Final Edit (5 page)

“Mother,” I said, “you called?”

“Indeed I did. Nicholas—”

“Yes, Mother?” When she used my full Christian name, I knew I was in for it, so I assumed the most comfortable position I
could find, which was supine, on my bed.

“Nicholas, I’ve spoken to your Mr. Mandelbaum,” she said, “and he tells me that there’s a problem at the bank—”

Morty was now
my
Mr. Mandelbaum, despite her having approved hiring him. You see, while I am CEO and COO of the company, my mother is the
major shareholder, and still controls the purse strings, which makes the tie that binds more of an umbilicus than anything
else.

We talked at some length about the problem with the bank, and I ended by assuring her I would deal with it first thing I got
back to New York.

“I should hope so,” she said. “Here you are off in Washington when you ought to be back home.”

“Mother,” I reminded her, as patiently as I could, “there is nothing I could do about it on a Sunday, now, is there?”

“But Washington—”

“I am
not
down here to have a good time, Mother. The ABA, as you will remember, is work. Work, not play. I would just as soon be back
home, to tell you the truth.”

“Well,” she said finally, “be sure to take care of yourself. Don’t go to too many parties, and don’t drink too much.”

“Yes, Mother,” I sighed. “Now, would you put Tim on?”

Tim is my younger brother—my brilliant, bedridden brother. I can say of my brother Tim what Sherlock Holmes said of his brother
Mycroft in
The Adventure of the BrucePartington Plans:
“He has the tidiest and most orderly brain, with the greatest capacity for storing facts, of any man living.”

“Nick,” he said when he came on the phone, “what’s the news?” His voice was strong and vibrant, which cheered me enormously.
It meant he was having one of his better days.
I could never be sure what kind of mood I would find him in. If it weren’t that he had good reason for his mood swings, I
would have characterized my brother as a manic-depressive, but when you’re paralyzed from the waist down—

“The news is… promising,” I said—and then I told him about Herbert Poole. Even though I hadn’t really gotten anywhere with
Kay, I knew it would cheer him up to know there might be the prospect of another best-seller—and a mystery at that.

When I showed up again at our booth the next day, Mary Sunday and our two reps were handling the booksellers, and Parker Foxcroft
was deep in a heated conversation with a man I recognized as Andrew Phelps, a reviewer for the
Washington Post.

“Now, wait just a damn minute—” I heard Phelps say. “I don’t—”

“You
know
that I’m right!” Parker’s voice had risen to a threatening pitch. “You’re biased as hell, and everybody in the trade knows
it.”

What the holy
hell
was going on here? I knew that Phelps was not a particularly good friend of Barlow & Company, and he had savaged a few of
our books in what I thought was an excessively harsh fashion, but still—

“Look here, Foxcroft—”

“You look here. I’ve a good mind to write your publisher and complain.”

“Okay,
okay,”
said Phelps. “I’m sorry I ever stopped by your booth in the first place. I was only trying—”

At this I stepped forward. The whole thing, in my opinion, had gone far enough. “Mr. Phelps,” I said, “I’m Nicholas Barlow
and—”

Which was as far as I got. Phelps emitted something between a snort and a snarl, turned his back on me, and stalked off.

“Parker,” I said with as much civility as I could muster, “what the hell was that all about?”

Foxcroft drew himself up to his full height and said: “I told Mr. Phelps what I thought of his reviews.”

“You
what?”
I was on the verge of shouting. “Don’t you
know
that nothing hurts us more than slamming a reviewer? Someone who is in a position to do us real injury? For Christ’s sake,
Parker—”

“Nick,” said Foxcroft. He sounded somehow hurt, as though I was on Phelps’s side. “Phelps has trashed my books—and more than
once.”

“Well, if he hasn’t done you in so far, he sure as hell will now—and probably all the rest of our books as well.”

“Oh, come
on,
Nick—”

Now I realized that I
was
shouting. And that people nearby were hanging on my every word. Mary Sunday just stood there, openmouthed. As for Parker
Foxcroft, his face turned even a deeper red than usual.

