Sunday morning. “Complacencies of the peignoir, and late coffee and oranges in a sunny chair,” wrote Wallace Stevens in his magnificent poem. Not for me those pleasures. For Sunday is the same as any other day at the ABA. The publishers are in their booths; the booksellers roam the halls again in search of enlightenment, or at least in search of freebies, most of which are gone by the second day of the convention. In other words, business as usual. I doubt anyone here much thinks of worship or even of playing golf—well, worship anyway. I’m sure things are different at the Christian Booksellers Association Convention, which is usually held somewhere in the Bible Belt, but I’ve never attended one of those. Barlow & Company, thank God, has no religious list. I am a firm believer in the separation of church and state—and literature. While I respect those publishers who deal in denominational titles, I am convinced that religious differences, along with nationalism, have been responsible for most of the world’s worst calamities and much of its human misery.
I put in some time at the booth again, listening to a few complaints from booksellers who had received books with defective jackets, or whose credit had been suspended for one reason or another, chatting up visitors on the merits of my fall list, and patrolling the corridors myself, to see what the competition was up to.
Then I headed for the autographing tables in the rear of the hall, looking for Herbert Poole.
I found him busy signing copies of his book fed to him one after another by a young woman from his publishing house and by his agent, Kay McIntire. A long line of booksellers had formed in front of the Poole table.
When I caught Kay Mclntire’s eye, I waved at her. She waved back, and motioned me to move to the side of the room, where she joined me shortly afterward.
“Good morning, Nick,” she said. “I don’t suppose you’re looking for an autograph, are you?”
I smiled—coyly, I hope. “Only on a contract,” I said.
“Oh?”
“I’ve heard that Poole might want to write a mystery. If that is true, I’d like to talk deal with you, Kay.”
Kay McIntire is one of the most honest and straightforward agents I know, and surely the most attractive. We’ve known each other for years, and but for the presence of Margo in my life, I would certainly have thought of her in romantic terms. Once, when the three of us were having dinner at The Players, Hartley Reed, the advertising genius and one of my authors, approached our table, took Kay’s hand in his, and said: “You’re the most beautiful woman in this room, and I’m dying to know your name.”
Later, down in the Grill Room of the Club, when I was ordering after-dinner drinks, Reed came up to me and asked—nay, demanded—to meet her again. “Arrange a lunch for the three of us. Pick any restaurant you like,” he said. “How about La Grenouille?”
I knew that Hartley was much married—thirty years or more, I figured. “You’re thinking of leaving the reservation, are you?” I said.
“My friend,” he replied in a deep, solemn voice, “I have never been on the reservation.”
The lunch, however, did not take place because—but that’s another story. At the moment, I was thinking of Kay only as an agent.
“How about it, Kay? Is Mr. Poole ready to jump ship?”
“You know I wouldn’t encourage an author to leave his publisher for somebody else,” she said, “unless his publisher was somehow wrong for him.”
“But if he wants to write a mystery—”
“I’m not recommending that, either,” said Kay, considering her words with great care. “I’m not so sure it’s a good idea for him to break step quite so sharply. Readers will expect him to follow Pan at Twilight with—well, Pan at Twilight Two, I suppose.”
“I’m mistaken in my assumption, then?”
“Mmm,” she said, “not entirely. But it’s certainly premature to think about a contract, Nick. Much too soon.”
I looked again at the autographing table. Poole was still signing, smiling frequently, leaning forward to pick up a signee’s name, murmuring an occasional comment. He looked younger than I had expected: full head of curly blond hair, a tanned, lean face, the kind of author who would photograph or televise well, and who could expect to be regarded as a sex object in his own right, leaving aside the kind of books he wrote.
As I watched, he continued to work the line of autograph seekers, most of whom were women—looking as though there was no place in all the world he would rather be than right here, scribbling away, risking writer’s cramp to satisfy his loyal fans. One young woman in shorts and a tee-shirt was carrying a small baby. Poole leaned over the table, and I thought—My God, do you suppose he’s going to kiss it?—but he only tickled the child under the chin.
“I understand,” I said. “Any chance of the three of us dining tonight?”
She shook her head. “We have movie interest, and the interested party is here in Washington”—she named a well-known Hollywood producer—“but I’ll let you know if or when we’re ready to talk to you. You know I admire Barlow and Company, Nick.”
“I appreciate that.”
“And you’re not so bad yourself,” she added, “for a Leo.”
I found it diverting that an agent as canny as Kay would be hooked on astrology and the New Age, but she was, to a surprising extent. She had once charted a horoscope for me, finding my future full of delightful treats—one of which I now hoped might be Herbert Poole.
With one last glance at Poole, still bent to his labors, I took my leave of Kay and went back to the hotel for my afternoon siesta.
There was a message in my box at the Shoreham that my mother had called, so before dozing off I dialed her home number in Weston, Connecticut.
“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.