“What’s up?” said Todd, casually. “I saw the reviews.”

“Never mind the reviews,” Nora said. “You’re number three.”

“Number three what?” asked Todd.

“In the New York Times bestseller list,” said Nora.

“Fuck my old boots,” said Todd.

“Mr. Milstead!” said Franco.

“They don’t release the list until tomorrow,” Nora said, when Todd had finally asked Franco to give him some privacy, “but it’s official. All My Colors is the number three best-selling book in the country.”

“How did it happen so quickly?” asked Todd. “It doesn’t seem possible.”

“Our sources say it’s just been flying out the stores,” Nora said. “The presses are working overtime. People read about it, Todd, they hear about it, they want it.”

“But number three!” Todd said.

“Do you want to know who’s above you?” Nora teased.

“No,” said Todd, after a moment. “I want to see it in print,” he decided. “I want to see it written down, otherwise I won’t believe it.”

“Very well,” said Nora. “Which reminds me, when the list is out, we’re pretty sure that Hogan will want you.”

“Hogan? You mean Tom Hogan? The Tom Hogan Show?”

“I don’t know any other Tom Hogans. Yes, Todd. Tom likes the occasional author. Makes for a more intellectual show.”

“I guess that would be okay,” said Todd. He was deliberately understating his case. Just as a coward dies a thousand deaths before his real death, so Todd Milstead had been interviewed a thousand times by Tom Hogan in his imagination. Well, Tom, that’s a very interesting question… Tom, you’ve hit the nail on the head… I think “genius” is a word bandied about too often these days, Tom…

“Todd?”

Todd returned to reality.

“Sorry.”

“If Tom does want you, it won’t be for a week or two. His people book well in advance,” said Nora. “So just forge on with the tour for now.”

“Will do,” said Todd. Then he remembered.

“I’ve got another reading tonight,” he said. “Cleveland, Ohio. I’d better get going.”

“Okay, Todd,” said Nora. “Drive safely. Remember you’re more than an author now, you’re a star.”

Yeah, thought Todd, a star investment. He put the phone down and walked into the corridor. Mr. Franco was waiting there, a coy look on his face and a book in his hand.

“I have to run,” said Todd.

“I understand,” said Franco. “I wondered if you might just—”

He proffered the book.

“It’s not for me,” he said. “I prefer the classics. My wife, though—” He made a gesture as if to imply that Mrs. Franco read the cheapest shit imaginable.

Todd took the book. A cold shock ran through him.

“This isn’t—” he began.