Page 64 of Ms. Lead

Chapter Thirty-Three

OLIVER

SANS SOLEIL

Three Months After the Grand Canyon

The final draft of my manuscript for my book about the history of the mob in Las Vegas has been turned in and is even early. I went on a writing spree after finally being able to talk to Max Calnetta in earnest. And the book only needed a little polishing after that, much to my editor’s delight.

Editing can sometimes take longer than writing the damn book, so I’m glad this one flew through the process. Darcie is ecstatic and is meeting me for lunch to celebrate.

It’s a dreary London day, with rain forecast daily for just about the entire near future until spring. We meet at a local fish and chips place near my flat and grab a table by the front window.

It’s a Saturday morning, and a group of guys here is watching a football match. I have no clue who’s playing, but it’s red kits versus blue, and apparently, red is preferred.

I never got into football, much to my father’s chagrin. Now, if reading was a sport, I’d have been an Olympic gold medalist. Since becoming a writer, I don’t read as much as I used to, but it still beats sports.

Unlike me, Darcie is a football fan and is splitting her attention between me and the TV hanging in the corner. According to her, this is a London derby, which is very important. As I’ve not heard it was happening today, I highly doubt that to be the case.

“You picked this place because it has a telly, didn’t you?” I ask, masking my smile by popping a chip into my mouth. “Go on, admit it.”

She glances at me, back to the screen, then at me again. “Sorry? Did you say something?”

I grin. This is going to be pointless until halftime of the game.

“I’m shaving my head and moving to Tibet,” I say, barely above the crowd noise.

She nods at me briefly. “Uh-huh. That’s nice, Oli.” Then back to the telly.

I shake my head and sigh but have to laugh. Only Darcie would be this interested in a football match when I’ve told her I have an important book idea to discuss.

“Apparently, Martians are invading next Friday, so you should stock up on loo rolls and bread.” I keep my face stone serious.

This time I only get a side eye and partial nod. “Oh, that’s cool.”

Something exciting happens on the screen, and everyone in the room amps up for a second and then lets out a simultaneous groan.

“There is no way he was offside. These refs are idiots, as usual,” Darcie yells at nobody in particular.

I just keep shaking my head but turn my attention out the window. I wonder what the weather is like in Las Vegas today. I’m sure it’s not as depressing as it is here. I also wonder what Bianca is doing right now. Probably still sleeping, or maybe just waking up…

“So, are you becoming a monk because of the Martians? Or are the two subjects not related?” Darcie asks, her head tilted. Of course. She doesn’t miss a trick. “It’s too bad, though. You do have nice hair. It’s one of the few things I like about you lately.”

That gets her a glare from me. “No need to be persnickety. I was just messing with you.”

She raises her hands. “Fine. Fine. So, what did you want to talk about? We have fifteen minutes until the game is back.”

I resist rolling my eyes and focus, realizing I have a short window for her attention span.

“Right. Well, I have a fantastic idea for my next book.”

“Ooh, are you finally going to do that complete book on Dillinger? Or the one you’ve been talking about with your theory on where Matteo Denaro is?”

“Nope. My next book isn’t going to have anything to do with organized crime.”

Squinting at me suspiciously, she asks, “Oh? What’s it about then?”

“Men with MS.”

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