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.
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
