“But Ned’s the best,” Karl put in, wanting their candidate to win.
“Yes, he is. But the question remained: which of those three, if any of them, could be threatened with a terrible blow to his career, could be having his contract canceled, or rumors spread his wife really wrote his books, or people in the trade otherwise firing away at his reputation? Which of them wouldn’t panic? Which wouldn’t hire a brace of lawyers and sue? And which—in some very real sense—just wouldn’t give a good goddamn?”
Paul went on. “That’s a quality I think all of us might have had once, but a quality that went south when the first book got published.” Paul rocked himself in his chair, back and forth, back and forth, looking out of the little window at a skinny tree branch as if he were comforting himself. “After that first book which we were deliriously happy to see published, and the hell with whatever the ‘publication process’ was, after that there was an almost constant nattering away about how much publicity and promotion do I get. How much money up front—? What? I’m not getting as much as King or Grisham? Go screw yourself. I’m not getting a book tour? Screw yourself twice. What about that snotty review in
Kirkus
? That starred review in
Publishers Weekly
? Reviews, reviews, reviews—tearing our hair out, plagued by jealousy over
that one’s
or
this one’s
reception, arguments over screen rights, reprint rights, foreign rights, electronic rights, and on and on.
“It used to be writing we cared about; now it’s whether we get our own dumps, what kind of placement at Barnes and Noble. Now it’s the two-day laydown. Now it’s the
TBR
list.” Paul had picked up a pencil and was rolling it back and forth over his chair arm, still rocking. “Writers rail against the trash that turns up regularly on the best-seller lists and keeps on hanging around for weeks, months, effectively blocking the appearance of
their
books. But you know what amazes me? Not that dreck appears on the list,
but
—think of it—only fifteen books hit that list on any given Sunday out of thousands. Tens of thousands—so what gets me is the pure arrogance of
any
writer’s thinking his book should be on that list.”
Candy and Karl listened with interest. They nodded right along, as if Paul were recounting their own history.
Karl said, “Man, it’s a cutthroat business. You know, it’s disillusioning, isn’t it, that all that would creep into the book world? At least the book world, you’d think they’d be more, I dunno, idealistic.”
Paul looked at him. He supposed he’d better not tack on that
they’d
crept into the book world. Instead, he sighed.
Say good-bye,
he thought, sadly.
Candy said, “So you’re sayin’ what you wanted to find out was how bad a publisher could be?”
Paul nodded. “That, and how good a writer can be.”
“Like Ned Isaly. Some guy that’s like what you were talking about before all of the shit publishing splatters around happens. Maybe you miss it, the old days of writing; maybe you wanted to see them again.” Candy cocked his head. “Maybe instead of the bastard we think you are, you’re like leading a charge. Something like that. Know what I mean?”
Paul tilted back in his chair, eyes on the ceiling because the eyes seemed to be filling up and if they did too much, the tears could run backward. “Yeah. Not leading a charge; I never did anything courageous in my life. But the old days of writing? I know what you mean.”
There was a silence almost sepulchral in its heaviness as if they were gathered around a grave.
“On a cheerier note,” said Candy, “we had a little talk with Bobby this morning. Hell, K”—Candy turned to his partner—“and we kind of wonder if it ain’t Bobby involved in that hit-and-run.” He and Karl, finding this idea humorous, started to laugh.
Paul leaned forward, scarcely able to contain his joy. “You ‘had a little talk with’ Bobby?”
“We just wanted to get a few things straight about how Ned’s book was going to be published. You know, the stuff you were just talking about. To guarantee Ned’ll be in the top ten. Starting in the top fifteen then moving up.”
Paul laughed. “That’s hysterical. But how could he guarantee it?”
Candy raised his eyebrows. “Ain’t that being a tad
naïve,
Paul? I mean you’re the first person I’d think would figure a publisher can guarantee just about anything, as long as he spends the money, and we just wanted to make sure Bobby’s going to spend a
lot
of money. Yeah, Bobby’s going to see to that book’s being a huge success.”
Paul laughed again.
“And Bobby’s taking a six-month leave of absence. He’s having a vacation in Australia.”
“Oh,
Christ! Yes!
