Foul Matter (6 page)

That, thought Clive, was what editors like Kidd saw. There weren’t many of them. Thank God. Kidd always made Clive feel inadequate; he did this without even trying. All he had to do was appear in the damned doorway.

Clive would have to rally. “Tom!” he said, rising from his chair.

“Clive.” Tom was lighting up one of his big cigars. They were quite vile. All of the flack on smoking seemed to have sailed right over Tom Kidd’s head. “I just saw Tootsie Malone.”

Agent for Clive’s one good writer, Jennifer Schiffler. “Was she coming to see me? What’d she say?”

“I don’t know. I couldn’t read the balloon above her head.”

Tom hated agents of all stripes and kidney except for Jimmy McKinney, one of Mort Durban’s agents.

“I understand you’re signing Paul Giverney.”

Clive tried for hearty self-denigration, laughed, and said, “Trying like hell to.”

“Why?” Tom had taken a step into the room and smoke billowed out behind him as he exhaled.

“Why?”

Tom nodded. “Why do we need another commercial writer? A new one seems to pop up every day. Now it’s Giverney.”

“Come on, now, Tom. You know every house in Manhattan is trying to get him.”

Tom shrugged. “Again I ask, why?”

“Look, sit down, will you?”

“No, I’ve got to finish going over Mary’s contract.”

This was Mary Mackey. Clive saw an opportunity to get off the subject of Paul Giverney. “Mackey’s such a good writer. I’m glad you got her an extra twenty thousand.” He could have bit out his tongue; he was leading right into the subject of advances. Mary Mackey had originally been offered fifty thousand, but Tom had shoved it up to seventy. Still, it was mere change compared with someone like Dwight Staines or Paul Giverney. If Mackenzie-Haack took just 15 or 20 percent of the money it was paying writers like Staines or Rita Aristedes, it would be enough to keep really good writers out of trouble for years. Clive certainly wasn’t going to say this, or Tom would come back with one of his “forgotten world” speeches. Back there, in the mists of the forgotten world of publishing, it used to be that money would be paid to keep new writers afloat, even though there wouldn’t be a return on their books for years. The “forgotten world of publishing.” Back there with the dinosaur bones.

This made Clive recall a recent sales conference during which Tom had presented a new novel by Eric Gruber. He took pains to point out that in this novel one character was a dinosaur. “Please keep in mind, when you go into the bookstores, that Eric Gruber is a fabulist, that he’s really not Stephen King or Michael Crichton. If you need a buzz term, call it magical realism, that’s as good as any—unfortunately.”

Tom hated buzz words.

Leo Brand, who headed up sales, told Tom he always talked as if the whole publishing machine—including sales—was a damned thorn in the writer’s side, as if the house were some obstacle course that Tom’s writers had to run, and Leo wished Tom would keep in mind that without Mackenzie-Haack, Tom’s fucking writers wouldn’t even be in print.

“What’s so great about print—” Tom had asked, unfazed “—if you’ve got a pencil and a piece of paper?”

He made other editors—God knows he made Clive—feel as if they’d all come up short. Well, they had, hadn’t they? Tom’s writers took all of the literary prizes: a dozen National Book awards, several Pulitzers, scads of notable book citations, a number of New York Critics’ Circle awards, and the same number of foreign prizes. This was, admittedly, over a couple of decades. But decades had not turned up a rash of prizes such as these for any other editor, indeed, not for all of the editors put together. There had been a sprinkling of awards to other editors’ books, but that’s all.

Of course there wasn’t a publisher in New York who hadn’t gone fishing to get Tom away from Mackenzie-Haack. The biggest lure they had tossed out was the offer of his own imprint, which was Queeg and Hyde’s offer. All of this was very hush-hush, of course, but there being no secrets in politics and publishing, the word had drifted around to Bobby Mackenzie, who had, naturally (and uninventively), offered Tom the same thing: his own imprint. This would mean Tom would have a small segment of Mackenzie-Haack all to himself. His name would appear right beneath the publisher’s own on the spine of the book and on the title page. A very prestigious thing, one’s own imprint. Clive had been trying to get one for years. “A Clive Esterhaus Book.” He loved the look of it when he typed it on a piece of paper. But it was a look that hadn’t materialized.

