The Way of All Fish: A Novel (14 page)

Fortunately, Karl was still on the SoHo side of enlightenment, and he carried on. “This agent is nuts; he wants revenge; he wants to ruin Ms. Sella.”

“I don’t doubt it for a moment,” said Lena bint Musah. “The lawyers, the publisher, the agent—sound like a convention of dunces.” She paused. “No, actually, the lawyers sound like lawyers. But is the publishing world fraught with idiots? It’s quite extraordinary. So. You need information, you say.” She inhaled deeply but went on smoking with no visible sign of departing this earth’s ether.

“Okay.” Candy was back. “Okay. What we need is some kind of proof these shit-faced lawyers—pardon the language—” He waved his cigarette by way of explaining such verbal freedom.

She smiled. “I took it merely literally.”

Candy laughed and tried to repeat “merely literally” and wound up almost swallowing his tongue. “Yeah. What we need is evidence these guys are working both sides of the street. Hess was giving them stuff about Cindy Sella.”

“We can’t be sure who’s the guilty party, correct?” said Lena. “It could be the lawyers, it could be the agent, it could be all of them. What was in the documents that the agent mistakenly handed over to you?”

“Stuff about her character. He said he was making it part of the complaint. But there’s no way to prove a connection with Hale and this Reeves guy. The name of the firm—Snelling, Snelling, Borax, and Snelling—isn’t in these papers. Now that we’ve told this story about the fish importer,
and a lot of stuff about illegal imports, we have to go along with it.”

An old dog wandered into the room, a hound of some sort who very delicately sniffed around their pants legs then left them in order to sit quietly by her. The dog was probably smoking these fun cigarettes, thought Candy, dropping ash, sorry to see the ash go.

“What about the fish? I know very little. I do know cyanide fishing is carried out in Malaysia. What about coral reefs? It’s illegal to import coral.” She paused and stubbed out her cigarette. “There is a fish native to Malaysia and Indochina, the Asian arowana, which is much sought after by aquarists. I understand such a fish can bring in ten thousand dollars.”

Karl whistled. Candy got himself another cigarette. “There’s a platinum one worth a shitload more.” He laughed, and smoke blew out of his nose.

“Really? How astonishing. May I suggest we find two or three others of similar value for export-import?”

“And similarly illegal,” offered Candy. The “similarly” came out bristling with more L’s than necessary.

She nodded, pretending not to notice the cigarette behind his ear. “And research those and become, or at least manage to sound, expert.”

“Candy’ll research it. He’s really into fish.”

“Well, then,” said Lena, concluding the discussion by rising. “We should be able to go forward in a few days.”

“You can do it that soon?”

“Oh, I think so.”

“Hey,” said Candy. “Listen, thanks for the coffee and smokes.”

As she walked them to the door, Karl said, “Wait. We didn’t ask you, how much do you charge for a gig like this?”

“I’ve never taken on a gig like this. Usually, my fee is five thousand. If I get the results the client wants, of course. If I don’t”—she shrugged—“you don’t pay.”

It had the ring of the sort of operation the two of them handled. Karl liked it.

She went on, “But in this case, it would be expenses only.”

Karl’s eyes widened in surprise.

Candy felt to see if the cigarette was there and said, “You’re kiddin’. How come?”

“I find it such an interesting situation. Here is a young woman who has done nothing at all and is then beset by a dozen people insisting she pay hundreds of thousands of dollars. Lawyers, agents, publishers. And who is it who’s ‘got her back’? A couple of contract killers.” She smiled. “I like it. Call me.”

P
aul Giverney was plucking the mussels out of their shells and, at the same time, feeling sorry for them, wondering if he’d read “Jabberwocky” one too many times to Hannah. “ ‘The time has come, the Walrus said, to talk of many things,’ ” he said aloud, and then fell silent.

Bobby Mackenzie noted the silence and filled it in. “ ‘Of shoes—and ships—and sealing wax—Of cabbages and kings.’ ”

“ ‘And why the sea is boiling hot—and whether pigs have wings.’ ” Paul smiled.

“Is that why we’re here? Well, damn.” While Paul ate mussels, Bobby drank his single-malt whiskey and ignored his Caesar salad. “How come this place?”