I brought my voice down, almost to a whisper. “If you ever do a thing like that again—”

“Look, Nick—”

“Just stay away from reviewers, understand, Parker? Leave it to the publicity department.
Don’t fuck us up.”

And that was it. For what it was worth, the high point of the ABA. I had had enough of Parker Foxcroft, and I am sure he had
had enough of me. There was nothing left but to head for Washington National and catch a USAir shuttle back to New York.

* * *

Though I didn’t feel especially bright-eyed, I thought I’d better check into the office, primarily to empty my in-box into
the circular file.

To my astonishment, I found the office closed and locked. Where was everybody?

I had completely forgotten that it was a legal holiday. I had no choice but to go home. What a lovely choice.

I devoted the morning after I got back from Washington to emptying my in-box into my circular file; by afternoon I was ready
to deal with whatever problems were waiting for me.

There were two—or so I thought. The first was the bank. I called in Mortimer Mandelbaum and asked him to set up a meeting
with Clifford Franklin, the loan officer at our bank.

“As soon as possible, Mort,” I said. “We’ve got to keep our line of credit wide open.” And then I told Mandelbaum about the
possibility of signing Herbert Poole for a mystery.

He fairly beamed. “So you did land a best-seller in Washington,” he said.

“Not yet. And suppose Kay McIntire and Poole decide to auction his next book off? Could we afford to take part in an auction?”

“Probably not.”

Auctions for potential best-sellers are a fact of life in book publishing these days, and a small house like Barlow & Company
is ill prepared to take part in them. First, we do
not have the deep pockets of the major houses. And second, we do not own a paperback reprint house, which means that we cannot
offer what is called a hard-soft contract, with one advance covering both the hardcover and the paperback editions. Agents
prefer hard-soft deals because they and their clients get to keep the entire advance, unlike a deal covering hardcover rights
only. In that case the hardcover publisher sells the paperback rights to a reprint house and keeps a share—sometimes as much
as half—of the reprint money.

No, we had to hope we could persuade Herbert Poole that we were the best house to publish his mystery, on our merits alone.

If he decides to write a mystery, that is.

If if if
… if I don’t have an ulcer, it is only because of the genes that gave me a cast-iron stomach.

The second problem arrived in my office shortly after lunch, in the person of Lester Crispin, the company’s art director.
As always, Crispin knocked sharply on my door, and when I bade him come in, went at once to the couch on the far wall and
slumped rather than sat down on it. He began to stroke his beard, a black bristly affair, so fearsome it gives him the air
of a pirate. Added to that is the physique of a wrestler and hands that would do credit to a bricklayer. Today he was wearing
a shirt open to the breastbone, revealing a thatch of curly black chest hair.

“Nick,” he said. “Goddamn it, Nick.”

“What is it, Les?”

He started drumming the meaty fingers of his left hand on the arm of the couch. “Shit, man,” he said finally. “That’s all
I can say,
shit.”

“Let me guess,’ I said. “Parker Foxcroft.”

He sat up straight and stared at me. “How the hell did
you know that?” he said. “You’re a fucking mind reader, Nick.”

“Just a stab.” As though Parker hadn’t been the source of most of my irritation these past few days…

“Has he been in to see you? About me, I mean.”

“No, he hasn’t. Why should he have?”

“Son
of a bitch.”

“Are you speaking about Parker, or is that just a general son of a bitch?”

“Both.” He shook his head as though to clear it of whatever he was thinking, perhaps to clear it of the image of Parker Foxcroft.
I had frequently done the same thing.

“Specifically, what about Parker?” I asked Crispin.

“As you may know, Nick, he’s a hard man to satisfy.”

I nodded. “Go on,” I said.

“I can’t seem to satisfy the bastard at all. Ever. It’s bitch bitch bitch, one bitch after another. ‘The colors are all wrong,’
he says. Or ‘Why don’t you hire a better designer?’ Or ‘I could do better art than that myself, and you can’t draw a straight
line.’
Jesus,
Nick—”

“I’m aware,” I said, “of some of his complaints. Not all of them. If I haven’t reacted to them, it’s because I thought you
had the situation well under control. You are, after all, the best art director in the business. In my humble opinion.” I
meant it, too; Crispin not only turned out beautiful books and splendid jackets; he had brought home several firsts in American
Institute of Graphic Arts competitions.

