There were times when his memory turned to the lunches of twenty years ago, then held in whatever deli was nearby, and he felt threatened by sadness, a great wave coming over him that he barely managed to outrun before it crashed on an empty shore. Feelings like that were bothersome, and he didn’t really understand them.
The waiter had come and taken their order for wine and food. All three of them always ate the same thing. Today, Nancy came down hard on the grilled swordfish, and, after wading around through the monkfish baked with ginger and the steak and shiitake mushrooms, both Clive and Bill had said, yes, they’d have the swordfish, too. They did not do this because they were so closely bound in temperament that they were bound in taste; no, each was afraid that a dish would be brought which was obviously superior to the ones the others had ordered. It was simpler to get the same thing.
“Come on, Clive,” said Nancy, leaning toward him until her bosom nearly flattened on the table. “What?”
Over the years the three of them had grown as cagey and monosyllabic as illegal aliens.
Bill gave him a razor smile and said, “Yeah. What’ve you got?”
Well, Clive hadn’t got anything, had he?
Both Bill and Nancy had X-ray vision and mirror eyes good enough for a
Village of the Damned
remake. Because of that, Clive might have believed they could see straight through him had he not known their vision was clouded by their own predilection for sham and subterfuge. So, having nothing at all, he resorted to a wide-eyed innocence designed to pique their curiosity even more about the coup they thought he must have brought off.
His shrug was elaborate. “I haven’t got anything.”
Nancy put on her disbelieving face, turned sideways in her chair, and shook her head at this witless attempt to convince her.
“Yeah, right,” Bill said.
The three of them had never actually discussed Paul Giverney. Had never so much as mentioned it over the telephone, because none of them had wanted the others to think he or she was working ropes and pulleys like holy hell behind the claptrap scenes of their dusty stages, trying to grab Giverney’s agent’s ear, hurling more and more outlandish offers. Clive knew he was right in assuming their offers had been intoxicating. But Bobby Mackenzie’s had been so far off the charts Giverney’s agent could easily retire on the commission. Never have to return another call in his life, he wouldn’t. It was just the sort of advance that would bring the publishing industry to its knees, eventually. Monster advances of the kind being offered would never be earned out.
This, too, thought Clive, was sad. But, again, he wasn’t wearing this fifteen-hundred-dollar silk suit by virtue of adhering to the Tom Kidd publishing virtues.
“Lunch, for God’s sakes,” answered Clive, affecting a laugh insincere enough to prove it must be otherwise. “We haven’t had lunch since—” He bethought himself.
Nancy answered: “Since I signed Tasha Gorky for a one-mil advance on spec.”
That was walking right into a trap she should have foreseen, being Nancy. She must be desperate.
Clive smiled. “As I recall, Nancy, the spec turned out to be one purely ghosted outline with the ghost departing into the ether.”
Tasha didn’t have any ideas, much less could she write. Tasha’s writing expertise extended to autographing tennis balls.
Nancy’s preeminent trait was her ability to stonewall anybody. “Yes, why’re you surprised? It was obvious I was taking a big chance. But like I always say, no pain, no gain.” (The only thing she got out of her occasional bouts with AA were the aphorisms.)
Of course, she was managing to turn things around to make her editorial errors look like brave risks. They were off the subject of the reason for the lunch. But Clive knew well enough they’d be right back on it at any second. They were too sharp to be taken in by his we-haven’t-seen-one-another-lately gambit. Too sharp and too envious. Too much like him, in other words.
Did he dare? He cut off a bite of swordfish with surgical precision. Given Bobby Mackenzie’s determination to sign Giverney, wasn’t it already a foregone conclusion that they’d get him? If by some chance they didn’t, surely he’d be able to cover himself. So he dropped it right in the middle of talk about Tasha: “We’re signing Paul Giverney for two books. That’s what we’re celebrating.”
They seemed to turn to stone right before his eyes. He thought about Lot’s wife . . . but, no, that was a pillar of salt, wasn’t it? Their mouths looked as thin as fissures in rock. He wanted to chortle out loud, but constrained himself. He had bested them, no doubt of it—grabbed the gold ring, kicked the ball into the end zone, gone for broke, and hit the jackpot.
