Kent picked up on the first ring. “Livingston, here.”

“Hey, Kent. It’s Anthony.”

“Anthony,” Kent cooed in a singsong voice. “You sly son of a bitch.”

“Huh?”

“Congratulations.”

Anthony handed the clerk a twenty, trying to zero in on Kent’s meaning. Had he heard about Clarista? If so, it was more than a little embarrassing. He sure hoped nobody else in the tight-knit New York literary world knew why he’d fired his assistant.

“Thanks,” he muttered into the phone, dropping a couple of bills into the tip snifter and pocketing the rest of his change. He carefully balanced the coffee and the bun while working out an exit from the confusing conversation.

“Zane Randal’s worried about the promotional copies making it to Berlin on time,” he tried.

“Not a problem,” Kent responded, his voice turning more serious as he shuffled some papers in the background. “I’ll confirm with marketing this morning. Is Zane heading over on Friday?”

“Thursday,” said Anthony, pushing open the coffee shop door with his elbow, giving up the buzz of conversation for the honks of Sixth Avenue. “His publicist set up a couple of radio spots and a reading.”

“That’s what we like to hear,” said Kent. “The marketing rep will catch up with him on Saturday morning. He’s at the Hilton?”

“He is,” said Anthony, pleased that this pivotal leg of Zane’s book tour was under control. As he paced up the sidewalk toward the Prism Literary Agency offices, he mentally clicked through the other priorities involving Kent.

“I’ll have to call you this afternoon on the new Jules Burrell contract,” he said. He was still waiting for a phone call from Joan to confirm the manuscript deadline.

Kent chortled. “Think I’ll be passing that one up to Bo.”