When Mack and Linda arrived at Gothic, they were greeted in the reception area by an effusive Stealth Wolfowitz. “The book’s great,” he said. “You’ve really got your old touch back.”
When Mack and Linda arrived at Gothic, they were greeted in the reception area by an effusive Stealth Wolfowitz. “The book’s great,” he said. “You’ve really got your old touch back.”
“I’m glad you think so,” Mack said noncommittally.
“Is everyone here?” asked Linda.
“Floutie and Carter Lang are in the conference room,” said Wolfowitz. “And Fassbinder. Jesus, Mack, I don’t know why you insisted on him being here. This better be important.”
“It is,” said Linda.
“Before we go in, would you please tell me what’s going on?” said Wolfowitz to Mack.
“It’s a surprise,” Linda replied.
Wolfowitz gave Linda a wintry smile. “I see you’ve got a new spokeswoman,” he said to Mack.
“Sorry. This is my lawyer, Linda Birney.”
“I hope you’re not here to renegotiate Mack’s contract,” said Wolfowitz. “The book is terrific, but we’ve got a deal.”
“Oh, nothing as painless as that,” said Linda breezily, returning the editor’s false smile. “Let’s get started, shall we?”
They followed Wolfowitz down the long hall to the book-lined conference room where Floutie, Fassbinder and Carter Lang, Gothic’s chief legal counsel, were seated on one side of the big mahogany table. Floutie and Lang rose graciously, but Fassbinder remained seated, glowering at them.
“Well now,” said Linda briskly.
“I wonder if you’d be good enough to begin with an explanation of why we’re here,” said Floutie. “The purpose of this meeting is rather obscure.”
“I’ll see if I can’t clarify it for you,” said Linda, catching the rhythm of Floutie’s fake Oxbridge tone. It was hard for Mack to repress a grin as he recalled how, only a few hours before, this self-possessed attorney in her severe black silk suit had been tumbling around with him, wild eyed and panting, in her king-sized bed at the Waldorf. “There are several items on the agenda. Let’s begin with Mr. Wolfowitz’s criminal bad faith.”
“Bad faith?” asked Wolfowitz, spreading his hands in a gesture of innocent confusion. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I’m talking about your arrangement with Walter T. Horton.”
Wolfowitz stared at her and shook his head. “Sorry, I don’t know what you mean.”
“Well, I thought you might not remember, so I’ve gone to the trouble of getting a notarized statement from Mr. Horton.” She snapped open her briefcase and slid copies across the table to Lang and the others. “Why don’t you all take a minute and read it. It’s not too long. Or too complicated.”
The men bent their heads over the paper. Lang was the first to finish. “According to this, Mr. Wolfowitz asked Horton to write an alternative version of The Diary of a Dying Man,” he said to Linda in his Virginia drawl. “Is that correct?”
“What do you mean, ‘correct’? It’s a crock,” Wolfowitz interrupted hotly. “This guy Horton’s a psycho. He’s dying from AIDS for Christ’s sake, he was probably zonked on some kind of medicine when he signed this. If he even did.”
“He signed it,” said Linda calmly. “And he wasn’t, in your empathetic phrase, zonked on anything.”
“Why would Wolfowitz make such a deal?” asked Floutie. “Particularly for another publishing house?”
“Because he owns a part of the house,” said Linda. “As to why—maybe Mr. Wolfowitz would like to answer that.”
“I’m not answering a goddamn thing,” said Wolfowitz. “I’m not on trial here.”
“Very well, then I’ll answer for him,” said Linda. “It was part of a personal vendetta against Mr. Green. He also undermined my client’s last two books for the same reason.”
“Now I know you’re nuts,” said Wolfowitz, throwing up his hands in outrage. “Vendetta! What am I, the Cosa Nostra? Green’s books don’t sell and I’m responsible?”
“Not you, Gothic. After all, you are the editor in chief,” said Linda.
“I get it now,” said Wolfowitz, looking past Floutie to Fassbinder. “This is some kind of shakedown. Jesus, Mack, I’m disappointed, I really am.”
Green cleared his throat, but Linda placed a restraining hand on his arm. “Let’s cut the crap. Who’s actually in charge here?”
