Final Edit (17 page)

“I don’t know, Nick. I’m kind of in the Groucho Marx school when it comes to private clubs.”

“But you like the place, don’t you?”

“Sure, it’s beautiful. And it’s fun being your guest here. That doesn’t mean I could afford it myself.”

“Then we’ll just have to make you a best-selling author.”

He grinned. “Barkis is willin’,” he said.

I liked that. Pretty soon he’ll be outquoting Nick Barlow himself.

My calendar for the day called for a meeting at three o’clock with Kay McIntire and Herbert Poole, my Great White Hope. They
were right on time.

“Do you have the contract drawn up, Nick?” Kay asked.

I brought out a reasonably fat sheaf of pages, headed by the Barlow & Company logo—a capital “B” with a book superimposed
on it—and starting out with the words “AGREEMENT dated June 9, 1993, and between BARLOW & COMPANY, INC., 18 E. 18th Street,
New York, N.Y. 10003, and HERBERT E. POOLE (the “Author”) c/o Kay McIntire, 175 E. 77th Street, New York, N.Y. 10020…” and
followed by page after page of legalese.

“Voici, “
I said.

“Not boilerplate, I trust,” said Kay.

“I only wish,” I riposted. “Boilerplate” is the standard contract we publishers offer to authors who don’t know any better—a
contract written entirely in our favor, and making sure the author will be fortunate even to get the book published, still
less be enriched by it. “The contract has been written according to the terms we agreed on, Kay.”

Instead of taking a gentleman’s word for it, she insisted on reading every page and every “if,” “in the event,” and “notwithstanding.”
That took a good half hour, while Herbert Poole and I sat sizing each other up. At least I sized
him
up in the interim.

Poole was a good-looking man—tall, lean, blond—who just escaped being an Adonis by a jaw that was too square, and strong white
teeth just a shade too large. He might have made a good second lead, Horatio to Hamlet, but never the leading man or the star.
He was, however, photogenic, as I’d observed at the ABA Convention when he was busy signing copies of
Pan at Twilight.

It is not essential that an author be physically attractive, but it always helps, in publishing as elsewhere in life. The
aphorism that one cannot be too rich, too thin, or too beautiful will always be true, wherever the course of history may take
us. Or so I like to think.

At last Kay finished her examination of the contract. She looked up and smiled at me.

“Perfect, Nick,” she said. “We’ve got a deal, darling.” She handed the contract to Poole, open to the last page, where was
written: “IN WITNESS WHEREOF, the parties hereto have duly executed this agreement on the latest day and year written below.”

“Sign, please, Herbert,” she said, and he did. “Now you, Nick,” and I obliged her.

After I had put down my pen, I buzzed Hannah. “Bring it in,” I said, and she promptly appeared with a bucket of ice, three
flute glasses, and a bottle of Moët et Chandon.

“Semper paratus
,” I said. “Just for the occasion.”

“Is this customary?” asked Poole.

Popping the cork, I said: “Only when I think we have something to celebrate.”

Glasses filled with the bubbly, we clinked them, and I proposed a toast: “To the Mystery Writers of America, whose motto is
‘Crime does not pay—enough.’

“I’ll drink to that,” said Kay and Poole in chorus. On our way to the elevator, and out of earshot of Poole, Kay
leaned over and said to me: “I’ve decided to take on your author Joe Scanlon as a client.” I appreciated her discretion. No
author cares to hear his agent discuss another author, at least not before the ink is dry on the contract.

“Good,” I said sotto voce. “Joe will be pleased.”

“Incidentally,” said Kay, “I’ve heard something about Parker Foxcroft that might interest you.”

“Tell me, by all means.”

“I’ll call you, Nick. I don’t want to hold you now.”

“As you wish.”

“Take care of yourself, darling,” she said, and blew me a kiss just before the elevator doors closed on the two of them.

The next morning Kay McIntire phoned me.

“Nick—about that information I told you I had yesterday—”

“I remember—on your way to the elevator.”

“Right. You know about the Caxton Awards?”

“Sure. What about them?” The Caxton Awards were the most prestigious literary prizes of the year, even more coveted than the
National Book Awards, and almost as desirable as a Pulitzer Prize. They were awarded annually to the best biography, best
novel, best book of poetry—in the opinion of the judges. Each prize was worth $25,000 and a lot of publicity.

