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10

When I am dead,

I hope it may be said:

“His sins were scarlet, but his books were read.”

—Hilaire Belloc

“What about the new Callard book?”

“Crap,” Pam Mantiss told Gerald Ochs Davis. “Midlist crap.”

“But we’ll have the Peet Trawley,” Gerald said to reassure himself. “That will fly. Especially with the movie coming up.”

“I hope we’ll have it. He’s really sick.”

“He’s been sick for thirty years. He likes to be sick. Münchhausen syndrome. It matters not. Just slap an omega on the cover. It will still sell.” Gerald thought of Dick Snyder’s directions years ago to the Simon & Schuster editor who was trying to cope with an impossible Jackie Susann manuscript: “Just turn it into a book somehow; that’s all I ask.” Gerald looked over the list in front of him. “When does Edmonds deliver the new one?”

Pam shook her head. She read his thoughts. “Forget it. Apparently her old house is still getting returns from her last book. She isn’t going to do it for us.”

Gerald stopped going over the printout before him. Pam had already accused him of buying Edmonds when she was past her peak, paying top dollar. “We’re not forgetting this one,” he told Pam. “I paid twenty million dollars. Her books are going to, sell no matter what we have to do to sell them.”

Pam shrugged. She was smart, but sometimes he wanted to murder her. He thought she actually enjoyed writing off authors. Like Tom Callard, the hot first-time novelist whom Pam had snagged (and probably shagged) before an auction could take place. The book sold two hundred thousand copies. Now his second was suddenly chopped liver? They must have had a lover’s quarrel.

“How about the Chad Weston book? I’ve heard it’s raw.”

“It’s graphic, violent sex. I like it.”

“I’m not surprised,” Gerald said dryly. “But will anyone else?”

“Well, the pussies around here are scandalized, but they don’t know the difference between fiction and politics,” Pam said. “I love the book. It’s a satire. He’s satirizing our disposable culture. Smart people will get it.” She paused and grinned. “It will raise a lot of eyebrows.”

Involuntarily, Gerald put his hand up to one of his own glued-on brows. Sometimes he hated them. “Will it raise our profits?” he snapped.

“Absolutely. It’s a book of our times, about how the nineties came out of the eighties. It’s about how man, without civilization’s restraint, fears and destroys that which created him. It’s about tit-biting boys, Gerald. It will move.”

Gerald winced at her crudity. Weston was another ninety-day wonder. His first book had hit—his second had not. “It better do more than move,” Gerald said. “It’s got to run. I want to see the manuscript. What’s the title?”

“SchizoBoy.”

Gerald barked out a laugh. “Clearly autobiographical.” Pam merely shrugged, her blond hair bouncing, as did her breasts. “There’s my book, of course.”

“Of course,” Pam said noncommittally.

“Have you read it?”

“Not yet,” she admitted.

“Any nonfiction?” he asked, trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice.

“Yeah. Oprah’s back and we got her,” Pam said caustically. When Oprah Winfrey had reneged on delivering her autobiography to Knopf, it had nearly ruined their bottom line. Pam and Gerald both knew the trouble with commercial nonfiction: Lots of people had one good story in them, but few had more. The nonfiction editors were like sharks; they had to keep moving or die. After all, how many autobiographies could Dolly Parton write?

“What else can we do?”

“I’ll call around,” Pam said. “I’ll see what’s being pushed. But it wouldn’t hurt you to get the lead out and circulate. Put your ear to the ground.”

“Is there a cliché you’ve left unspoken?” Gerald asked her as he rose; “I’m off to the Citron Press party. Maybe something will turn up.”

Gerald looked around at the party crowd and had to restrain a visible shudder. In the old days, even ten years ago, book parties were low-budget, dreary affairs held in offices or building lobbies. Now, with publishing turning into what Gerald scathingly called the “literary industrial complex,” parties were much fewer but often high-budget, flashy offerings. Gerald couldn’t decide which was worse. This one was one of the old school, celebrating the opening of a new small publishing house. Citron Press. Craig Stevens was hosting it, and Gerald hoped Stevens had deep pockets. He was joining the trend that Permanent Press and Four Walls Eight Windows had begun—boutique publishers. Good luck to him.

Gerald smiled, nodding at HarperCollins’s Larry Ash-mead, king of salt-and-pepper-shaker collections, and moved on. Fredi Friedman, the only soignée woman present, was as usual talking to someone about her latest discovery, telling him how it was certain to climb the lists.

Gerald sighed. One couldn’t start a literary house anymore. Things had changed. Look at Farrar, Straus. In the past, “quality literary fiction” was defined as Farrar, Straus & Giroux. Roger Straus and Robert Giroux had started right after the war with only twenty-five thousand dollars. Straus had a vision that informed and shaped his list into something beautiful. Even Gerald had to admit that. They had made canny domestic purchases and bought translation rights to the best European literature as well.