“I am the publisher of Gothic Books,” said Floutie, with heavy dignity.
“That’s right,” said Fassbinder ominously. “Floutie here’s the head rooster. Anybody gets it in the neck, it’s him.”
Once again Linda reached into her briefcase, produced a thick sheaf of papers and handed them to Floutie. “This is a copy of Walter T. Horton’s manuscript. It’s based on Mack’s idea and patterned on the pages Mr. Wolfowitz obtained under false pretenses from John McClain of Oriole, Michigan. Mr. McClain, by the way, is not a psycho or even an AIDS patient. He’s a retired police detective.” She looked at Lang. “I have his statement right here if you’d care to see it. And another from Tomas Russo, Mack’s agent.”
“Please,” said Lang, taking a copy of the documents.
“So,” said Linda sweetly, “allow me to summarize the situation. The editor in chief of Gothic Books has been engaged in a conspiracy to defraud my client, and he has engaged in a similar conspiracy on at least two previous occasions.”
“These alleged previous instances, would you care to be more specific?” asked Lang.
“Not really,” said Linda. “Mr. Wolfowitz knows what I’m talking about, he can fill you in. Naturally, you’ll get all the details during discovery.”
Wolfowitz rose so suddenly that his chair tumbled backward. “I’ve heard all I’m going to listen to,” he snapped. “Carter, you’re a lawyer, tell this bitch she can’t come waltzing in here making wild accusations. There are libel laws, slander laws—”
“I don’t care for your language, Arthur,” said Floutie. “I apologize, Ms. Birney.”
“Who gives a shit what you care for?” snapped Wolfowitz.
“Calm down,” said Lang in a surprisingly strong tone. He leaned over to Floutie and cupped his hand to the publisher’s ear. “Douglas, as Gothic’s counsel it is my duty to tell you that our interests may now be in conflict with Wolfowitz’s,” he whispered.
Wolfowitz overheard the remark. “You’re selling me out, is that it? Harlan, tell these Ivy League faggots what’s what—”
Fassbinder ignored the demand. “This thing gonna cost me money?” he asked Lang.
“There’s no need to discuss that here,” said Lang.
“Big money,” said Linda, who had listened to the byplay in silence. “And that’s the least of your problems.”
“I’m not taking any more of this crap,” shouted Wolfowitz, stalking to the door. “I’ll get myself a real lawyer and sue you for slander and defamation of character.”
“I can’t even remember what she was like,” said Mack quietly. It was the first time he had spoken, and it brought Wolfowitz up short.
“What?”
“I can’t remember what Louise was like in bed. All this trouble and I can’t even remember.”
Wolfowitz stared at Mack, threw open the door and stormed out. There was a moment’s silence and then Carter Lang said, “I think it would be a good idea if we took a fifteen-minute recess.”
“We’ve got ’em running scared,” Mack whispered to Linda and squeezed her hand.
She returned the pressure and chuckled. “You think they’re scared now, wait till they see what’s coming next.”
By the time Wolfowitz reached his corner office he was already calm enough to begin analyzing his situation. Things weren’t nearly as bad as he had first thought. The legal threat was bogus—all they had was Horton’s statement, the word of an alcoholic on medication. Besides, with luck Horton would be dead in a few months, making him a poor witness. As far as McClain was concerned, well, it was McClain who had contacted him. How was he to know that Mack wasn’t really thinking about killing himself?
He might have to leave Gothic, although he had a chance to talk Fassbinder around after the others were gone. But even if he couldn’t, he had plenty of money and a company to run—the small house that was going to publish Horton’s novel.
The more Wolfowitz thought about it, the better things looked. He’d bring out Horton’s novel anyway, and if Mack or Gothic made a stink, well, there was nothing like a literary scandal to stir sales. In fact, he could blackmail Walter T. by telling him that he wouldn’t publish his book unless he dropped his statement. Then, with the right publicity, Wolfowitz could still make it look like Mack had stolen Horton’s idea and cooked up an implausible story about a vendetta to save his own skin.