“Two years ago Parker Foxcroft was one of the judges. Remember?”

“Yeah, sort of. I knew he had served on one literary jury or another.”

“Well,” said Kay in a tone I could only describe as conspiratorial, if “gossipy” wasn’t the better word, “the prize for fiction
was awarded to a book that was definitely a dark horse. The inside story, and it was definitely kept quiet except for a few
insiders—”

“Yourself among them, I suppose, Kay.”

“That’s between your mouth and God’s ear. Would you like to hear the dirt?”

“Of course, darling. Speak.”

“It would appear that Parker accepted a substantial bribe from the publisher of the winning book, and then cast the deciding
vote in the competition.”

“Shocking if true.”

“True, I think, but not especially shocking, Nick,” said Kay. “Publishing, after all, is no longer the simon-pure business
it used to be, if it ever was. Some of the Hollywood glitz and shallowness have rubbed off on our industry, as well as some
of Wall Street’s corruption. And don’t forget Washington’s shady politics. We’re not immune from contagion.”

“I suppose so, although I’d rather give even Parker the benefit of the doubt.”

“One other thing, Nick. I’d like you to do me a favor.”

“Anything I can, Kay.”

“Reconsider the suggestion Herbert made about spending some time in your office.”

“I don’t know, Kay…”

“Please.”

“All right, if it’ll make you happy. But I don’t want the man underfoot.”

“I promise he’ll be discreet, keep a low profile. When shall I tell him to come see you?”

“Tomorrow, I suppose, will be as good a day as any.”

“Thanks, Nick.”

“Wait just a minute—”

“Bye, Nick. Talk to you soon.”

And I was left listening to a dial tone.

Herbert Poole presented himself bright and early at my office next morning. Though I still had misgivings about this little
exercise, I had cleared my calendar in anticipation of his arrival, at least of any morning appointments. I could hardly expect
Poole, nor want him, to spend the entire day with me. And Sidney had asked me to hold three o’clock open for our new female
private-eye writer, Sarah Goodall, who was going to pay us her first visit.

“Good morning, Mr. Barlow,” said Poole.

“’Nick,’ if you please. Let’s drop the formalities, shall we?”

“Fine, Nick. And it’s Herbert, not Herb or Herbie.”

“After all, we’re going to be spending a fair amount of time together.”

“I do hope so,” said Poole. “I know I’ll want your editorial advice and the chance to see how an amateur detective operates.”

“An amateur detective?” I wasn’t sure I was happy about that designation.

“Haven’t you been involved in at least one real murder?” Poole said.

“I can’t take much credit for the solution of Jordan Walker’s murder.” I felt that modesty became me at the moment. After
all, at times I feel that “amateur publisher” would be more appropriate to sum up my calling. “You’re referring to the murder
that took place here in my offices,” I said.

“Yes. Your editor, Parker Foxcroft.”

“Well, I’m sure the police have that one under control. At least I hope they do.”

“Anyway,” said Poole, “I’m looking forward to working with you.”

Now that the formalities were over, I wondered where to turn next. Where did we start?

“Have you done any preliminary work on your mystery?” I said. “An outline, perhaps?”

“Is one necessary? Why not just plunge in headfirst?”

“Feetfirst, more likely,” I replied. “The outline, Herbert, is a life preserver, if you will. The detective novel is essentially
a puzzle, but one which must be constructed backward. First, know who your victim is, who the murderer is, and why the victim
was murdered—motive, in short.”

I went to one of my bookshelves and pulled out Kenneth Silverman’s biography of Edgar Allan Poe. Turning to a well-thumbed
page, I read aloud: “ ‘No other kind of fiction illustrates so clearly the writer’s need to choose from the beginning some
one outcome or effect, and to adapt every element of the narrative to it.’

“Right!” I said. “I think what Silverman wrote is so important that I commend it to you, too.”

“Does every writer prepare such an outline?” Poole asked.

“Not every mystery writer I know does. Ed McBain, for
one, doesn’t, and his mysteries are as good as any being written today. So it takes all kinds.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Incidentally—”

“Yes?”

“Don’t you ever get tired of the company of writers?”

“Yes, once a year.”

“When is that?”

“The ABA Convention. You were there signing books. One of my favorite activities at the ABA is the Oblivion Press lunch.”