They were having lunch at the Clownfish Café. Bobby was already there when Paul walked in and interrupted Bobby’s Bluetooth conversation about another book jacket.

Paul looked around and smiled. “Friend of mine told me about it. There was a little fracas in here last week.”

“Ah. What kind of fracas?”

“It seems a couple of killers walked in and shot up the fish tank.”

Bobby looked across the room at the huge aquarium. “A Hemingway moment.” He drank his whiskey. “Why did they do it?”

“What I heard was Bass Hess was sitting on the other side of it.”

“That works for me.” Bobby pounded his glass on the table. A few of the other customers looked their way. Through the tank, they could see the watery outline of the two present diners seated on the other side.

“Why are we having this lunch, Paul? Not that I’m complaining, only I know you don’t ‘do lunch.’ ”

“Just to talk.”

“I know you don’t do talk, either.”

“Cindy Sella.”

Bobby took a long look at Paul and a long slug of his Scotch. “My God. Her again? I was recently paid a visit by two goons who wanted me to do something about Cindy Sella.”

“Two goons who were not strangers to you, Bobby.”

Bobby cut him a thin smile. “What I had a hard time making them understand is that I am not Ms. Sella’s publisher, hence I could hardly step in on her behalf.”

“What a dodge.”

“You’ve got that right. Dubai and Dodge. Heh heh. What do you mean, a dodge?”

“That you can’t stick your mug into Harbor Books.” Paul pushed his mussel bowl out of the way and leaned across the table. “Before this D and D conglomerate came along, Bella was eating out of your hand, like everybody else at your goddamned place.”

“Hey! The goddamned place publishes you well, doesn’t it?”

“No, but that’s not the point. You could at least get Harbor to stand behind her. And what the hell’s wrong with her editor? He hasn’t as much as said, ‘Gee, tough luck, Cindy.’ These people maintain an arctic silence.”

“Of course they do. They’re all scared shitless. You know how houses are closing, how people are being laid off.”

“You’re not scared.”

“Me? Don’t make me laugh. I’m too good at what I do. Everything’s changed, Paul. Remember when there used to be the greatest publishing houses in Boston? In old brownstones where the wooden stairwells creaked and the Oriental carpeting was as thin as vapor? Beacon Hill? The Back Bay?”

“You’re making me tired, Bobby, pedaling that bike down memory lane. You of all people, the most cynical man I’ve ever known and a brilliant publisher. You are not averse to the use of force. I’ve seen evidence of that.”

“You have, since you were the instigator, my friend.”

Paul shook his head. “I set you a problem. You chose the way to solve it.”

“The problem was pretty damned cold-blooded.”

“I agree. Are we two of a kind? No, we are not. We’re one of two kinds.”

“With witty repartee like that, no wonder you sell books.” Bobby gave a whiskeyed-up laugh.

“You’re really claiming you can’t get Bella Bond or anyone else to intercede on Cindy Sella’s behalf?”

Bobby shrugged. “I’ll say it again. Harbor Books. I don’t tell Bella what to do.” He didn’t add that she was on Block Island, or he would have.

“Then I’ll tell you why we’re having this lunch. It’s a farewell lunch.”

Bobby sat back. “Oh, come on! You’re not serious!”

“All you’ve got is a one-book contract. After that, we’re done.”

It was hard to outmaneuver Bobby Mackenzie, but this had done it. Bobby hated a cliché far more than the next man, but with his back to the wall, he used one. “This is blackmail.”

“Makes no difference to me who publishes my books.”

“That’s absurd.” Bobby drank, took in an ice cube, and started gnawing it.

“Given the way I chose you, I’d think it would be obvious that I don’t much care.”

Bobby signaled the waiter with his upraised glass. “When my—our—friends Candy and Karl came calling, they were saying some of the same things.” He seemed unable to decide upon the romaine leaf he had picked up from his Caesar salad. “It occurs to me that instead of all these late-night visits and secret lunches—”

“They came at night?”

“No, no, of course not. But I’d like something like that for your new title instead of the one you have.
Slow Motion
. How thrilling is that? You are a thriller writer, after all.”

“No, I’m not, after all.”

“Jimmy McKinney has been hard at work trying to get this book marketed as a straight literary novel.”

“That is your job, Bobby; that’s why I said you’re not publishing me right.”

“True. But I’m not a magician.” He thought that over. “Well, not all the time.”