Wolfowitz gathered some private papers, put them in his briefcase and glanced lovingly at the picture of Louise on his desk. He wasn’t finished with Mack yet, not by a long shot. He walked down the corridor to the exit with a light step. He was a man with a mission, a happy man. He would have whistled if there had been anyone around to hear him.
McClain met Reggie on the northwest corner of Park and Sixty-fifth, only a few blocks from Gothic headquarters. They shook hands and McClain said, “We’re the two biggest men on the street.”
Reggie looked around at the other pedestrians and nodded in agreement. “We’ve got a lot in common,” he said. “A certain kind of chemistry. I sensed that in Detroit. You did, too, didn’t you? I could tell.”
“Yeah, I did,” said McClain. “Look, there’s something I need to talk to you about.”
“Let’s walk while we talk,” said Herman, taking McClain’s arm and guiding him in the direction of Central Park. “What’s on your mind?”
“Wolfowitz,” said McClain. “Mack’s editor. And a guy named Walter T. Horton.”
“I’ve never heard of Walter T. Horton,” said Reggie.
“He’s a guy Wolfowitz hired to copy Mack’s book. When his comes out, it’s supposed to look like Mack plagiarized him.”
“Why would Wolfowitz do that?”
“It’s complicated, but what it comes down to is, he’s jealous ’cause Mack screwed his wife.”
“Not much of a reason,” said Reggie. “Not that I approve of adultery. But what’s it got to do with me?”
“I figured you’d want to know. I mean, after all, you still own 10 percent of Mack’s book. And if Wolfowitz doesn’t screw it up, that’ll be worth a lot of money.”
“What makes you think so? Aside from loyalty?”
“Inside information,” said McClain. “Gothic’s going to put a lot of money behind it, make it a bestseller.”
“I thought you said Wolfowitz was going to publish this other one instead.”
“With a different company. Unless somebody stops him.”
Reggie led McClain across Fifth Avenue and into the park.
“He might not be easy to stop,” said Reggie. “He sounds like a determined man.”
“If it was going to be easy, I wouldn’t be here right now,” said McClain.
“I see,” said Reggie. They walked in silence for a while and then he said, “Mack might not like the idea of having me stay on as his agent.”
“He’s the one who suggested it,” said McClain. “He said, ‘if I’m going to be represented by a crook, at least I want one who’s on my side.’ ”
“And he figured I could take care of Wolfowitz for him?” said Reggie.
“No, that’s my idea. Mack thinks that getting him fired will stop him. He’s a great kid, but when it comes to dealing with bad men, he’s a little naïve.”
“I admire that in him,” said Reggie. “There’s such a thing as being too cynical.”
“Yeah, you wouldn’t call him cynical,” McClain said. “So, are you interested?”
Reggie stopped and extended his hand. “Tell Mack I’ll do my best for him,” he said.
“I’ve got Wolfowitz’s address in case you need it,” said McClain.
“No, I’d rather see him away from home,” said Reggie. “He’s a married man, and Afterbirth tends to have an upsetting effect on wives. Don’t worry, though; I’ll catch up to him.”
“Speaking of which, I almost forgot. Packer’s not going to be back,” said McClain.
McClain nodded.
“Do you happen to know where he is?”
“Someplace they speak Spanish,” said McClain. “If I were you, I’d write him off.”
“No offense, but I don’t write anyone off. Would you like a hot dog?”
“Sure,” said McClain. “My treat.”
“No, it’s on me,” said Reggie. He walked over to the Sabrett vendor and came back with four hot dogs smothered in onions. “Two each,” he said. “The big man’s order.”
“Good dog,” said McClain, taking a large bite. “I wish they made ’em like this at the Elks. That’s my hangout these days.”
“How old a man are you, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Mid-sixties,” McClain said.
“And that’s what you do? Hang out at the Elks?”
“I told you, I’m retired.”
“A man reaches his prime and they discard him,” said Reggie, shaking his big bald head. “It’s a criminal waste of talent.”
“I can’t disagree with you there.”
“I wonder if you’d consider coming to work for me? I could use a vigorous senior citizen in my operation.”
“Naw, my wife would kill me,” said McClain, unable to suppress a grin. “I appreciate the offer, though. It’s nice to feel wanted.”
