“It’s nostalgia, mostly,” said Dana. “I was a publicist at Saul and Bass when Angel published her first book. I had just been promoted from ad assist to junior publicist, and my first assignment was Angel. I wouldn’t have gotten the job except that nobody thought her book had a chance, and absolutely nobody thought it would end up on the bestseller list for nineteen months.”
Dana sighed. “Angel was a pill—and if you read Comfortably Numb, you know she took a lot of them, too. I’m pretty sure she’s cleaned up her act since then, though—at least on that score—but Angel is still careless. . . .”
“Careless? What do you mean?”
Dana shrugged. “Angel is careless in the way a lot of wealthy people are careless. The way John F. Kennedy, Jr. was careless when he got into that airplane. Their money cushions them from the true impact of things, and sometimes their judgment is off where real consequences are concerned.”
“I follow. You mean, careless like Jay Gatsby’s Daisy. Yes, I’ve actually had some experience with people like that myself.”
“Well, sometimes it’s more than just careless. Sometimes, I think Angel’s simply mean.”
I knew something about that, too, but I didn’t say it. Of course, in my head, Jack said it for me—
You’re thinking about that rummy late husband of yours. The overeducated, over-pampered, trust-funded depressive who found fatherhood and husbandhood a bore, verbally abused you, stopped taking his medications, and threw himself on the mercy of the Upper East Side concrete—from thirty stories above it.
“Right,” I silently replied. “Now be quiet, Jack. Please.”
Dana rubbed her eyes. “I shouldn’t say that . . . She’s never been mean to me. Or cruel to her readers . . .”
I saw my opening, and took it.
“That scene tonight . . . Does that kind of thing happen often?”
Dana laughed. “Last week, actually. A pill-pushing New York doctor she practically named in her book is facing charges now—he confronted Angel at a bookstore on Fifth Avenue. Turned out to be a lot of yelling and screaming, that’s all.”
Then Dana grinned as her professional instincts took over. “It wasn’t a total downer. Got a nice mention in the New York Post.”
On the other side of the room, Angel finally stood up and shook hands with her two remaining fans—Goth girls in black lace skirts, black midriff T-shirts, and matching navel rings. When they exited, she stretched and yawned and headed for the front door.
“Girlfriend,” Dana called to Angel, “can I get you anything?”
Angel shook her head. “I signed all the books in the store. I’m just going outside for a smoke and some fresh air.”
“Don’t get lost,” Dana said, rising. I stood up, too.
“God,” Dana whispered. “In the old days, when Angel said the word smoke, I had to check to see if there were any policemen around—there were states in this country I couldn’t take her back to when she was using. Felony states like Texas. Now you know what I mean when I say careless. Fortunately she can afford people like me to take care of things when they get out of control.”
“So . . . any clue who that girl was who confronted Angel tonight?” I asked quickly, before Dana got away.
“I think it was someone from Bethany Banks’s family. So far, the Bankses have been pretty quiet—but just between you and me, the publisher fully expected to fight a lawsuit. And the press has been stirring the pot, trying to start a feud between Angel and the Banks family. In the end, though, all publicity is good publicity because it’s good for the bottom line . . .”
I was about to ask Dana another question, but I never got the chance. From outside, we heard angry words, a loud scream, then the squeal of tires on pavement.
“Gee-zus. Not again,” Dana Wu cried as she raced to the door.
CHAPTER 5
Hit and Run
I shall tell you a great secret, my friend. Do not wait for the last judgment. It takes place every day.
—Albert Camus
BEFORE I’D REACHED Buy the Book’s front door, Johnny Napp was already through it, running outside. Dana Wu bolted after him, with me on her heels and Aunt Sadie and Mina on mine.
Outside, in the middle of the otherwise desolate street, Angel Stark lay sprawled on the concrete, the gauzy skirt of her Betsy Johnson neon-green and hot-pink sundress fluttering in the night like a downtown distress signal. In his baggy blue jeans and black T-shirt, Johnny Napp knelt over her. But Angel wasn’t moving, and I feared the worst—until she began spewing an outraged string of obscenities.
Obviously, the girl wasn’t dead.
Dana raced into the street and to her client. But the elementary school crossing guard programmed into my head through years of motherhood made me pause and check for traffic before stepping off the sidewalk. All eyes were on Angel, but when I turned my head, I spied a car careening up Quindicott’s main street, its scarlet taillights receding in the distance.
The sedan was a black Jaguar. Unfortunately, with only Cranberry Street’s brand new faux-Victorian streetlights as illumination, and because I’ve read far too many novels late into the night, my eyes weren’t up to deciphering the license plate, though I did notice a white and blue bumper sticker of some kind—but on the left side of the trunk, not the chrome bumper, where one would expect such a sticker.
“Son of a bitch!” Angel Stark yelled as the vehicle vanished around a corner. I turned to find Johnny Napp and Dana trying to help Angel to her feet. Pale and out of breath, Angel had lost one of her shoes, which gentleman Johnny quickly retrieved, and her corset-bodiced sundress was disheveled and dirty. Otherwise, Angel Stark did not seem any worse for wear, though her face was florid and her classic features folded into an angry scowl.
I was still on the sidewalk as Mina and Sadie caught up to me.
“Oh, my,” Aunt Sadie muttered, and I noticed she was wringing her hands now. But as I’ve tried to tell her many times before, bookselling is murder these days.
“Damn it! Is everybody in this cracker burg a critic?” Angel yelled, pushing her hair back and tugging on her pump.
Dana reached for Angel’s arm. “Let’s get off the street. Get you inside—” But Angel Stark fended her off.
“I’m fine. I can walk!” Angel insisted, even as she grasped Johnny Napp’s muscular, barbwire-tattooed bicep for support. In fact, once her shoe was in place, Angel wrapped both of her shapely, health club-toned arms around his waist.
I glanced back at Mina. In the soft night breeze, her flyaway brown hair was dancing about her freckled face. Her brown eyes were flaring, her expression pained.
“What happened?” Aunt Sadie whispered.
“I think someone tried to run Angel down,” I replied. “I saw a car—”
Dana Wu whirled and faced her client. “Is that what happened?”
“No! God no,” Angel replied, too quickly. “It was just some low-rent asshole who made a rude comment about my book. I guess I should be used to cheap shots by now, but I’m tired, and it really pissed me off!”
Angel screamed the last few words in the direction of the Jag, now long gone.
I wondered what sort of “low-rent asshole” drove a hundred thousand dollar car. Clearly Dana Wu wasn’t satisfied with the author’s characterization of the incident, either.
“Listen to me, Angel,” Dana said, grabbing Angel’s shoulders. “You have to be straight with me, kiddo. Tell me exactly what happened.”