“We’re off the subject. You were saying—”

“I wasn’t, but I will. Maybe we all should ‘take a meet’ at my office. Say tomorrow afternoon—no, evening. I’ve got a sales meeting at five. Say sixish? We’ll consider our options. You, me, Clive Esterhaus, and the two goons.” Bobby picked up the glass the waiter had just set down and smiled a sly smile.

Paul smiled, his own sly smile. “Make that the five goons.”

C
indy Sella was watching her clown fish and wondering if they felt the limitations of their lives or were content to swim around the curves of their small bowl. She was going to get them a bigger one; she had furnished the present one with little plastic ferns and a rock with holes in it that they could swim through. But they did a lot of resting, she thought, for they seemed happiest reclining on the two plastic leaves she had attached to the tank.

Gus had carefully monitored the fitting of these items in the bowl, perhaps thinking they would give him greater access, but that dream was thwarted. He had joined Cindy on the bench, which would sit here probably forever.

What had caused this concern for life limitation, she knew, was her own wintry, thinly coated, brackish one. She wasn’t doing anything about it but piling up adjectives, and the wrong ones, at that.

She had only two friends, besides people in publishing, and she’d hardly call them friends, not even her editor, whom she saw seldom and who, she sometimes thought, wasn’t sure he recognized her. Her only real publishing-world friend was Jimmy McKinney. Her two regular friends were Sammy Tooley and Rosa Parchment. A lesser friend was Benny Bennet, who, when she’d last seen him, had sold her his mantra; then he’d gone back to drugs. She was afraid he’d also gone back to using the mantra he’d sold her, and she wondered how much that diluted it.

What she was thinking about was drugs: One of her characters was in danger of becoming addicted, and she knew nothing about heroin or crack cocaine or other hard drugs. Sammy didn’t do drugs, not like
Benny; that wasn’t surprising, as Sammy was so hyper already that any drug would have him flying above her instead of walking beside her.

Cindy knew Rosa was a user; she’d been in rehab twice and picked up once in Washington Square for dealing. Rosa wasn’t routinely a dealer, but she was friends with Benny, and Cindy suspected that Benny did deal. Rosa had a boutique in the Village called Nevermore, where she sold “antique” clothing that she got mostly from Goodwill. When Rosa saw Cindy looking at the track marks on her arm, Rosa said her cat had done it; Renée (the cat) was always raking her claws over everything. Clearly, if Rosa had relapsed and gone back to sticking needles in her arm, she didn’t want to talk about it. So she would be no source of information.

Cindy had been living in Manhattan for seven years and still had no group of friends—a group who hung out together, went to movies, Broadway shows, museums, and Central Park together. She spent her hanging-out time in Ray’s coffee shop, writing. That wasn’t really hanging out.

She watched the ghost clown fish and thought of Monty and his three friends in the room where marijuana and cigarette smoke hung like curtains at the window. Now, there was a group. A gang. Stoned was definitely togetherness. Four of them, yet they seemed as one. She thought for a moment. What she could do was buy another clown fish. The phone rang just as she was thinking about picking it up.

It was Sammy. “Cin, hi, want to get some chow?”

For a writer, he came up with awfully old, used words. Did people really call food “chow” anymore? She agreed to go with him. “Listen, do you know anything about drugs? I mean from personal experience?”

“I smoked some weed in ninth grade.”

“That doesn’t really count.”

“No? Excuse me, but it counted to me. I’d’ve got the shit beat out of me if I didn’t go along.”

“Well, I’m sorry. But I need to know about the big ones: heroin, crack cocaine—”

“Cindy, don’t even think about it. It’ll fuck you over good.”

“Sammy, I don’t want to use anything. It’s because of one of my characters.”

Sammy sniggered. “Sure, they all say that.”

She frowned. “They?”

“Writers.”

“Sammy, we’re writers. We’re the they.”

“Okay, we all say that. We get out of admitting we want to know about A.A. or we’re going into rehab by blaming it on the characters.”

Oh, for God’s sake. There was no way to talk to Sammy sometimes. “Is Rosa using again? I think maybe she is.”

“Rosa? Oh, you mean because you’ve seen what look like needle marks, you think she’s shooting up? Nah. Those are claw marks. Her cat did that.”