The meeting at Gothic was reconvened by Douglas Floutie. He had just begun to explain his position on the question of corporate liability when the door flew open and Joyce came in, accompanied by a very large, very dark man, dressed in a jeweled turban and a flowing African robe. He took a seat next to Linda and nodded amicably to Mack. Fassbinder glowered at him, and he returned the look with an intensity that obviously disconcerted the old man. “Who the hell are you supposed to be?” he snapped. “Mau-Mau home delivery?”
“Allow me to introduce my friend Joyce McClain and Minister Abijamin Malik, my spiritual adviser,” said Mack.
“Oh-oh,” murmured Carter Lang.
“Pleased to meet you, Reverend,” said Floutie with an elaborate courtesy that barely masked his sense of glee. Finally, after years of humiliation, Wolfowitz’s departure had put him in a position to demonstrate to his father-in-law that he was capable of running the affairs of Gothic Books.
“Douglas, I think we ought to take another recess,” said Carter Lang.
“That won’t be necessary,” said Floutie, with a magisterial wave of his hand. “Ms. Birney, assuming for the moment that what you say is true, permit me to assure you that Gothic Books had no knowledge whatsoever of any irregularities on Mr. Wolfowitz’s part.”
“Doesn’t matter,” said Linda. “As far as we’re concerned, Wolfowitz is Gothic Books. The liability belongs to the company.”
Floutie looked at Lang, who nodded almost imperceptibly. The publisher clasped his hands in a donnish manner and smiled at Mack. “I’m certain that nothing has happened that can’t be rectified,” he said. “After all, ah, Mr. Green is an artist, not some litigious businessman. His paramount concern is, I’m sure, the publication of his new novel.”
“Don’t say anything, Mack,” cautioned Linda. “Mr. Floutie, do I hear an implied threat in that remark?”
“Not at all,” said the publisher, glancing once again at his father-in-law to make certain he wasn’t missing this masterful display. “I do, however, want to point out that The Diary of a Dying Man hasn’t yet been accepted for publication. And, as you know, under the contract, Gothic Books has the right to determine its satisfactory delivery.”
“That’s true,” said Carter Lang, seizing the point.
“Obviously, we would find it unsatisfactory to publish a book by an author who was, shall we say, hostile to our interests,” Floutie said smoothly.
This was the gambit Mack had anticipated. With his track record, a rejection by Gothic would be fatal. No matter how good The Diary was, when word got out that it was a turkey—and that would be Gothic’s story—no other publisher in town would want it.
Mack saw the smug look on Floutie’s face, waited a beat and then nodded slightly to Roy Ray, who abruptly stood, pointed an accusatory finger at the three men on the other side of the table and began emitting loud squawking noises.
“Is your friend all right?” asked Floutie.
“Ask him. He speaks English,” said Mack.
“Are you all right?” Floutie said.
“When is the black man all right in an America that’s all white?” demanded Roy Ray.
“Mr. Green’s a white man,” Lang pointed out in a reasonable tone.
“Yes, but he has a black heart. A black heart and a black soul. He’s got the soul, you’ve got the control.”
Floutie coughed politely. “This is all very interesting, I’m sure—”
“White man treat the black man like an animal,” Malik continued, ignoring the interruption. “Worse than an animal—worse than them inferior, overpriced, disease-making, money-taking, flavor-faking, no-good-for-baking, profit-raking chickens that this old white man here sells in the ghettos of our benighted nation.”
“What the hell’s the matter with my chickens?” demanded Fassbinder, the vein on his wattled neck throbbing.
“Chickens is nothing to the white man,” proclaimed Malik. “The white man eats filet mignon in his fancy clubs, while the folks up in Harlem got to scrape the meat off the scrawny bones of them low-rent Fassbinder poultry they sell in the store.”
“Nothing you can do about that, Reverend,” said Mack with a grin.
“Oh yes there is too,” Malik said. “ ’Bout time somebody put a boycott on them ad-lying, no-frying, bad-buying, baby-dying, race-denying birds old man Fassbinder be peddling to our people.”
“Baby-dying?” asked Lang, mesmerized by the litany.
“Them things is pumped full of all manner of nasty chemicals,” Malik said.
