Frank Menegaro said, slamming the pages down on the desk. “All this stuff about sleeping with babysitters and then, what, stalking them? It's creepy. I don't like it.” They were gathered in Nico's office, poring over the newest mailing from John Gillis, stale coffee in the air. Nico had run off copies and the readers were now giving their opinions. Esther, for one, was heartbroken. To her, this confession was as brave as anything she'd ever read. Frank continued. “I mean the guy works in a bar, right? He's served drinks every day for God knows long and then he starts to write books. Swell, right? Maybe he can convince a bunch of hippie whiners to take up corporate finance, but this b.s. about his babysitter? Come on Nic, it just doesn't fit.” Esther had long ago learned to ignore Frank's immature literary rants. She could never seriously consider the opinions of a man whose idea of a bad book was one where the hero didn't kill a lot of Arabs and sleep with at least two blonde government agents.
