American literary giant: 1974

Lynn finished work early on Friday night.

According to the schedule, he shouldn't be working the night shift. A few days ago, he stayed up until the early hours of the morning to earn more money. There's no need for that today.

Because he had something more important to do.

He pushed open the bar door. The bar was quieter than usual.

Elena was slicing a lemon. When she saw him come in, the knife paused for a moment.

"So early today?"

"I need to talk to you."

"Draft beer?"

I don't drink alcohol.

Elena put down the knife and wiped her hands. For someone who always drinks when she comes to say she won't drink, it means this is no small matter.

Lynn sat down at the bar and placed her hands on the counter.

Are you free next Monday afternoon?

"Next Monday...day shift, I get off work at 3 PM. What's up?"

"Three o'clock is too late. I need you to be at Park Avenue before 2:30."

"Park Avenue?"

"Number 245. Random House Publishing."

Elena placed the half-cut lemon on the cutting board and looked at him.

"Have you submitted your manuscript?"

"A friend helped me make the appointment. It's with his editor. Next Monday at 3 PM."

"Congratulations. You came here to tell me this?"

"No. I came because—"

Lynn paused for a moment.

"I need an agent."

"Then go find your agent."

"I don't have an agent. A proper agent would sign an agency contract, take a 15% commission, and good agents simply don't take on newcomers with no publishing record. I don't want to hire a bad agent either. Even if I started looking now, it wouldn't be enough time before next Monday."

"so?"

"That's why I need you to go."

Elena's hand stopped on the lemon.

"What do you need me to do?"

"Pretend to be my agent."

The bar was silent for about three seconds. Then the humming of the freezer suddenly became very loud.

"You're crazy."

"Possibly."

"But—I don't even know your manuscript, or what you wrote." Elena raised her eyebrows.

Lynn's hand stopped on the bar.

She's right.

He thought about so many things: business cards, suits, lines. But he forgot the most basic thing. He sent Elena to sell a book, but she didn't even know what the book was about.

Elena glanced at Lynn: "Put your manuscript on the bar when you leave."

"What if you don't like it?" Lynn asked.

"What does it have to do with whether I like it or not?"

"Of course it's related. If you don't like someone, you won't even be able to praise them in front of your editor."

"That's the problem," Elena said, looking at Lynn. "I'm a bartender."

"I know."

"I don't even know what an agent does."

"You don't need to know everything. Just sit there, dress appropriately, and don't initiate conversation. If he asks you questions, just say we can discuss it in more detail later."

Elena put the knife down. She leaned against the freezer, her arms crossed over her chest.

Why are you looking for me?

"Because you are the only person I can trust in New York."

That's because you don't know many people.

"That's one of the reasons."

Elena didn't laugh. She looked at him intently.

"Lynn. What if they find out?"

"No. Thompson is an editor, not an agent. He doesn't know all the agents in New York. You walk in, hand him a business card, and say you represent me; he has no reason to doubt it."

"Business cards? I don't even have business cards."

"I'll do it."

"What should we use to make it?"

Do you have any thicker white paper at your bar?

Elena crouched down and rummaged through the clutter under the bar, pulling out a stack of blank order forms from beer suppliers. They were of decent thickness.

Lynn took a pencil out of his pocket.

"What's your full name?"

"You want me to be your manager when you don't even know my full name?"

"That's why I'm asking now."

Elena Clark.

Lynn wrote a few words on the back of the order form:

Elena Clarke

[Literary Agent]

Lighthouse Talent Management Company

"A lighthouse?" Elena glanced at it.

"I came up with it on the spur of the moment."

"This looks fake."

"All business cards look fake. That's the point of business cards. A small piece of paper with a name and a title printed on it, you hand it out, and the person on the other end believes it. The entire business world is built on this absurd mutual trust."

Elena picked up the "business card." It was the back of a food order form. Written in pencil.

"This is the most shabby business card I've ever seen."

"I'll print real ones for you when I have the money."

"Once you have money, you won't need me to impersonate you anymore."

"That's true."

She placed the "business card" on the bar counter and looked at it for a while.

"What should I wear?"

Before Lynn could even feel happy, she added, "I didn't say yes. I was asking what would happen if I said yes."

"Dark color. A suit would be best. Do you have a suit?"

"I have a pair of black pants and a gray suit jacket left behind by the previous tenant. They're two sizes too big."

"That's enough. Two sizes bigger is better than two sizes smaller. A size bigger makes it seem like you don't care about your clothes."

"You're talking nonsense."

"I'm analyzing it carefully."

Elena chuckled. "You're seriously talking nonsense."

She picked up the knife and continued slicing the lemon. She sliced ​​two pieces. Then two more. She seemed to be considering Lynn's suggestion.

"How much is the commission?"

"What?"

"You said the agent takes 15%. I'll pretend to take 15% too."

"You're only pretending to be 5% at most."

"Ten percent."

"Seven percent."

"Ten percent. That's my final offer. If you don't agree, go find a bartender who's willing to wear a suit jacket two sizes too big, sit in Random House, and pretend to know you."

"Sold. Ten percent."

"And this 10% isn't commission. It's hush money."

"Hush money?"

"If you become famous in the future, I promise I won't tell anyone. 'The first agent of a famous American writer was a bartender in a Manhattan bar'—how much do you think that headline is worth in the newspaper?"

"That's probably enough to buy a cup of gin and tonic."

"Then you owe me a gin and tonic."

"make a deal."

The two people looked at each other from opposite sides of the bar.

Lynn held out her hand. Elena looked at the hand.

"What are you doing?"

"Shake hands. We just made a deal."

"You have pencil ash on your hands."

"The agent doesn't care about these things."

Elena wiped her hands and shook them. Quickly. Firmly.

"Monday afternoon at two o'clock," Lynn said.

Where should we meet?

"At the entrance of 245 Park Avenue. Just stand there. Don't go in. Wait for me to arrive before we go in together."

"What if you're late?"

"I won't."

Lynn stood up and left the pencil-written "business card" on the bar.

"If I'm late this time, it's not just the dollar and fifty cents I'll lose. It's the first time in my life that someone will be willing to publish something I've written."

He zipped up his jacket.

Place the first twenty pages of the manuscript on the bar, and then say:

"See you Monday. Two o'clock. Don't wear an apron."

"..."

Lynn pushed open the door and went out.

A cold wind. A Manhattan night. The lights of the Twin Towers are on in the distance.

He walked home. After taking a couple of steps, he stopped, glanced back at the bar, and then walked away.

The door was closed. The wall lamp was still on.

He had no idea what Elena was doing. Maybe she was cutting lemons. Or maybe she was looking at that beer order form that said "Lighthouse Talent Management Company."

He turned back and continued walking.

Next Monday. 3 PM. Park Avenue.

A taxi driver and a bartender are about to walk into one of the largest publishing houses in the United States.

In 1974 New York, the president was lying to the nation, the stock market on Wall Street was so bad that brokers were jumping off buildings, Arabs cut off oil pipelines, causing long lines of taxis waiting for gas, there was more graffiti than God's name in the subway, and there were more pimps than tourists in Times Square.

If one more absurd thing happens, no one will notice.