“Lance, really good to see you again,” Howard said as he pumped Lance’s hand up and down twice. Always twice. Must’ve learned that in publisher’s college, Lance thought absently.
“You also,” Lance said, still smiling. Howard turned to Andy and extended his hand, which Andy gripped in what seemed to Lance to be an overenthusiastic greeting.
“Good to see you, Allen.”
“Andrew,” Andy said flatly, the smile hanging on his face like a bad painting.
“Of course, please sit down, gentlemen.”
The three men sat and noisily scooted their chairs closer to the table. Howard reached out and tipped the plate of cookies toward Andy and Lance.
“Cookies?” he said, looking from Lance to Andy, smiling like Mr. Ed. Both men shook their heads in unison, Lance smiling and Andy glaring openly. Howard set the plate down and steepled his fingers together while gazing over the tops of them. “Well, guys, let’s get down to business, shall we?”
“Sure,” Lance said.
“Please,” Andy murmured. Howard shot a momentary look of annoyance at Andy and then his smile wiped it away.
“So Lance, what’s going on? I’m told you had to put a hold on Harbinger’s Regret?”
Lance nodded, encouraged by how understanding and open Howard’s voice sounded. “Yeah, I’ve had some plot issues. I have maybe another twenty thousand words to go, and I just ran into a snag. I’m thinking I’ll need at least another three weeks to work out the kinks.” Lance stopped speaking as Howard looked down toward his lap and put up one hand in the universal sign of silence. Lance’s eyebrows drew down as the man who sat behind Howard flicked open both latches on the black briefcase he held on his lap.
“Lance, we were right on track for an October release. That’s your best month. We talked about this on the phone not two months ago. What happened from when you told me it was all coming together to now?” Howard asked.
“Well,” Lance said, licking his lips. His jaw felt tight. It needed to be stretched and cracked. He could feel a pilot light beginning to burn in the pit of his stomach, the warning sign, as loud as any tornado siren, that his anger was beginning to wake. “Like I said, there were a few things that just didn’t seem to mesh well with the resolution, so I went back and changed them. That, in turn, weakened a couple of details that I really liked. I can iron it out, I just need a few more weeks.” Howard sat staring at him over the bulbous sweating pitcher and flat cookies. His eyes were unmoving in their sockets, and Lance suddenly had the overwhelming impression that everyone else in the room had died. For a few seconds, Howard ceased to breath, the enigmatic man behind him was a taxidermist’s canvas, and even Andy seemed to have stopped his near-constant motion.
Life snapped back into action as Howard sighed and ran his tongue over the outside of his massive teeth. The silent man behind him opened the briefcase and pulled a staple-bound mass of paper out of the black carrier. He then stood just enough to slide the sheets onto the table a few inches from Howard’s elbow.
“Well, I’m really disappointed, Lance. Really disappointed. No offense, but now I’m going to have to fly back to New York and tell Richard why the next Lance Metzger novel won’t be out in time for the season next fall.”
“I’m sorry, I just can’t throw it all together for the sake of hitting a deadline. I’m sure you understand,” Lance said imploringly, the anger in his stomach starting to rise like mercury in a thermometer.
“I do and I don’t, but I guess there’s no choice, is there?” Howard said, beginning to stand. “Oh, but one more thing,” he continued with a vaguely amused tone, and Lance noticed one of his undertaker hands lightly touch the papers on the table. “I was notified that this was your last book on contract with us—”