But it was rather a thin payoff. They both recouped, stone turning back to flesh, and congratulated him and began the process of pretending they hadn’t lusted after the same writer.
“Naturally,” said Bill, “we considered Giverney—”
Didn’t you just! Clive wanted to yell.
“—but his agent—what’s his name?”
As if he didn’t have it carved in blood on his wrist!
“Mort Durban.” Apoplectic Mortimer, the agent’s agent.
“Ah, yes. Anyway, he was demanding so much we knew the advance would never earn out. We’d lose a helluva lot. But Bobby Mackenzie can probably afford to carry the loss. He’s got millions to throw around.” Bill flashed a smile.
As if, of course, Bobby was some spoiled kid who had no idea how to run a publishing house. Raging inwardly, Clive kept on smiling. “Lose? I guess our people must be using different figures. We’re planning a one-million first printing.”
Bill laughed. “With a fifty, sixty percent return?”
“Giverney’s books never have that kind of return. Twenty-five at the most.”
“Come on, Clive. Half those books’ll come back, they always do. It gets worse every year; publishers just can’t afford these humongous advances anymore—”
Oh, Christ! Bill was turning this to his advantage. Bill pontificating about publishing excess? The very man who’d tried to lure Rita Aristedes away from Mackenzie-Haack by brokering a Tuscan villa? (Rita was mad for everything Italian except their love of the earth and each other.) Clive just sat, swordfish forgotten, arms folded, featherweight smile on his face.
Nancy’s turn: “Thing is, Mackenzie-Haack always had this absolutely fabulous list—I don’t mind admitting I envy you (a supercilious smile meant to belie that envy)—until lately.”
Clive had to respond to that, he couldn’t help himself. “ ‘Lately’? Mackenzie’s still got the best list of anybody in town.”
“Better than Fritz Pearls?”
Fritz Pearls was the most literary of all of them. “Of course not.” Clive grimaced as if surely it was clear F.P. outshone all of them. “Mackenzie’s size, I mean.”
Nancy went on: “You just signed on Dwight Staines. So you’ve got him, Rita Aristedes, and now Paul Giverney. I’d say”—she slugged back her half glass of wine—“you’re getting as commercial as Disney.” She smiled widely, showing her platform teeth.
Clive managed a hearty, false laugh. “Not much chance of that, Nancy girl. Not when we have writers like Eric Gruber or Ned Isaly. In addition to a dozen others.”
Bill strode in again. “Yeah, but they’re all midlist writers, except maybe Isaly. And he only turns one out every four, five years. You haven’t got a Mailer or an Updike. You haven’t got any literary heavy hitters.”
“Saul Prouil.” This was a lie, but Clive was getting used to it.
“What? Come on. You haven’t got Prouil under contract. Hell, Saul Prouil hasn’t published a book in a decade.”
“No. But what he’s working on is brilliant.”
“Like, what’s he working on?”
Clive laughed. “You know Saul. He doesn’t like anyone talking about work in progress.” God, why had he brought Saul Prouil up? He hadn’t as much as said hello and good-bye to him in nine years. And he had never been the man’s editor.
“Yeah? Maybe that’s because he’s not making any.” Nancy was helping herself to the last of the wine.
This whole lunch was not going the way it was supposed to, damn it. They were supposed to cut open a vein and bleed jealousy all over the gardenia-white cloth. They were supposed to be humbled, supposed to see that in the long run, Clive was the most successful of the three of them, better, the best.
“Shit,” said Bill, pulling himself sideways in his chair, blowing smoke from the cigarette he wasn’t supposed to be smoking there. “You know what we are? Pimps, that’s all.” He inhaled again, his brows rammed together, looking angry.
This pretense of self-denigration might have fooled an outsider, but not Clive. Anyway, the denigrating was all for Clive, so that Bill could push Clive into pimpdom. One could hardly do that without generously including oneself. Clive slumped. He felt he had put himself in jeopardy for nothing. Hadn’t he known that their face-saving techniques were every bit as good as his? He couldn’t impress them; they were all unimpressible. It was rather a shock to think that.
And there was still the unsigned Giverney contract. Hell.
Without a care in the world for an expense account (as it wasn’t theirs), Nancy and Bill ordered up a couple of Remys.
