Bestseller

He’d lost Rinaldi in the crowd. There must be an easier way to meet women. On the Internet or something? Hadn’t Rush Limbaugh met and married a fan? Maybe Gerald was going about this all wrong. He’d focus on business. Who else was around that might send him a book? Robert Loomis, the Random House editor and one of the grand old school, nodded and said hello. Gerald smiled but kept his distance. Loomis probably spoke with Gerald’s father on a regular basis. He didn’t need to talk to the gentleman publishing contingent—Loomis, Cass Canfield, Jr., Larry Hughes, Simon Michael Bessie (and his beautiful blond wife, Cornelia), Buz Wyeth, Star Lawrence, or the rest. Not that there were many left. Like his father, they were a vanishing breed. There was so little room for class, to say nothing of old-fashioned values, in a publishing conglomerate.

What Gerald needed was a hot young agent, preferably female. He kept one eye out for Karen as he scanned the room. In one corner Michael Korda was holding court, surrounded by his Simon & Schuster minions—Chuck Adams and the rest—and a few hungry authors hoping for crumbs. Korda had written a viciously funny piece for The New Yorker about Jackie Susann in which he managed to deeply bite the hand that had once fed him well. Very distasteful. He noticed Ann Patty, editor in chief at Crown. Her hair wasn’t as red as Rinaldi’s, but she was as smart as they got and had a nose for picking successful first-time novelists. Well, he needed that skill now. He nodded and walked on.

The press of bodies became unbearable. Really, he wondered, were any of these people enjoying this? Who could be expected to like sipping room-temperature chardonnay and eating little bits of rubbery cheese impaled on toothpicks? The combination reminded Gerald of a handstamp set he’d had as a child—all the letters of the alphabet and most punctuation marks carved out of rubber and backed with wooden handles so that he could “print” his own “books.” It had been a messy, onerous job, and Gerald remembered how frustrated he’d been to have only one e and one s when he had to use those stamps so often. But after he’d finished his first “book,” he’d brought it in to his father and Father had praised him. Gerald still remembered how his father had been sitting with an older gentleman, Mr. Perkins. When Gerald presented them with the book, Mr. Perkins had laughed and called Gerald “a chip off the old block.” His father had been so pleased that he had reached out and ruffled Gerald’s bare pate, a rare and never-to-be-forgotten occurrence. From the time Gerald, at three, had exuviated his hair, his father had seemed reluctant to touch him, as if his depilous condition were communicable.

Gerald reached up reflexively to smooth his wig and looked around the room. He shot his cuffs. James Linville, standing alone, seemed to be sipping a nonalcoholic drink. This was a man who had been called in print a stick-in-the-ass. Gerald walked past him. Susan Blum, the editor in chief at this new publishing house, was approaching him. She was a dishy, if abrasive, smart girl, and he liked her. He briefly considered sleeping with her but decided she’d be too much trouble. Anyway, she’d keep any good book that came her way for Citron Press. Jay Mclrierney Walked by. “Don’t you see him everywhere?” Susan asked. “So boring.”

“Some people mistake publishing parties for life,” Gerald murmured.

“And books about them for art,” Susan added with a laugh. They watched the crowd together in silence for a while.

“Gerald,” she said finally, “is it true what I hear about Chad Weston’s new one?”

“Depends on what you hear.”

“That the little lizard has really exposed himself.”

Gerald looked at her blandly. “We think it’s a fine book,” he said. “A rich commentary on the times in which we live.”

“Fuck that flap-copy shit,” Susan said. “He slices and dices. Doesn’t he fuck dead women’s bodies?”

Gerald raised one of his glued-on eyebrows. “It’s fiction, Susan,”

“The limp dick would do it in real life if he could,” Susan replied. “Come on, Gerald. You’re not going to encourage that kind of crap? There are a lot of women in publishing who are not happy about this book.”

“There are a lot of women in publishing who are not happy about anything,” Gerald replied coolly. “It’s one of the reasons they go into publishing.” He looked Susan over. Maybe he would enjoy sleeping with her. She was feisty. “You must be working hard, launching this house,” he said. “You look like you deserve a vacation in the sun.”

Susan tossed her head and laughed. “Gerald, I don’t ever want to see you in your Speedo.” She turned and walked away, to begin talking with Peter Gethers—an author who wouldn’t take Susan anywhere but traveled with his cat, and wrote about it. Gerald moved on. Sharon DeLano of Random House stood at the drinks bar talking with Gore Vidal, whom she edited, and Tim Waterstone, the British bookseller. Well, he’d avoid them. Sharon might be the worst-dressed woman in publishing, where the competition for that title was keen. Gerald and Gore had been feuding for almost twenty years—putting Gerald on a list that was long and distinguished, but Gerald thought he would still prefer to read a novel by Gore than a novel by Waterstone. The Englishman had become a millionaire from selling books (hadn’t they even opened some stores in the US?) but Gerald was not inclined to help him make his next million in his new career as a writer. Altogether too close to home.

No rest for the weary, thought Gerald. Now there was someone helpful: Gordon Kato. The smartest in the crop of new, savvy agents, the young Hawaiian might actually have something for him. Without appearing to, Gerald moved toward him. Kato had an incredible memory and a chesslike overview of the publishing world: He knew where the players used to be, where they were now, and where they were going. He had his own small agency and would certainly thrive. More than anything Gerald envied the boy his crop of thick black hair.

Will Bracken, a literary writer whose books sold in the hundreds of copies—when they sold at all—wandered by, ghostlike. “He writes good stuff,” Gordon said, nodding toward Will.

“Yes. We once published him,” Gerald admitted. “His hardcover sold two thousand copies, and a thousand of those were computer error.”

