The following day I lunched with Joe Scanlon at The Players. I decided we’d better take a corner table in the main dining room, where we could speak in privacy, rather than going down to the Grill Room. Supplied with a vodka martini for me and a Jack Daniel’s on the rocks with a splash for Scanlon, we got down to business. Police business first.
When I told him about my interview with Judith Michaelson, Scanlon nodded in what I hoped was approval.
“Her husband killed himself with a gun,” he said, holding his drink poised in midair. “I wonder what kind of gun he used.”
“You think it might be the same one that killed Parker? If so, perhaps it could be traced.”
“No chance. According to information I got from Sergeant Falco, the murder weapon was unlicensed.”
“Tough break.”
“Yeah, it certainly is. No recognizable prints, either, Falco told me. Not even a latent.”
“What else did you find out, Joe?”
He took a long sip from his glass and leaned forward. In a low voice, he said: “A piece of information about one of your people, Nick. A Lester Crispin?”
“My art director. He couldn’t get along with Parker.”
“Lieutenant Hatcher and Falco know that. What you may not have known, Nick, is that Crispin has a record.”
“What?” I knew the instant I spoke that my voice was much too loud; it wouldn’t do for anyone else in the room to overhear our conversation. “Excuse me, Joe, I didn’t mean to shout. It… comes as a shock, that’s all.”
“I’m sure.”
“What was it?”
“Criminal assault. He was indicted but never tried, and never served any time. Apparently there were extenuating circumstances.”
“Such as?”
“The party he beat the bejeesus out of had attempted to rape one of the women who worked in Crispin’s office.”
“Jesus, what do you know? I guess I’m not surprised, Joe. The man does have a violent temper.”
“Anyway, he moves up a notch or two on the list of suspects.”
“And what about me? Where do I stand?”
“You’re still up there, Nick.”
“I can’t say I like that much. By the way, does Hatcher or Falco know of our connection?”
“Not yet, and I’m hoping we can keep it that way, at least for a while. Otherwise, he’s not going to like feeding me information.”
I downed my martini and signaled the waiter. “Let’s move on to lunch, Joe.”
After we’d ordered, I said: “To change the subject—”
“If you don’t, I’ll be glad to.”
“Have you heard from Kay McIntire? About taking you on as a client?”
“Nothing definite yet. She’s reading my stuff—said she’d let me know.”
“I hope it works out.”
“Nick,” he said, “I’m curious about what happens after my book is out. That is—what will the launch be like?”
“Launch?” I paused. It was a long, grave pause. “Well,” I said at last, “ninety percent of our books are sent out into the marketplace with a rather wistful hope that something, anything, will happen to start them selling.
“You may be thinking of a launch,” I continued, “as a space shuttle roaring off into the heavens, or a new movie opening on six hundred screens. What we publishers do is—well, we kind of push a book out onto a huge pond, like a little toy boat. Ready to catch the wind in its sails if there is any wind, fortunate if it doesn’t sink without a trace.”
“Oh,” said Scanlon.
“Let’s hope, Joe,” I said, not wishing to ruin his digestion altogether, “that your book is one of the other ten percent.” He brightened at this.
“One other thing, Joe. How would you like to consider joining The Players?”
He whistled softly. “They’ve got a category for cops?”
“As an author, my friend. But we have had at least one cop as a member.”
“How does it work? Joining, I mean.”
“I nominate you for membership. Another member writes a seconding letter, and we get letters from three other members approving your nomination.”
“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.