“Yeah yeah.” He waved his hand. “That’s all well and good, but—well, I’m damn sick and tired of it. For three years, the man
has nagged at me, thrown first-rate jackets back in my face. I’ve had two top designers tell me they won’t work on a Parker
Foxcroft book again. And now I just lost my assistant. She quit because Parker Foxcroft screamed
and swore at her. How much am I supposed to put up with, Nick, I ask you, goddamn it.”

“What do you suggest I do?”

“Fire the bastard.”

“You mean that?”

“I do. Either you fire him, Nick, or you’ll have my resignation on your desk tomorrow morning.”

I sat back in my chair and, as I often do when I have something on my mind, made a steeple of my fingertips. This was rather
more of a problem than I had expected.
Of course you’ve thought of firing Parker yourself, haven’t you? Yeah, sure, but I can’t say that to Crispin, now can I?

“You don’t think if I talk to Parker—” I said.

“No damn good, Nick. Forget it.”

“Even so—” Common fairness demanded that I give Parker a chance.
A chance to what? To explain? To mend his ways? Forget it!… All right, then, a chance to apologize and start afresh. He does,
after all, have that goddamned
touch…
He also has an iron-clad contract… How the hell can I fire him without eating that?…

I was brought abruptly back from my thoughts by Crispin, who pushed himself out of my couch, planted himself in front of my
desk, his hands making fists, as though he was about to box with me, and said: “Obviously, you’re not about to fire him. Okay,
so be it. I’ve got no choice but to pack it in.”

“Come on, Les, be reasonable.” I said that even as I realized that reason had nothing to do with it, that I was somehow hoping
that this problem would be resolved without my needing to fire Parker. But how? By divine intervention, perhaps? Damn it all,
anyway!

I knew even as Crispin turned and headed toward the
door that I had just lost the best art director the firm had ever had. I hoped to God that giving Parker the benefit of the
doubt wasn’t the biggest mistake I’d made all day.

All day, hell
—
all year.

My last hope, and a faint one at best, was that I might still persuade Parker to make peace with Crispin.

Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be caught in the cross fire of the antagonists!

I buzzed Hannah Stein on the intercom.

“Hannah,” I said, “see if you can track down Parker Foxcroft.”

When my secretary buzzed me back, it was to report that Foxcroft was not in his office.

“Try him at home,” I said. “It may be one of his editing days.” One of the peculiar realities of the publishing business is
that virtually no editing is done in editorial offices. The editors are all too busy at meetings, handling administrative
details, dealing with agents and authors—anything and everything but editing books. For the most part, they must do that at
home, or whenever and wherever they can find the time. Like so many of his breed, Parker had an unlisted home phone number
so he could work undisturbed by anyone but me.

“No answer,” said Hannah.

Damn,
I thought.
Where could he be? Certainly he’s not still at the ABA…

Aloud: “Leave a message in his office, please, Hannah—that I want to talk to him as soon as possible, no matter what the hour
may be—night or day.”

I had no plans for that evening, so I thought I’d stop by The Players for a drink and a bite to eat in the Grill Room.

The Club is only a block away from my town house at 2 Gramercy Park, which makes it my second home—and a beautiful one.

Only a few members were in the Grill when I walked in. Two women sat chatting at one of the small round tables. A young man
I did not recognize sat at the long common table; he was wearing an open red-checked sport shirt and a safari jacket. Dress
in the Grill Room is considerably less formal than dress upstairs in the Howard Lindsay Dining Room, mainly to accommodate
actors who come to the Club wearing rehearsal clothes. Nor are they the only ones to dress casually. An older man standing
at the bar was also tieless, and carried his coat slung over his arm. It was Frederick Drew. I knew him slightly, and knew
also that despite a familiar theatrical last name, he was not an actor but a poet. The Players is a much-loved haven not only
for people in the theater but also for writers, artists, publishers, patrons of the arts, even doctors and lawyers.

Drew was staring down at the drink he held cupped in his left hand when I walked up to the bar.