” Paul shot his fists in the air.
“We got these friends in Australia,” said Karl.
Candy nodded.
“ ‘Friends’?” Paul grinned like the very devil.
Karl tipped his head. “Like good friends. Like friends’ll do whatever we tell ’em to do. You know, like escort him to the Sydney Opera House, escort him to the Outback. Whatever works for them.”
Paul went on laughing. These two guys were a real tonic. “So who takes over at Mackenzie-Haack?”
“Old Clive. Old Clive surprised us both. He actually went up against Bobby Mackenzie and that could be a real career cooler, right?”
“That’s the truth.”
Karl got up, stretched; Candy followed suit.
“We gotta be goin’,” said Candy.
“Yeah. Well, as long as Ned’s okay, we don’t have a beef with you, Paul. It’s been very interesting, this talk.”
Remembering his book, Candy pulled it away from the chair and held it out. “Now, will you sign?”
“My pleasure.” Paul got a pen from an old cup and signed the book. “There.” He snapped it shut.
Paul walked them to the door where they shook hands.
“A very interesting conversation,” said Candy.
Karl said, “Ditto that. Only listen, Paul, you just got to stop fucking around with other people’s lives. You’re a controlling son of a bitch, you know that?”
Paul blushed. He knew it.
They were walking down the hall when Karl turned and asked, “You don’t happen to know some guy connected with Ned named Patrick?”
Paul shook his head.
“Huh. Just a thought.”
They said good-bye again.
FORTY-SEVEN
I
n the publishing industry, news travels fast. Very fast. Especially bad news, which is the good news of the publishing industry. Night, day, dusk, dawn—makes no difference. It’s on the street.
When Bobby Mackenzie heard, a couple of hours after Ned had been hit and a couple of hours before any word was given out on his condition, that Ned Isaly was the victim of a
hit-and-run! Sweet Jesus!
he grabbed his ticket to Australia, ordered a car be sent round, wrote a note to his wife (which he considerately pinned to his pillow) in which he told her he was trying to sign up a writer in Australia and he had to get there fast. “Good-bye. Don’t let anyone into the wine cellar.”
FORTY-EIGHT
W
hat a peculiar question to end up with. Patrick? Paul stood in the open doorway, gnawing at a small callus near his thumbnail and thought about it after they left.
He closed the door and went back to his office and sat slumped in his chair as ashamed of himself as he had ever been in his life. Poor Ned Isaly, for God’s sakes. He didn’t believe the accident had been anything but your average New York City hit-and-run, but, still . . . He had signed the contract; Candy and Karl hadn’t done it; Arthur certainly hadn’t done it—anyway, those three were at the scene. And God knows Bobby Mackenzie hadn’t been involved. Not only was there no reason now to get Ned out of the way, but also Bobby was scared shitless of the pair he had so insouciantly hired himself.
What a jerk.
What a business.
“What’s a casque?”
Paul thought he had asked this in his mind until he turned around and saw Hannah, materialized in the office doorway, wearing her nightgown and clutching one of her pages. How long had she stood there, ghosting around?
“Honey, how long have you been there? What are you doing out of bed? Where—” He stopped when he realized he was asking one question after another and not waiting for the answer. “A casque? Isn’t that a headpiece? Like in armor?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I was asking. I need a weapon to put in the hunted gardens for the Dragonnier. I think he’s having a lot of trouble.”
“Well, a sword would do. But does he need one?”
The Hunted Gardens
evolved at some point—and Paul assumed at the same point as the manuscript did for just about every novel: that is, the point of clammy fear that it wasn’t any good, that it wasn’t working, and even if it was, the writer couldn’t think of one damned more thing to say—into becoming the near-exclusive domain of the Dragonnier, a character whose main hold on life (and fame and a story) was his ability to get along with dragons. So he wasn’t a dragon slayer, but a dragon tamer, or something like that.
He held his arms out and Hannah whisked across the room to sit in his lap.
Paul said, “I wonder if maybe you’re making your story kind of melodramatic because you think this garden hunting isn’t exciting enough to hold your reader’s attention.”
Her little forehead creased into furrows. “Mela-what?”