Tom Kidd had (to no one’s surprise, really) turned down Queeg and Hyde and the imprint. “Why?” he had asked Bobby, when Bobby had offered him the same thing, “Why would I want that?”

“Why?” was generally Tom’s answer to the underhanded, back-biting, envious maneuvers that went on at Mack and Haack. When Bobby had once offered him the position of editor in chief, assuring him he wouldn’t be doing anything more than he was already doing, that had been Tom’s response. “Why?”

Now Clive had to answer the “Why?” with respect to the proposed contract for Paul Giverney. “Because he’s the hottest thing around these days. Because we want him on board. Of course.”

Tom didn’t fall for the “of course” (implying Tom would be a fool not to agree). He merely puffed at his cigar, looked at the lighted end to make sure it was, and said, “So what? He’ll never earn back that advance. It’d take sales in the millions to get it back. You’d be losing money.”

Clive laughed. “Tom, you’re such a literalist.”

“So’s money. Well, you might get him ‘on board’ as you say, but if the ship goes down you can bet Giverney will be batting the rest of you generous folks out of the way to get to the lifeboat first.”

Clive frowned. “Is that just a general statement about all millionaire authors or particular to Paul?”

Tom checked out the end of his cigar again. He didn’t answer the question except to say, “Well, never mind. As long as you’re his editor and not me.”

That gave Clive a little chill. Tom emptied the doorway of shadows when he walked away.

Clive picked up the Danny Zito book again, opened it to where the bookmark had been (and presumed Bobby must have put it there), and read.

I wouldn’t go so far as to say that, Danny, old boy. The prose was torturous but Danny had insisted he be the one to write this book; he didn’t want it ghosted or “told to” some hack writer. Clive had tried to dissuade him, telling him writing a book was not fun—

“Then why the hell they do it, these guys?” He waved his arm to take in a display of books by Mackenzie-Haack writers.

A good question, really. Clive sighed and went back to reading:

Clive shut the book, stared at the air for a moment, wondered if Bobby was really suggesting just that—that Danny write another book. It was true that this one had actually sold more copies than they ever thought it would. And it seemed to have developed some sort of cult following. But—

He picked up the phone, put it down, and picked up the book. As he walked by Amy’s desk, he told her he’d be in Bobby’s office.

“I’m finished with this?” She held up the pages of copy for the catalog.

Clive gave her a prissy little smile. “I don’t know, sweetheart. Are you?”

“Is he in?” Clive asked one of Bobby’s assistants, who was chattering on the telephone. What was her name, Polly? Dolly? Why weren’t these girls called secretaries, which was more or less their work? Probably because publishing houses had to pay secretaries whatever secretaries were worth. Editorial assistants, on the other hand, worked for a pittance and the glamour of it (some glamour!). And the hope of winding up as editors themselves (fat chance). They loved to talk shop. There was enough gossip floating around Mackenzie-Haack to keep them busy all day long. That’s probably what Polly was doing on the phone right now. She hung up and looked at him as if she wouldn’t lower herself.

“I asked you, is he in? Polly?”

“Dolly. No.” She pushed back a great wad of hair that looked as if it had been brushed by a steamroller. Then she pointed a silver-sequin-decorated nail in some direction. “He’s down the hall. In Peter’s office.” Dolly turned away.

“Peter Genero’s?”

Dolly’s smile was just this side of a sneer. “He’s the only Peter we have, isn’t he?”

All of Bobby’s assistants were big on attitude, just like Bobby; they were working for the great man himself, and who were you?

Clive walked into Bobby’s office. He liked looking at the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that lined three walls (the fourth being the glass-covered view). The shelves were full, with the newish books displayed upright, spread like a whore’s legs. As usual all the really good ones (meaning the beautifully written ones) were from Tom Kidd’s writers. There was a Grace Packard, an Eric Gruber. The other editors (himself included) had, of course, a literary writer here and there, but rarely more than one, and that one none of the editors Clive knew (again, himself included) would have the guts to edit.

