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writing this book with me.” Her eyes never left mine. “You think it’s sleazy. Cheap. So why are you doing it?”
    â€œSame reason you are,” I told her. “Money.”
    â€œAre you a good writer?”
    â€œYou tell me when we’re done.”
    â€œHow did Jack pick you?”
    â€œMy agent set it up.” Thrust, parry. Thrust, parry.
    â€œYou could have turned it down.”
    â€œI’m just a boy who can’t say nnn—nnn—nnn—”
    She didn’t laugh. Neither did la águila.
    The waiter brought over two wooden bowls filled with romaine. He poured olive oil into a glass dish, broke an egg, separated the yolk in one economical motion, and added it to the oil. In quick succession, he cut a lemon, squeezed the juice, and added Worcestershire and fresh crushed garlic. Last was a whole fresh anchovy, which he diced with the casual malice of a sushi chef. A few quick motions with a whisk, and the mixture became a glossy dressing, which he poured over one salad. Then he added fresh ground pepper and put the bowl in front of me. He set the plain bowl of romaine in front of Felina and left.
    â€œNo dressing?” I said.
    â€œI bring my own.” Felina reached into her bag again. She pulled out a three-finger leather cigar case, a couple of vitamin bottles, and several glassine envelopes full of herbs before she found the Ziploc she was looking for. It was filled with what looked like a thick, lumpy vinaigrette. She poured the goo over her lettuce. It smelled like a piece of Gorgonzola that had been left out of the refrigerator for a day.
    â€œWell,” I said. “Shall we get to it?”
    *   *   *
    â€œWe’re going to have to add some things, do a little restructuring, but overall it’s all there.”
    â€œYou didn’t like that section?”
    â€œNo, it worked fine. But it’ll work better—turn back a couple—there. See?”
    She bent her head over, and I could smell the garlic on her breath. “Oh. Yeah.”
    It was an hour later, and I was beginning to think maybe the book was salvageable—even if it might not be as rosy as Felina painted it or as dirty as Danziger wanted it to be. To my surprise, Felina accepted the few soft criticisms I lobbed at her, and suggested improvements on her own. We were getting along just fine.
    And then I brought up Dick Mann’s drug use. “I know you don’t want to talk about that,” I said gently. “But it’s part of the story.”
    â€œWhy do we have to bring that up?”
    â€œIt’s already been brought up for us. Look at this.” I handed her the Celeb article.
    She looked at it for a long moment. “Oh, God,” she said. “Sloan Baker.”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œSloan Baker. We worked at the same agency. I knew she was double-dealing customers to the tabs.” She tapped la águila on the table nervously. “This is just like something Sloan would do. She probably got a few thousand for it.”
    â€œDid Sloan sleep with Dick Mann, too?” I took her silence as a yes. “How do you know?”
    â€œI was there. But that was at the beginning. After that it was just Dick and me. And I don’t want to write about that, anyway,” she said sharply.
    â€œI know. I know. But if you don’t, no one will read the rest of your story. Dick Mann’s personal life is going to become public knowledge very soon. If you’re not honest, people like this”—tapping the tabloid—“will get the last word.”
    Felina was quiet for a moment. “I’m not just thinking about Dick and me. There’s a child involved,” she said.
    â€œHis son?”
    â€œBetty Mann never did anything to me. I’m just not the same…”
    â€œGive it some thought. We can tell the whole truth without making it exploitative,” I said earnestly. “It is