If ever a man was cut out to be a murder victim, it was certainly Parker Foxcroft. Arrogant, ruthless, manipulative, a womanizer and a rampant literary snob, he was notoriously devious, vicious at times—even for the book business.
I ought to know; he worked for me. As the president and publisher of Barlow & Company, I hired Parker as a senior editor and gave him his own imprint three years ago. I was within a nanominute of firing him, too, when someone with a stronger motive than I iced him, as the mobsters put it in the crime novels I so happily and successfully publish. Or is the word now whacked? Offed, perhaps? At any rate, there may soon be almost as many synonyms for “killed” as there are for “drunk” (357 at last count, beginning with “bagged” and ending with “zonked”).
I can’t say I was surprised when Parker turned up dead, but I was certainly inconvenienced, in more ways than one. You see, I was the one who found his body, not long after we had a violent shouting match.
It was at the ABA Convention that I realized something would have to be done about Parker.
Like the Trobriand Islanders or the Benevolent and Protective Order of Elks, we book publishers have our peculiar and arcane tribal rites. One is the Frankfurt Book Fair; another is the American Booksellers Association Convention. Frankfurt, however, is a global affair, an Oktoberfest held in four cavernous convention halls a third of a mile west of the Bahnhof, Frankfurt’s rail station, while the ABA—it is never referred to formally—is a moveable feast, convened each year in a different locale. There are only a handful of cities in America with convention centers large enough to hold it, for it is a mighty gathering of the clans: some 25,000 to 30,000 people attending—5,000 or 6,000 of whom are actually booksellers—and there are 1,200 or more exhibitors, most of them book publishers. At the ABA, publishers launch their new lists and push their established titles; booksellers come to see, to buy, to attend seminars, and to meet old friends.
All of which explains why I found myself in Washington, D.C., on Friday, May 28, the Memorial Day weekend. The choice of this holiday for the ABA is also part of the ritual. It is one of the cruelest bits of scheduling I know: to keep the publishers away from the beaches, the tennis courts, and the golf links, so that the booksellers—who would normally close their shops on this weekend—can enjoy their moment in the sun.
And sun was what hit me when I got off the shuttle at Washington National, collected my bag, and stepped out of the terminal. Hit me with tropical force. Here it was, only the tag end of May, and already ninety in the shade.
I turned to Sidney Leopold, the editor in chief of my publishing house, who had accompanied me on the flight down.
“God, Sidney, the heat. ‘Summer is icumen in,’ no? ‘Lhude sing cuccu!’
“Ice-cream weather all right, Nuh-Nick,” he said.
“I was thinking vodka and tonic myself.”
“Do you know, Nick,” said Sidney, “that Hä-HäagenDazs has come out with a new line called ‘Exträas’—wuwith an umlaut, of course.”
“Oh?”
“A thousand cuh-calories more than their regular—flavors.”
It was enough to turn me ashen. I must explain that ice cream, all kinds and varieties of it, is Sidney’s ruling passion. Were I to consume as much of it as he packs away in an ordinary month, I would probably weigh in at 50 pounds over my fighting weight, which is 225 or 230, give or take a few pounds. Nicholas Barlow, Homo giganticus. No thank you. As it is, I can hardly open a menu these days, or pass by a bakery, without gaining weight—or so it would seem. Sidney, meanwhile, remains slim and flat-bellied through it all.
A cab, mercifully air-conditioned, pulled up just then and rescued us from the heat. And the humidity. Washington is world-famous for both.
Fond as I am of our nation’s capital, I’ve always appreciated John F. Kennedy’s quip at its expense. “Washington,” JFK said, “is a city of southern efficiency and northern charm.” Still, you must agree that a city that will not allow any building to rise higher than ninety feet—so as not to block anyone’s view of the Capitol, I believe—certainly has its architectural priorities straight.
We checked in at the Shoreham Hotel shortly after noon. I know there are more luxurious hotels in town; the Shoreham is a trifle shabby-genteel, but I like it, and there is a great deal of nostalgia connected with the place, for me at least. When I was still an undergraduate at Princeton, I attended a couple of ABAs with my father. In those days, the convention was held every year in Washington—I suspect because the association had some kind of sweetheart deal with the hotel—and the exhibits were all set up in the basement garage of the Shoreham. People usually stayed either at the Shoreham or at the Park-Sheraton, now the Sheraton Washington, across the street.
And what memories I have…
Wandering the halls of the hotel in the small hours of the morning, looking for parties. We found them by following the roars of laughter and boisterous conversation coming from the open doors of hospitality suites, or the sound of a guitar and someone singing a folk song… The nights then seemed to be one long, continuous party… and the mornings one long hangover. Vodka stingers and brandy Alexanders were high on our list of preferred drinks. So, like the chain-smokers of long ago who were unwittingly writing their death certificates every day that passed, we were heedless in our haste to wreak a similar havoc on our livers…
Lest you think I’m some kind of Mrs. Grundy, I hasten to add that I still smoke an occasional cigar, if it’s a good one, and feel quite comfortable with a glass in my hand, if that glass is filled with the precise mixture of Absolut and Noilly Prat. I drink, frankly, whenever the spirit moves me.
Diving into the pool one morning, I spotted something white and shining at the bottom. It was a convention badge, of all things. When I fished it out, I discovered that it was my badge, though I hadn’t the faintest idea how it got there…
There was always at least one poker game, a dollar and five dollars, in one hotel room or another, blue with smoke and reeking of malt. It was a democratic game: publishers sat facing their sales reps, and the reps went head-to-head with booksellers. The game was stag, of course…
Pleasant memories, to be sure. The year has never quite been complete for me without an ABA. And as much as they grouse about the expense of it, and claim that it’s really not worth it (”Nobody does any business there” is the common refrain), I suspect that most of my fellow publishers feel the same way, even if they go because it would be imprudent to stay away. If it’s an orgy, at least it’s our very own orgy.