Just as Farrar, Straus had been known for the best fiction, Harper & Row had been known as the quality nonfiction house. Cass Canfield had liked history and biographies and so had shaped a dignified, cohesive list. At Doubleday it had been commercial fiction and non-fiction. For three decades, Doubleday ruled the bestseller list. That was what it did best.

But those days were over, Gerald reflected. Publishing had changed so much. Now all everyone wanted were bestsellers. Roger Straus had sold his firm. Harper was bought by Rupert Murdoch, and HarperCollins had expanded in half a dozen directions. Doubleday was now a part of the Bertelsmann empire. The tax laws had made it necessary: Even his father had sold out. The days when a personal influence held sway on a house, on a list, were over. Everyone had to scramble for bestsellers now just to keep in the business. Look at what had happened at Knopf—another house known for its great literary fiction: When Sonny Mehta had taken over that venerable firm, he acquired Dean Koontz! Gerald had to laugh, thinking of how all the snotty literary people at Knopf, so proud of their designer fiction, must have felt swallowing that.

Gerald was proud now to be able to say, “There is no such thing as a Davis & Dash book.” He wanted books that sold, that made a splash and that kept him afloat. Like the other sharks, Gerald had to keep moving forward, keep making visible progress, to satisfy CEO David Morton’s corporate lust for ever-increasing profits, a return on investment almost impossible to make considering the outrageous advances paid to authors and the quaint tradition of stores returning books.

Gerald surveyed the room. His eyes were attracted to the red hair of Joanna Coder, the head of the eponymously named Joanna Cotler Books, a bright face in the usual drab publishing party. Generally, Gerald avoided these affairs, but he knew Pam’s recommendation to “get his ear to the ground” was a good one. Still, did the women dress so badly because they were paid so little? Surely it was easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than it was to find a smartly dressed female editor.

Gerald could hold his own against any competitor, acquire almost any author he sought, and manage to fight off the corporate hordes, but he had done so more through guile and bitchiness than through direct confrontation. Gerald ruled as totally as Tsarina Catherine had ruled Russia, and probably with a similar style.

This party was a waste of time. What had he been thinking of? Book parties, especially literary ones, were not the place to troll for a hot book or a hot body.

Gerald had one dreadful weakness: He liked his women not only attractive but also intelligent. That was where all his difficulties came in. You couldn’t please them. Right now Anne, his mistress, was dissatisfied because he wouldn’t buy any of the books she was hawking and couldn’t help her career as much as she wanted (he’d never sleep with an agent again). His wife, as always, was either depressed or angry. Neurotic, intelligent women were a pain in the ass. They were also his specialty.

Gerald looked around one last time to decide who, if anyone, he would grace with his presence. Robert Gottlieb of the William Morris Agency was there, surrounded by visiting British publishers. Gerald would not have said no to Gottlieb’s top client Tom Clancy, but he certainly wasn’t going to mix with the Brits. Patrick Janson-Smith, the old charmer, young Ian Chapman—time for a haircut?—Clare Alexander: half of London seemed to be here and all, no doubt, would like to add another giant name to their lists.

Sometimes, he reflected, not just an agent but a whole publishing house was held hostage to a single author. As publishing had followed Hollywood in its search for megahits, bestselling authors were coddled almost like movie stars. Where would Doubleday be without Grisham, Putnam without Clancy, Viking without King, Harper without John Gray, Knopf without Crichton? Even losing a literary bestselling writer could rock a house’s stability, as when John Irving left Morrow. Without Sidney Sheldon, Morrow could fold. It gave a whole new meaning to the term “house arrest.”

Karen Rinaldi, vibrant with her red hair and Comme des Garçons suit, was a far better option. She’d been at Turtle Bay, the imprint that Joni Evans had founded at Random House. They’d signed some big books—Girl Interrupted and a couple of others—before Alberto Vitale had pulled the plug. Turtle Bay interrupted. After its demise, the books it published had sold so well they vindicated Joni, who was a smart girl. Joni, interrupted, went on to become a top agent. She only looked bad when she came up against Joan Collins in court.

It seemed to Gerald that all of the women who had worked at Turtle Bay in its townhouse office near the Random House building, which he referred to as the Brownstone of Babes, were those constantly seductive smart girls who look Vogue and talk The New Yorker. They all were thin and had great hair. Did anyone have a smaller waist, or a nicer smile, than Susan Kamil? He was making his way toward Karen when someone bumped into him and staggered against the wall. It was Erroll McDonald, noted for being the senior black editor in the ever-so-lily-white publishing world. He was noted for a few other things as well, and Gerald gave him the cold shoulder.

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.