“Race-denying?” said Floutie. “How can a chicken be race-denying, whatever that means?”
“How many black people work at Fassbinder Poultry?” Malik demanded. “All y’all do is take our cash and sell us trash.”
“Be interesting to know how many black people work for Gothic Books,” Joyce mused. “I sure didn’t see any today. Might even be a civil rights violation.”
“Maybe we need to add this here to our boycott,” said Malik, swinging his arm in a wide arc that took in the boardroom. “Or don’t y’all think black people can read?”
“This is preposterous,” said Floutie. “If you think you can come in here with this extortionary tactic and—”
“Shut up, Floutie,” said Fassbinder. The vein in his neck was throbbing more powerfully now and his face was red, making him look even more like one of his own roosters. “Carter, get this dumb-cluck professor out of here and these others, too. I want to talk turkey with this little lady.”
“I stay,” Mack said. “It’s my book and my life.”
“Fine, but the rest of you, scat,” said Fassbinder. He watched them file out of the room, Floutie with a crestfallen expression, Lang a study in bland uninvolvement, Joyce with a small smile on her face, Malik still loudly denouncing the racial injustice of the poultry business.
“Jesus on the mountain,” the old man said to Linda, “you’re a pisser, you are. What’s this gonna cost me?”
Linda reached into her briefcase and produced a list. “It’s all right here,” she said.
“Read it to me,” said Fassbinder.
“All right. First, we want a written commitment that The Diary of a Dying Man will be published on schedule, with an appropriate promotional budget. Appropriate in our view is five hundred thousand dollars.”
Fassbinder took a small notebook from his pocket and wrote down the figure with a blue ballpoint.
“Second, we’re asking that Gothic reissue each of Mr. Green’s two previous novels, accompanying each release with a further half million dollar promotional campaign.”
“Half a million each, or half a million for both of ’em?”
“Half a million each,” said Linda. “Furthermore—”
“Just a minute,” said Fassbinder, “I can’t write that fast. Each. Okay, what else?”
“Third, compensation for personal suffering, loss of income and professional standing. Figuring conservatively, I’d estimate two million dollars.”
“Two million,” said Fassbinder, writing down the number. “Okay, anything else?”
“I can’t think of anything,” said Linda. “Mack?”
“That covers it, more or less.”
“All rightee,” said Fassbinder. “Let’s see, one million five hundred thousand for publicity, another two million in damages, that comes to, check me on this now, three million, five hundred thousand.”
“Exactly,” said Linda. “Of course, the money for publicity is really an investment. Mack’s books will make that much and more if they aren’t being intentionally sabotaged. So it’s really considerably less. Chicken feed for a man like you.”
“Well now,” said Fassbinder. “Supposing I just kick your asses out of here? Then what?”
“Then things get messy,” said Linda in a matter-of-fact tone. “We go to court, in Oriole, where the demographics pretty much ensure us a black-and-brown jury—if you don’t know what that means, check with Lang—and we’ll see how a group of unemployed auto workers and welfare mothers feel about a big New York company trying to ruin a local boy’s life. Believe me, it’ll cost you a hell of a lot more than what we’re asking.”
“If you’re so blamed sure, why don’t you take me to court?” asked Fassbinder.
“Turn me down and I will,” said Linda.
“What about the goddamn chicken boycott?”
“I think I might be able to influence Minister Malik to reconsider,” said Mack. “We’re old friends.”
“I get the picture,” said Fassbinder. “You two stay right here, I want to talk to Lang.”
“Take your time,” said Linda, glancing at the bookshelves. “We’ll browse while we wait.”
Fassbinder was back within five minutes, accompanied by a grim-faced Carter Lang.
“Okay,” said Fassbinder, “you got a deal. The papers and a check will be ready by the end of the week.”
“Of course we’ll need a release from further claims,” said Lang. “And a confidentiality agreement.”
“Of course,” said Linda. “Nobody’s looking for publicity here.”
“I have one question,” said Mack. “Just out of curiosity, what are you going to do about Wolfowitz?”
“Don’t worry about him,” said the old man, a look of pure malice on his mottled face. “By the time I get through with him, Arthur Wolfowitz is going to be one dead duck.”