“Oblivion Press? What’s that?”

“Just a group of us publishing folks who get together at the ABA every year to let our hair down. Oblivion Press, of course,
does not exist—that is, it’s not really a press, but an imaginary publishing house, created in the spirit of buffoonery and
self-mockery. When you’re tired of booksellers, bookselling, publishing, and authors, you’re ready for Oblivion.”

“Oh,” said Poole.
“Well.”

Actually what we do at Oblivion Press board meetings is to drink copiously, tell jokes, make up absurd titles and authors,
and laugh uproariously at our own inside humor. A magazine writer who attended one of our sessions called us “a group of middle-aged
cards.” Obviously it was a mistake inviting him to our meeting, but it also clearly wasn’t one of our best outings.

“So you do get tired of authors,” said Poole. “Sick and tired, perhaps?”

“Let me tell you a story about that, Herbert. It seems that a young author whose first novel had just been accepted by Simon
and Schuster was taken by Peter Schwed, then e-in-c, to meet one of the original partners of the firm, M. Lincoln Schuster.
Schuster was rather advanced in years then,
but still kept an office at Ess and Ess, which he came to regularly, though he had nothing much to do there. Said Schwed (excuse
me; an unintentional rhyme): ‘Mr. Schuster, I’d like you to meet Mr. So-and-So, whose first novel we’ll be publishing.’ The
old man looked up and said: ‘Author, eh? Authors… they’re still writing books.’ A pause, then: ‘They’ll never learn.’”

Poole laughed, but I sensed that he didn’t really find the story funny. “Well, if you put it that way—” he said.

“I might tell you that some of my best friends are authors, but it wouldn’t be altogether true. I’d much rather hang out with
painters, actors, even musicians, the least intelligent of all the artists. And cops, especially cops. Anyone with a good
story to tell.

“So,” I wound up, “I’m sure you have a good story to tell. Will it make a successful mystery?”

“I hope so, Nick. You’ll know when you read my outline, which I intend to start writing this very day.”

“Good. What else can we talk about?”

“How about true crime?”

“Sure. Fire away.”

“Parker Foxcroft.” he said. “Do you have any idea who might have killed him?”

“You’re not the first person to ask me that,” I said. “Nor do I expect you to be the last. Anyway—”

I told Poole about my visit to Judith Michaelson. Somehow I felt she had the strongest motive I’d discovered so far. She hated
Parker, and it would only have been poetic justice for her to murder him with the same gun her husband had used to kill himself.
“Don’t you agree, Herbert?”

“At this point, I can’t say. I just don’t know enough.”

I ran down the list of suspects involved, winding up with
Harry Bunter—which reminded me that at some point I ought to talk to his wife.

“Now you know just about everything I know,” I said to Poole. “If you get any bright ideas—”

“You’ll be the first to hear them,” he said.

That was the end of our conversation for that day. He left my office, promising to come back on Monday.

“I’m off to a house I have on Fire Island for the weekend.”

“The wages of Pan?”

“There’s nothing like a best-seller,” he said. “It’s a money tree for sure—as you well know.”

“Until Monday, then, Herbert.”

Three o’clock rolled around, and it was time for me to meet Sarah Goodall. I suspected that I would wind up editing
Icepick,
or whatever the name of her book was. Sidney Leopold, whose discovery she was, did not like to work on books in which victims
were put to death in grisly and violent fashion, or in which the hero got badly beaten up, as in most P.I. mysteries; he turned
that sort of thing over to me.

At any rate, promptly on the appointed hour, a knock came at my office door. It was Sidney and Sarah Goodall.

Not knowing what to expect, I cannot say that I was altogether taken by surprise by La Goodall—only a trifle taken aback.

She was of medium height, rather stocky, her hair cropped quite short. She was wearing a tee-shirt imprinted with the words
“QUEER NATION.” That didn’t bother me particularly, but what I did find disquieting was the tiny gold earring dangling, not
from her ear, but from her right eyebrow.

“Muh-meet Sarah Goodall, Nuh-Nick,” said Sidney.

“Happy to meet you,” she said, thrusting out her hand. Her voice was almost as deep as mine, and her handshake was strong
enough to crack a few of my metacarpi.
Well,
I thought, unable to come up with anything original,
it takes all kinds.