“Make it doubles,” Bill called to the waiter’s departing back. “Anyway, congrats, Clive. Good job. I’m glad I’m not going to have to take the heat, though, when Giverney doesn’t earn out.”
Clive mumbled a response.
“You know what one of Giverney’s demands is going to be, don’t you? He’s going to want Tom Kidd as editor. You know that, don’t you?”
Clive stared at him. How in hell did Bill know that? Well, he wasn’t going to tell him he was right. “What makes you think that?”
Bill shrugged. “Makes sense, doesn’t it? Giverney’d want the best. He’s such an arrogant bastard.” He had that stupid smile pasted back in place. “I’m only glad I don’t have to be the one to tell Tom Kidd.” He swiped at his knee with his hand, laughing. “I’m just glad I don’t.”
Nancy said, straight faced, at least at first, “Tom will just take out a gun and shoot you. Fancy that. Poor Clivey.”
When Clive returned to his office after lunch, feeling deflated, he found a book lying in the center of his desk blotter. It was one that Mackenzie-Haack had published two years previously,
Fallguy.
This was the book Bobby had mentioned, the one by Danny Zito, who took a lot of heat for it, but would have taken more, and worse, had he not gone into the witness protection program right before the book had come out.
It had been one of Clive’s books, though he’d told Bobby Mackenzie another editor, someone like Peter Genero, would do a much better job (meaning, the book was beneath Clive) and that Peter would get on a lot better with Danny Zito.
“Why? Because he’s Italian? You mean, it takes one to know one?”
That had been Bobby’s response. He’d told Clive that the book needed some toning up, some class, however superficial, and Clive was just the one to supply it.
Danny Zito had turned out to be a very down-to-earth (well, sure), entertaining guy. He was a hell of a conversationalist over pricey lunches (though Clive was always watching his back) and the book had done somewhat better than expected.
Clive sat down then with the book in his hands.
Why?
He got up and went to the door. His assistant, Amy Waters, was working on some copy. “Amy, where did this come from?” He held the book up. It had quite a handsome black-and-white jacket with an embossed silver title.
Amy squinted as if she couldn’t see the four-inch-high
Fallguy
from a couple of feet away. “Maybe Bobby left it?” She went back to her copy.
“You put that as a question, Amy. The question is what I’m
asking
you, for God’s sakes.” Why did he bother saying that? Amy always put statements in the form of questions.
“Oh. What I mean is: Bobby was in your office before.”
“But what did he say?”
“Nothing. Just walked in and walked out. He said, ‘Hi, Amy,’ but I wasn’t paying much attention; I’m trying to get this copy ready for the catalog?”
Clive grunted and walked back into his office with the book, sat down, and stared at it.
Danny Zito?
SEVEN
C
live was still looking at
Fallguy,
thumbing through the book, about to pick up the phone—no, to go to Bobby’s office to ask him what in the hell he’d left the book for. He was thinking this when Tom Kidd materialized in Clive’s open doorway. “Materialized” was the right word for Tom had found a patch of darkness and it was difficult to make out his features, except for the tonsure of pale hair that, lit from behind, foamed around his head.
Tom was not one for telephone chat or a “Hey, got a minute?” approaches. Clive rarely saw him, and when he did it was usually in a sudden appearance, such as this. Rarely did he have an opportunity to talk with Tom; Clive certainly never made one. Tom was not one to stop by for an editorial chat; he fairly lived in his office, small but with a view that was magnificent, even by New York City standards. The view was meant to keep Tom happy. It was wasted on him; views of Manhattan didn’t interest him, since he doubted the place changed much from day to day (he’d said). Tom had merely found the New York scenery a good backdrop for stacks and stacks of books.
Clive imagined that even when Tom’s head came up from reading one of his manuscripts, he didn’t really see, as on a winter’s night, the lighting up of Fifth Avenue, all of the lamps in front of the Plaza pressing through amber fog, nor did he see the dark drapery of trees at this end of Central Park. He saw words. Tom would still be seeing the words of the manuscript in his mind—this sentence, this image, this transparent page superimposed upon the Plaza and the park—whose sentence? Whose image? Isaly’s? Gruber’s? Grace Packard’s? describing the scene down there with such precision that the words seemed to melt into the fog and the trees and the snow and become it.