With a forgiving smile Mercer said, “Well, Ripley turned it down.”

“Indeed we did, a foolish move, but then that’s publishing. You guess right on some books and wrong on others, all part of the business.”

“It was published by Newcombe, and we had our differences.”

He snorted his disapproval and said, “A bunch of clowns. Didn’t you leave them?”

“Yes. My current contract is with Viking, if I still have a contract. The last time my editor called she informed me I was three years past due.”

Mort roared with laughter and said, “Only three years! To be so lucky. I was yelling at Doug Tannenbaum last week because he was supposed to deliver eight years ago. Writers!”

Phoebe jumped in with “Do you talk about your work?”

Mercer smiled and shook her head. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Who’s your agent?” Mort demanded.

“Gilda Savitch.”

“Love that gal. I had lunch with her last month.”

So glad you approve, Mercer almost said, the rum doing a number. “She didn’t mention my name, did she?”

“I can’t remember. It was a long lunch.” Mort roared again and then gulped his drink. Phoebe asked about Noelle and this occupied them for a few minutes. Mercer noticed there was no activity in the kitchen, no sign of food being prepared. When Mort excused himself for a bathroom break, Bruce went back to the blender for more daiquiris. The girls chatted about the summer and vacations and such. Phoebe and Mort would leave tomorrow and head to the Keys for a month. Publishing was slow in July and thoroughly dormant in August, and, well, since he was the boss they could leave the city for six weeks.

As soon as Mort returned and settled into his chair with his fresh drink and cigar, the doorbell rang and Bruce disappeared. He returned with a large box of carryout and placed it on the table. “The best fish tacos on the island. Grilled grouper caught this morning.”

“You’re serving us take-out tacos?” Mort asked in disbelief. “I don’t believe this. I take you to the finest restaurants in New York and I get this.” As he protested he almost lunged at the tacos.

Bruce said, “The last time we had lunch in the city you took me to that dreadful deli around the corner from your office and my Reuben was so bad I almost puked. And, I picked up the bill.”

“You’re just a bookseller, Bruce,” Mort said, chomping a taco in half. “The writers get the fancy meals. Mercer, next time you’re in the city we’ll do a three-star.”

“A date,” she said, knowing it would never happen. At the rate he was draining his glass, he wouldn’t remember much by morning. Bruce was letting loose too, drinking far more aggressively than anything she had seen so far. Gone were the thoughtful sips of wine, the measured refills, the chatter about the vintage and producer, the complete self-control. Now, with his hair down and his shoes off, hell it was Friday night after a long week and he was breaking bad with a partner in crime.