Chase Baker and the Golden Condor: (A Chase Baker Thriller Series No. 2) Read Free Page B

off the
    desk. But I have no way of knowing what exactly as we both come to that special
    place together on Leslie’s desk in the fourteenth-floor office of the Singer
    Literary Agency.
    When we’re done, I roll over onto my back on her big desk.
    “That was wonderful,” she says, not without a laugh.
    “This is exactly the kind of shenanigans that can get a girl
    fired.”
    “Not me. I own the joint.”
    In my head I’m picturing three or four of Leslie’s female
    assistants, or “girls” as she refers to them, positioned outside the office,
    their ears pressed up against the wood door.
    “I forgot about that little detail. I’m a lucky man.”
    “Yes and no,” she says.
    “What’s that mean?” I say, rolling onto my left shoulder,
    facing her.
    “It means, Mr. Man in the Yellow Hat, that you need to start
    making some money. Or …” She allows the notion to trail off.
    “Or what?”
    “Start thinking about going back to sandbagging.”
    “It’s sandhogging,” I correct. Then, “I thought The
    Shroud Key was killing it on the charts. I nearly got myself killed on my
    quest to find the mortal remains of Jesus Christ, and I thought the novel I
    wrote about it was a testament to my talents both as a writer and a daring
    adventurer.” I smile for effect.
    “You love yourself, don’t you, Chase?”
    “I aims to please, even if the person I’m pleasing is me.”
    “In all seriousness, Shroud Key is still selling
    well. Or was selling well anyway. But none of the books on your backlist
    are selling right now and you need a new novel, like right this very second.
    This isn’t like the old days when you put out one manuscript every two years.
    Readers want three books per year.”
    “That might intrude upon my travel plans.”
    “That’s the reality of the modern literary market, Chase.
    You seen your latest royalty statement?”
    “That’s your job to send it to me.”
    “I have. Your problem is, you don’t read your mail. Snail or
    email. You’d rather be reading Arrival and Departure boards at airports.”
    “Explain.”
    “ Shroud Key earned out its fifty-grand advance, but
    not much more. Meaning you need a new book.”
    “I hate advances.”
    “Think about going Indie after this one. You get to keep all
    your royalties. Minus my fifteen percent of course.” She rolls over, smiles at
    me.
    “And conjugal meetings.”
    “That too. Especially considering the fragile nature of my
    current relationship. But get that cute little ass of yours into a chair and
    start typing. Our living depends upon it.”
    “Might have to do some on-site research first.”
    “Where exactly this time?”
    “It’ll come to me.”
    She pokes me.
    “Make sure it comes to you soon, Chase,” she insists. “There
    now, agent/client pep talk officially over and done with.”
    “I have the best agent in the world,” I say, kissing her
    gently on the mouth. “Too bad she’s making the mistake of marrying a less than
    trustworthy gynie.”
    “Hey,” she perks up, “with self-publishing all the rage
    these days, anyone who types the word ‘spit’ onto a series of blank pages sixty
    thousand times can get their book published. That said, literary agents aren’t
    quite in demand like they used to be. A girl has to look out for herself.”
    “A summer estate in the Hamptons and a three-bedroom
    apartment on the Upper West Side. You’ve looked out for yourself pretty damned
    well, Agent.”
    “I, like you, Mr. Man in the Yellow Hat, am an explorer and
    a survivor.”
    “You’re also an opportunist who’s about to marry a total
    jerk.”
    “Look who’s talking, grave robber.”
    “I don’t rob graves. I unearth ancient antiquities for the
    purposes of study and on-site research for my novels.”
    “Dangerous work if you can get it.”
    “And this isn’t? What if the gynie were to find out about
    us? He might come after me with a pair of stirrups.” On instinct, I find myself
    sitting up.