Clive’s literary plum was Jennifer Schiffler. She was close to being on a par with Gruber and Packard and Isaly. Rarely did Clive see her, and when he did, he wasn’t sure he was “seeing” her. She was one of those writer-wraiths who gave the impression she was merely engaged in a corporeal visitation that could end at any second. Once he had taken Jennifer to lunch, expecting her merely to pick at her food, and ended up wondering how she had managed to consume all of her blini without seeming to chew or even swallow.

Looking at all of these books, Clive sighed, feeling a pang of guilt for Jennifer and writers like her, knowing he had come a long way from books such as hers and by back, not main, streets.

“Clive!”

Clive jumped at the sound of Bobby’s voice. Bobby came in and sailed around his lakelike desk, then settled into his leather swivel chair, feet on desk as if he were wearing jeans and a T-shirt. He wasn’t. Bobby had his own tailor who had made him a dozen suits (at two or three thousand per), all of them the same design in different wools and silks, but the colors were so muted it looked as if Bobby always wore the same suit.

“What’ve you got?”

“This?” Clive was afraid he was beginning to put every statement in the form of a question, like Amy.

Bobby sat back, smiling in a way that was meant to be mysterious but ended up being merely cocksure. He laced his hands behind his head and rocked back toward the huge window and beyond it, into space. “You found it.”

“Were you trying to hide it? In the center of my desk?”

“What do you think?”

“About what?” He decided that if Bobby wanted another Mafia exposé, he’d have to bring it up himself. Clive wasn’t helping him.

“Didn’t you read the page I marked?”

“Yes, I read the page you marked. He—Danny—carried on about the writing life. Danny, more than anyone, would know, of course.”

Turning his chair back and forth like a kid, Bobby smiled. “That and other stuff.”

Clive frowned. “ ‘Other stuff’?”

Bobby stopped turning and leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Don’t you remember what we were talking about this morning? Have you forgotten already?”

“Of course, I remember. It was about Paul Giverney, mainly.”

“Didn’t you just love that bit about killing getting easier with practice, like roller-blading?” Bobby grimaced. “I was thinking maybe you should look up Danny Zito.”

Clive gave a choking laugh. “Zito’s gone into the great beyond of witness protection. You talked about it yourself. The man doesn’t want to be found.”

Bobby pulled over his Rolodex, fingers spilling over it like a card shark, plucked out one of the little punched cards, and shoved it across to Clive. “Here’s his unlisted number.” Bobby rat-tat-tatted on his desk with his hands. “He doesn’t want to be found by his old buddies, or by his wife, or by his girlfriend. Who would? But by his publisher? Come on.” Bobby made a blubbery sound with his lips. “You might lose track of your bookie or your fence, but your publisher? No way.”

Clive rose, walked around the desk to peer out of the window, down at Madison Avenue. He turned, brows knotted. “Bobby, why in hell would we want another book from Danny Zito?”

“We don’t. But he probably does.”

“So?”

“So he knows people.” Bobby folded his arms hard against his chest and waited.

“ ‘Knows people.’ ” Clive was trying to resist the same unpleasant knowledge he had tried to resist that morning. He sucked in breath, felt it tighten in his chest. He wasn’t so young anymore that he couldn’t have a coronary. “You want me to get some information from Zito about taking care of this little problem Paul Giverney has set?”

Bobby gave him one of those exaggerated who-me? shrugs.

Then Clive said, “How in hell do you think we could trust Danny Zito, anyway? He’s obviously the biggest snitch around. If he’d take on the Bransoni family, why do you think he’d keep quiet over a deal with us?”

Bobby slowly shook his head. “Bransoni didn’t promise him a book contract. Only the other kind.” Bobby found this a real howl. When he’d finished laughing, he said, “Come on, Clivey. Just do it.”

Clive left Bobby’s office, wishing people would stop fucking calling him that.

C
live was back at his desk again, looking (again) at the Zito book.

Fallguy.
Clive remembered the book proposal: one page, outline form.