Final Edit by Robert A Carter Page B

industrial espionage.
    It all started when a man named Edgar Ayres came to see me. It was just after Thanksgiving and I couldn’t help but notice
     that my bank account was as weak as a busted flush.
    So, when Ayres called me, I was ready to listen to any good offer, as long as it was legitimate…
    I was intrigued enough to read on. I would love to have a good female P.I. series, and this one looked promising. Why is this
     genre popular? Ask the Sisters in Crime. All I know is that men and women readers both seem to like the idea of a woman packing
     a gun and getting off a karate chop with the best of them—the more hard-boiled, the better.
    To paraphrase Raymond Chandler: “Down these mean streets a woman must go who is not herself mean, who is neither tarnished
     nor afraid. She must be a complete woman and a common woman and yet an unusual woman. She must be the best woman in her world,
     and a good enough woman for any world.” Anyway, that’s the general idea.
    When at last I fell asleep, it was not because I had lostinterest in the manuscript. It was simply “Nature’s soft nurse,” as Shakespeare put it, brushing my eyes with her healing
     touch.
    In the morning… I’ll read some more… in the… morning…

Chapter 11
    The weather was pleasant enough for me to have breakfast on the roof deck, where I finished reading the
Iceman
manuscript. I have wondered why so many people seem to find their first meal of the day boring, and why they so often eat
     the same thing day after day. Traveling abroad, I have had some quite exotic breakfasts, everything from
pâté de campagne
and toast points in Paris to gluten bread and elderberries with clotted cream in Frankfurt. This morning I feasted on kippered
     herring and Pepita’s French toast—made with day-old sourdough bread, slathered with maple syrup and garnished with fresh blueberries.
    As I sat drinking my second cup of Juan Valdez’s coffee, Oscar appeared with the portable phone in his hand. “Miz Reechmon,”
     he announced.
    “So nice to hear from you,” I murmured before Margo had the chance to drop her bombshell.
    “Nick,” she said, “I wanted to say I’m sorry about last night. I know you were disappointed…”
    “Disappointment is never fatal, my dear,” I said. “And not even final.”
    “I’ve been thinking…”
    “Go ahead.”
    “I don’t think we ought to see each other for a while.”
    I felt a sharp stab in the vicinity of my chest which I knew
was
certainly disappointment. “But why?”
    “Let’s just say I think we need some distance between us, and perhaps some time to decide where we stand—and also where we’re
     going.”
    “That’s quite rational of you, Margo. I wish I felt the same way.”
    “That’s the problem, Nick. You seem to be emotionally involved, and I am not—not in the same way. Oh, I like you well enough…”
    “Thanks for small favors.”
    “And anyway you know your business always comes ahead of everything else.”
    When I’m not involved in the murder of one of my editors, that is.
    There didn’t appear to be much more for me to say; clearly Margo’s mind was made up, and she was not to be persuaded otherwise—not
     by my oratory, at any rate. I muttered something about being sorry, and she said something about getting in touch with me
     at some later date, and then we both hung up. It occurred to me that I was probably far less satisfied with this conversation
     than Margo was. Margo, Margo… why? The author of the only book on astrology I have ever published (and that with tongue firmly
     in cheek) would say that she was simply being a true Gemini—and perhaps in this case astrology did have the correct answer.
    By this time, my second helping of French toast had cooled off, and so had my ardor. If I didn’t have another woman in my
     life for some time to come, it would
not
be a hardship at all.
    I would miss Margo’s companionship, of course. And what about the second ticket I