Eva composed her face. “Please, Mr.—”
“And that god-awful crap about that Coburn guy screwing her with his gun.” His nostrils flared. “That’s disgusting. That’s—”
Julia’s stomach flinched as she registered the obscene menace of Timson’s words. It rustled through the others as well, with a chorus of disgusted coughs and snarls. Wallace took a deep breath, then lowered his chin and settled his gaze on the carpet. Behind him, Jerome’s cheekbones seemed to contract, squeezing his eyes into black marbles.
“It’s a story!” Eva spun toward Jerome. “It’s fiction. No one will think it’s true. I made it all up.”
“Yeah, well, these babies don’t know that.” Timson waved toward the Clarks, whose eyes were large as coins. “They’ll think Leonard Timson is some kinda monster who screws his gals with a gun.”
Eva looked wildly around the room. “No, no. I promise they won’t. No one will think that.”
Timson pitched the manuscript back into the safe. He shoved the jewelry case and its tray in on top of it, spilling a pearl earring onto the floor, and slammed the door shut.
“Please, please,” Eva begged. “That’s mine. I need it. You can’t just take my things!”
“You got a job, girl, and it don’t need your brain. Stick to what I pay you for.” He swung the heavy picture back into place and turned to his guests with a grim smile.
“But we’ve paid for that manuscript,” Duveen squeaked. Julia wondered that he could speak at all. A snake of fear had closed around her own throat. “It belongs to Mr. Goldsmith now.”
Timson’s smile ripened. “No one paid me. It’s in my safe; looks to me like it’s mine. You been swindled if you paid this doll for something she don’t have to sell.” He paused. “But I’m a reasonable man. What’s it worth to you, Goldsmith?”
Goldsmith sat on the edge of the sofa, his back rigid. He had not yet spoken, and he was the only man in the room whose forehead was not blistered with perspiration. “A manuscript belongs to its author, Mr. Timson.”
Timson chortled. “That so? Let her sue me for it.”
Goldsmith rose. “You will hear from our lawyers.” His voice was cold and precise. “We will do everything in our power to secure Miss Pruitt’s property for her. We will seek prosecution if necessary, despite the ridiculous cretins behind whom you attempt to hide.”
“Ain’t that just dandy. Some sissy kike in a purple shirt thinks he can talk like a big boy. You’re never seeing that manuscript, fella. It’s mine now. Wave it bye-bye.” Timson flapped a toddler’s gesture.
“This is not over.” Fury whittled Goldsmith’s words into needles. “Pablo, deal with this person.”
With a slam that shook the doorframe, he was gone.
Duveen swiveled. “I’m afraid Arthur is right, Mr. Timson. Legally the manuscript is Eva’s, and she’s sold it to us.” He swallowed and persevered in a high, pinched voice. “Our readers are sophisticated folks. They don’t assume what’s depicted is literally true. Good writers set a realistic stage, but what happens there comes from their imaginations. That realism is what gives good literature the power to resonate in readers’ memory and to move them to sympathy.”
This discourse on literary method sounded an absurd note in the hot room. Timson stared as if Duveen were a new comic auditioning to join his show.
Duveen took this as encouragement. “What’s important is that such violence as Miss Pruitt depicts could happen, not that in fact it did. That rape scene is horrifying, yes, but it conveys the circumstances and dangers that a young woman might face in today’s Harlem. Readers will have no reason to suspect the Coburn character is real, Mr. Timson. But it’s vital that they believe such a fellow could exist, that such unspeakable acts could happen.” He paused and added dramatically, “And even that they probably do.”
Timson clapped twice. “Very pretty, Mister Professor. But full of crap. Could, would, did—makes no difference to me. Who cares about teacher ladies in Cleveland? Anybody in New York will sure as hell think she’s dishing the hash on bad old Leonard Timson.” His eyebrows rose as if challenging anyone to deny it. “Except they won’t. Because they’ll never read it.” His triumphant gaze traveled from one face to another before reaching Eva. “No one will.”
She met his eyes squarely. Julia saw determination in them, a resolve to reclaim what was rightly hers.
Then she sprang at him. Timson caught her raised arm and wrenched it behind her back. He gripped her hard against his chest, and she stilled. A gun was wedged under her cheekbone.
Julia heard herself gasp. Dolly Clark slapped both hands to her mouth. Duveen made a strange gulping noise. Jerome swallowed, but otherwise he remained motionless, still hidden behind Wallace.
Julia didn’t see where the gun had come from. One instant Eva had been about to slap him, and the next she was pinned into place by a muzzle. When she tried to move, Timson drove the gun in deeper, pinching her eye into a terrified wedge of flesh. Then her eyelids sank shut. Her face went lax.
Julia could not pull her horrified gaze from Eva’s limp face. Was this the look of someone who knew she was about to die? Was this how Julia’s first sweetheart had looked as he’d resolved to kick away the chair? After three long years of fighting a war that would never end inside his head, had poor Gerald’s face collapsed like this, in such fear and sorrow?
“Come, now.”
Wallace’s voice was like cream poured on a fiery dish. He moved from behind the bar and walked slowly toward Timson and Eva. Five soundless, patient, measured steps.
“Come now, Leonard. She meant no harm. Let her go.” He reached for the gun.
Timson regripped. Eva squeaked like a pinched rabbit. Or perhaps the noise came from Dolly, or even Julia’s own lungs.
Wallace scoffed gently. “You two need each other, am I not right? Forget that book; forget this little scene. Take a deep breath, both of
