Deadline for Lenny Stern by Peter Marabell (beautiful books to read TXT) 📕

We went down the stairs and turned up Lake Street for the two-block walk to the restaurant. We crossed to the other side of Lake Street at Pennsylvania Park, next door to the City Park Grill.

Once inside, we asked for a table near the front windows. The Grill began life in the 1880s, serving men only. The long front room featured wood floors, tables scattered around the room, and a high tin ceiling. Along one wall was a heavy mahogany bar. Back in the 1920s when it was known as The Annex, a local resident named Ernest Hemingway often occupied a stool at one end of the bar where he dreamed up short story ideas.

We ordered two chardonnays and glanced at the menu.

“You want to stay at my apartment,” I said, “or your house?”

AJ put down her glass. “Either one would be okay, but I’ll take a rain check. Is that okay with you?”

“Of course. Still have that staff meeting in the morning?”

“Uh-huh. Not quite ready for it.”

I leaned over and kissed AJ softly on the lips.

“I’m always disappointed when we can’t fit in time together, but it’s still okay.”

“That’s very sweet,” she said.

“We’ve had too much time apart lately,” I said.

“Maybe it’d be easier if we lived together.”

“Where we live isn’t the problem, AJ. We have busy, complicated lives.”

AJ slowly nodded. “Yeah, I know.” She picked up her glass. “Well, here’s to the big day tomorrow. Are you happy the book tour will finally start?”

I touched her glass with mine. “Relieved is more like it. We needed a few days to get ready, but it felt like a long time coming.”

13

I lingered in the shower, letting the hot water slowly melt into cold. It helped. So did a light run through Bay View. Sleep had come quickly, but it was a restless night of tossing, turning, and staring at the ceiling. Too much nervous energy.

I finished off eggs, toast and coffee, put the dishes in the dishwasher and left the building by the back stairs. It was already 73°, still humid, and the sun was hot on my skin.

“Morning, Sandy,” I said when I arrived at the office.

“Good morning,” she said. “Don’t settle in, Maury Weston’s expecting you. You didn’t forget, did you?”

“I remembered, Sandy.”

“Then get a move on, the gang’s all there.”

The sidewalks became less congested as I moved away from the Gaslight District. I turned up State Street and walked into the offices of the Post Dispatch.

“They’re in the conference room, Mr. Russo,” the receptionist said as I went by.

This was my third visit in recent days to the small, humorless space the newspaper people called a conference room.

“Michael,” Maury Weston said. “Come on in.”

Charles Bigelow was there, and Tina Lawson and Lenny Stern. Off to one side, leaning against a bookcase, was Henri LaCroix.

Standing next to Maury was a small, dark-haired woman with freckles across the bridge of her nose, wearing a J.Crew business casual outfit.

“I’d like you to meet Kate Hubbell,” Maury said, “Lenny’s editor from Chicago.”

We shook hands. “Nice to meet you,” I said.

Hubbell’s face lit up with a soft smile. She was very much the young professional, eager to learn, always looking for the next opportunity.

“I’ve heard a lot about you, Mr. Russo,” she said.

“Fake news,” I said, “all of it. Please, call me Michael.”

“Yes, Michael,” she said, smiling. “Tina told me you’re Big Ten.”

“Michigan State,” I said. “You, too?”

“Illinois. Creative writing.” She gestured at Bigelow, who was off in a corner on his cell. “I had an internship at Gloucester my senior year. They liked what I did, and Charles hired me. That was four years ago.”

“You like editing rather than writing?”

“Well,” Kate said, “I’ve learned a lot, for sure, but … it’s not like writing. The process, I mean.”

“Would you rather be writing?”

Kate shook her head. “I’m still writing. I’ve got two short stories circulating. One might be published.”

“That would be exciting.”

“But I wouldn’t trade my job,” she said. “Besides, Lenny’s book is my first solo edit.”

“Congratulations,” I said. “Lenny doesn’t always play well with others.”

She laughed. “Not a problem,” she said. “I just tell him to shut up and listen.”

I started to respond just as Maury Weston rapped lightly on the conference table.

“If I can interrupt your pleasant chitchat …” In his easygoing, low-key way, Maury went over plans for the Carnegie event.

“I realize this may sound unnecessary, all of us walking to the library together,” Maury said, “but I’d like us to help Michael and Henri,” he gestured in our direction, “any way we can. With Charles and Kate here, well, it’s additional people for two men to watch.”

I noticed Henri had a satisfied, if discreet, smile. I moved over next to him.

“Your idea, I take it?”

He nodded. “Went down like a piece of cake.”

“You’ll stick here until they’re ready to walk over?”

“Easier that way. Listen, Bigelow mentioned taking the group out for a drink after.”

“Sure,” I said. “If everything goes okay, it’d be a nice way to celebrate Lenny’s book, relax a little.”

“I think so, too,” Henri said.

“All right,” I said, “I’m going to slip out of here, they’re all busy anyway.”

I left the conference room. I had no reason to suspect I was being followed, but I chose an odd route back to the office just in case. I walked at a leisurely pace, intentionally, down Mitchell.

I window shopped at Reid’s Furniture and stopped again at Dittmar’s Chronotech. I glanced occasionally behind me and across the street, but I wasn’t being watched, let alone followed. I continued to the alley that runs behind the Lake Street stores, cut through Roast & Toast and went up the stairs.

“Hi, boss,” Sandy said. “Is everyone on board over there?”

“Seems to be.”

I fidgeted away the rest of the afternoon with calls, emails and scanning the new issue of Runner’s World. I kept looking at the time — my watch, my phone, the monitor on the desk.

“Sure you won’t change your mind and come to the Carnegie?”

“I’d just as soon not