“You’re the executive end, Robin. What are you trying to say?”
“He hasn’t been subpoenaed yet, and I pray he won’t be. But as long as he was employed here, he posed a danger. These are perilous times, Jack. Not like the war, with everyone pulling together. It’s every man for himself.”
It didn’t occur to him to remind Elk to call him Jacob. “You’re not making any sense. What do you mean by a danger?”
“You’re aware he’s a Marxist?”
“I am not. I don’t think he has any politics at all.”
“That’s reason enough for Mrs. St. John’s committee to suspect him. Those Yanks think anyone who doesn’t wear an American flag pin in his lapel is a potential Russian spy.”
“Blue Devil can survive that. He’ll just tell them he doesn’t belong to the Communist Party.”
“You said he was dabbling in explosives the first time you met; a certain construction can be placed on that.”
“He was blowing up paint, not people. He had a permit. They don’t hand those out to the Rosenbergs. When did politics come into this? I thought sex was the enemy.”
“That’s the other thing.”
“What other thing?”
The publisher groped for his cane and spun the crook.
“I wish we could have this conversation another time.”
“I think you’d rather not have it at all.”
“I thought that was obvious.”
“Well, we’re having it. What’s the second black mark?”
“It has to do with his personal conduct.”
“Oh, come on! He rubs people the wrong way. It’s the artistic temperament. You said something about it yourself when you showed me his cover painting for Chinese Checkers. I got the impression you wouldn’t have him any other way.”
“I wasn’t referring to his demeanor. It’s his private life the committee will want to explore.”
“You mean his homosexuality.”
“You knew?”
“I suspected it for some time. My bachelor party more or less confirmed it. He dumped her off his lap as if she were a cat and he had allergies. It still doesn’t make him a Commie.”
“The committee’s main interest is perversion. They’ll say his images send a subtle message to the impressionable younger generation—recruitment posters, as it were.”
“All his female models are knockouts and half-naked. Sometimes more than half. Wouldn’t that send a mixed message to fledgling fairies?”
“You may have noticed his women are always either up to something nefarious or are themselves victims of a hairy he-man. His pictures are a misogynist’s dream.”
“If you feel that way, why’d you hire him?”
“I was thinking of sales. I believe it was William Randolph Hearst who said, ‘Show me a magazine with a dog, a baby, or a pretty girl on the cover, and I’ll show you a magazine that sells.’ I’d alter that to read, ‘a pretty girl in her knickers.’ Jack, we’re all going to have to pull in our horns if we don’t want to end up on trial. Fewer naughty bits on the cover, more subtlety on the page. You’re a good enough writer to embrace this opportunity.”
“‘Opportunity’?”
“It’s an ill wind, etcetera. Some of the finest art has appeared in times of oppression. Da Vinci flowered under the Borgias. In our own time, Hollywood censorship forced clever screenwriters and directors to exploit subterfuge and innuendo to make their point, with even greater impact. You’re up to the task. Hank Stratton is not; his hardcover deal fell through when his television program was canceled. His agent came to me asking for a new contract, on far more modest terms than the last. I turned him down. Stratton swats flies with Howitzers. The committee would rip him to shreds and us with him.”
“I never liked Stratton, but he deserves better. His sales are what put this hobby of yours over the top.”
Elk tried to look sly; the effect was more like a baby who’d soiled a fresh diaper.
“Just between us, dear fellow, his numbers were never as reported. His work offended critics, leading to notoriety, which I finessed into figures no one ever bothered to investigate. Lash Logan brought us sensation. Chinese Checkers was our very first title to sell through.”
“My God. You’ve got more twists and turns than a snake. How did the Krauts ever manage to shoot you down?”
Elk took this as a compliment. His milk-pale cheeks stained pink.
“This crisis will blow over. Soon the watchdogs of morality will find a juicier target: Comic books and television are ripe for the plucking. Why pillory artists and writers whose faces are unknown when you can go after Lucille Ball and get your picture on the front page?”
“So meanwhile we bend over and grab our ankles.”
“What a vulgar way of putting it; but, yes, figuratively speaking. This too shall pass.”
Elk fell on his meal as if he’d been living on coconuts on a desert island. Jacob let his own grow cold.
“The old clichés are the best,” he said. “If Scarpetti goes, so do I.”
“You can’t.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You’re under contract for another book, and if I decide Coal-Blooded Murder is unsatisfactory—should you withhold unreasonably the changes I suggest—you’ll owe me two. If you try to change publishers, I’ll take you to court.”
“You’re threatening me.”
“Certainly not. You’re more than a colleague, Jack. This is advice from a friend.”
“Not Jack! Jacob! You don’t know what a friend is. You’d throw your mother under the train just to show your old man you can wipe your own ass.”
“Another crudity. Shall we part as adversaries?”
“Let’s just part.” He rose and put money on the table.
“Put that away. The publisher always picks up the check.”
“I’m not sure you’re my publisher anymore.”
“You weren’t listening to what I said.”
“Believe it or not, Robin, there are other professions besides writing.”
“As I recall, your last job came with a foreman.”
“People who work for foremen don’t get called up before Congress.” He left.