“Still, he’s smart and his work is beautiful.”

“Um-humm. If he’d just make all of his characters black or Native American, he might have a bestseller on his hands. Like Louise Erdrich or Terry McMillan.”

“I don’t think Will knew a lot of blacks up at Yale.”

“Yale!” Gerald snorted. “The school of prissy, male winners.”

“Speaking of male winners, what’s going on with that Weston book?”

Goddammit, the industry was just a little hotbed of gossip. He didn’t mind being talked about; he just wished that he could be envied for more mistresses and better book sales. Why wasn’t Gordon asking him about his own novel instead of Weston’s? “The book has literary merit, Gordon. We’re publishing it. God, if the world gets any more politically correct, it will be so boring I’ll kill myself.”

Gordon smiled. “That might make a few authors happy,” he said blandly.

The boy was insufferable, but he did have some hot new writers, and that was the blood of the business. “So, Gordon, what have you got for me?”

“An auction on Friday of Tony Earley’s book.”

“I don’t want an auction. If I wanted to bid against these cretins, I wouldn’t have walked up to you in the first place.”

“No inside deals, Gerald,” Gordon Kato said. “If I’m not giving one to Craig, who’s throwing this party, I’m surely not giving one to you.” Gerald strode away without a good-bye.

The brilliant Susan Moldow walked by but didn’t say hello. When she was editor in chief at HarperCollins, her husband. Bill Shinker, had been publisher. They were called “Ma and Pa” by their staff, and she referred to him as Fur Face. They had signed up John Gray, and his books had earned a good portion of Harper’s profits last year. Now both had moved on in the ever-changing kaleidoscope of publishing-house musical chairs.

Gerald approached a cluster of people. Tiny Harry Evans was in the center of it with Colin Powell, whose autobiography he’d published with S. I. Newhouse’s approval and money. Rupert Murdoch had published Newt Gingrich. Clash of the titans! Which publisher would get to sleep in the Lincoln bedroom, down the hall from his bestselling author? Gerald smiled grimly. When it came to serious nonfiction, include me out, he thought, quoting Sam Goldwyn. Gerald stuck to movie stars and gossip—it never went out of style or got you bomb threats in the mail. He was glad he hadn’t published Salman Rushdie. This controversy over Chad Weston was more than enough for him.

Alice Mayhew, the self-appointed Washington expert at Simon & Schuster—a distinction she seemed to feel was enviable—had arrived and was talking to some young woman. What did she have to feel so proud of? In the seventies she had published all the Watergate principals; it was called “the felon list.”

Charlotte Abbott, one of the new young hopes at Avon, smiled at him. The girl was tall, fair, and intense, the kind who wouldn’t be intimidated by big words. “Hello, Charlotte,” he said.

“Hello, Gerald. Is what I hear about the Chad Weston novel really true?”

This was becoming extremely irritating. “Yes, Charlotte, it is,” he said in a bored voice. “Chad has decided to switch genres. He’s moving from literary novels to thrillers.” He feigned excitement. “Move over, Thomas Harris! There’s a new Hannibal Lecter, and I’ve got him!”

Donna Tartt walked by. She had been touted as a literary second coming when her first novel was published. Despite the hype, the profiles, and its substantial sales, it was what Gerald referred to as a media blow job. In his opinion her book had been a slightly-above-average, somewhat pretentious murder mystery. After all the furore had died down, nothing more had been heard from Ms. Tartt. But then, it had taken her something like eleven years to write the first book. “She hasn’t written anything in years,” he said to Charlotte. “I hear she just can’t be alone with her work.”

“She should be an editor then,” Charlotte laughed.

“Yes. Or have my debts.” Gerald smiled at Charlotte. “I need a drink,” he said and wandered off toward the door. He certainly needed something. Liz Ziemska, the stunning and bright young agent with Nicholas Ellison, caught his eye. Ah, there were two opportunities there. But Gerald remembered Susan’s put-down, and for a moment he held back. In that moment, Liz was captured by Lawrence LaRose, who moved her toward one of the windows. Gerald despised LaRose. He was too smart, too young, too good-looking. So much for that.

Gerald nodded at Alberto Vitale, head of Random House. Gerald despised him too, but they did share something: Both craved publicity. Gerald merely acknowledged him coolly and moved on, a shark making headway through turgid water.

There was no prey here. This high-end boutique publishing house didn’t draw much glitter. He waved and turned his bade on the crowd, which, he reflected, would give them such a nice opportunity to talk behind it. Gerald knew he wasn’t noble, but he tried always to oblige.

11 (#ulink_446a689b-0442-56a3-a332-de9e9d50cfdc)

I don’t believe in personal immortality; the only way I expect to have some version of such a thing is through my books.

—Isaac Asimov

Opal sat alone in the smallest room at the funeral home, but even so the room seemed cavernous. There were, perhaps, ten rows of chairs, and aside from Opal and the young man in the back who had handled the cremation arrangements, there wasn’t a single other guest. Opal had cried all of her tears the day before, back at Terry’s grim apartment, so here she had merely sat, white and wordless, while an unknown minister mouthed a few trite, awkward generalities and Albinoni’s Canon played over the PA system. Then Terry’s ashes were given to Opal. It hadn’t taken long—less than fifteen minutes—and that included the inexcusable mangling the minister had done of the Langston Hughes poem—one of Terry’s favorites. All of it had flown by, and Opal had merely sat, exhausted. She hadn’t slept very well in Terry’s narrow bed. All night long she had thought of the lines from the Hughes poem:

Sometimes a crumb falls

From the tables of joy,

Sometimes a bone

Is flung.

To some people

Love is given.