I’ve been working too hard. But it’s good. I think I’m on to something.”
Portia knocks back her drink and stands. “Well, that’s what I came to hear. Now let me catch my plane out of this hellhole.”
Charles holds Portia’s arm as they wait for the doorman to hail a cab. He has rarely touched her before and he feels self-conscious; he can feel her small bones and can tell she doesn’t like being held. They don’t look at each other.
“Send me something soon, Charles. I need reasons to stick around.”
“It’s always good to see you,” he says.
“What’s left of me.”
At that, Portia smiles up at Charles. No, she beams, her whole face lighting up, embracing the absurdity, the futility, of the human condition, and suddenly it’s nearly thirty years ago and Charles is a young man sitting in a New England classroom being inspired by a lonely woman who burns with a ferocious passion for the written word.
“There’s lots left, Portia, lots.”
It must be the New York air pollution that’s making tears well up in Portia’s eyes. Mercifully, a cab pulls up. The doorman holds open the door and just as Portia is about to climb inside, she turns.
“And, Charles?”
“Yes?”
“Be nice to that girl.”
“I’ll try.”
Through the rear window, Charles sees Portia defiantly light up a cigarette. Woe be to that driver if he asks her to put it out. Then the cab disappears into the New York traffic.