“Dramatic.” As she channeled her anxiety into rolling and rerolling the page she held, he said, “It’s what’s called unearned emotion.”
Oh, yes, that cleared the whole thing up, her squiggly little eyebrows told him.
“You’re afraid that maybe people won’t want to read any more about your gardens—”
“No, I’m not. I just think they’ll want to read more about the Dragonnier. And, anyway, I didn’t stop writing about the hunted gardens. I can’t because that’s where the Dragonnier lives. And the dragons are. See, they’ve always been there. I just haven’t told anyone until lately.” Her sly look said
Gotcha!
Lord knows he had to give her credit for pulling that particular rabbit out of the hat. Still, as a reader, he felt a bit cheated. “But, listen, you’ve gone for ninety-some chapters without ever mentioning the dragons. I mean, do you think that’s playing fair?”
“They were hidden, see. It’s not my fault if they were hiding. The Dragonnier should have said.”
“Said what?”
“That the
dra
-gons were there.” She pinched up the sleeve of his shirt and started to hum.
“But, Hannah, it’s your story so it’s
your
responsibility.”
“Maybe we should send her to Bread Loaf this summer.”
Molly’s voice. Molly stood in the doorway, leaning slightly against the doorjamb, one foot tucked over the other and her arms folded across her breasts. “Bread Loaf might help. She’d probably get some editorial advice, have an opportunity to get a lot of feedback, maybe snag an agent.”
Hannah slipped off his lap and went to swing on her mother’s hand.
“I didn’t hear you come in, Moll. I was only trying to help Hannah with her story.”
Molly rolled her eyes. “Some dads read stories to their little girls; other dads tell their little girls how the story should have been written in the first place. Cinderella, your feets’ too big, that kind of thing.”
Hannah laughed and ran down the hall.
Molly said, “Listen, I like your friends.”
Paul felt a little frisson of anxiety. “Friends? What friends?”
“The ones downstairs. In the lobby. They said they were really happy to meet me and that I should tell Paul—that’s you—to keep out of other people’s business. They said it wasn’t healthy to mess around.” She shifted to the other side of the door, leaning again. “I really liked that ‘healthy’ bit. We chatted for some time about your book. What have you been up to?”
Paul clamped his hands flat against his chest. “Who, me? Nothing. Absolutely nothing!”
“Yes, you have. I know you.” She turned and walked down the hall. She turned back and blew him a kiss.
Ah, Molly!
Could he really leave her in thirty seconds flat if he spotted the heat around the corner? Paul grinned.
Maybe not.
After Molly left, Paul looked at the telephone on his desk. He thought for a moment, and then picked it up and punched in the number. At the other end, a voice floating on a sea of calm said, “The Old Hotel, good evening.”
“I wanted to make a reservation. Tomorrow night?”
“For how many, sir?”
“Two, my wife and me.” He didn’t know why he was moved to tell the Hotel’s personnel who the other person was; it could as easily be “my girlfriend/mistress/trainer.” Was it the Old Hotel’s business? He thought perhaps it might be.
“If you’ll wait a moment, sir, until I check.”
Paul closed his eyes. It was at this point the Old Hotel would say, Sorry.
“Your name?”
“Giverney. Paul.” No, it was at
this
point. He squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for rejection: “
Sorry, Mr. Giverney, but we’re fully booked until Christmas/New Year’s Day/Easter, whatever.”
“Yes, sir. Would nine o’clock be too late?”
What was going on? He shook the receiver as if to dislodge this false response, this clear lie.
“Uh, yes. Absolutely. Nine o’clock.”
The voice thanked him, told him the Old Hotel would look forward to seeing him.
Slowly, Paul replaced the receiver.
Why? Why was he all of a sudden on the Old Hotel’s anointed list?
“Molly! Come in here for a minute, will you?”
In a little while, Molly appeared in her old, ratty-looking dressing gown. “What’s up?”
“You’re not going to believe this.”
“It pertains to you? Try me.”
Paul thought maybe it was Molly they were really admitting. But he’d tried to make reservations for the two of them before and failed. He told her about the Old Hotel. “We’re in! Tomorrow night!”