Part 8 (1/2)

”Waiter's coming,” said Bobby, with a curt warning nod, as if he were already hip to the ways of gangland.

Candy flipped the photo over as the waiter set Bobby's drink before him. Behind the waiter, Mortimer Durban was sitting down at the next table where two women Clive didn't know were seated. Apparently finished working his own table, Mort had come to work somebody else's. Mort Durban gave them a nod, checked out the two strangers in a wondering way. He was a powerful agent. You had to nod back. Clive did. You hardly had time to eat in Michael's, you were so busy checking things out.

After he'd gulped down some wine, Clive asked, ”What . . . advance are you looking for?” He liked putting it this way. If anyone overheard (and the other diners were all too busy with checking out the room front and rear to focus for more than three seconds), it would be thought just the old familiar publis.h.i.+ng argot.

”You mean total?” asked Candy.

Bobby nodded.

”A mil.”

”That's a steep advance,” said Bobby.

Steep? wondered Clive. After a three-million advance to that eminent true crime writer Barry Shooter, who, despite his name (not to mention his speciality), couldn't tell a gun from a corncob?

Karl gave a tiny shrug. Take-it-or-leave-it.

Bobby said, ”Okay, but is that the actual advance money or is it half on signing, half on completion?” Bobby grinned.

”Divvied up, right. Only, fellas-” Karl chuckled ”-Candy and me. We don't sign nothing, surprise, surprise.”

Bobby took another gulp of his Scotch. He was loving this. In another moment he'd be chewing a chair. ”Okay, a handshake's good as a signature.”

Clive hoped Mort Durban didn't hear that, for G.o.d's sakes. But Mort was too deep in studying the cleavage of the women on either side of him.

”So when can we expect, you know, the first installment?” Bobby asked.

”That depends,” said Karl, ”on whether we, ah, undertake the project. You know, whether we go for the idea.” He was rolling an expensive cigar in his mouth, as yet unlit.

Clive wondered how Karl would respond if the waiter told him about the no-smoking rule. Clive was glad he wasn't the waiter.

Bobby was confused. His brow furrowed into rows you could plant beans in. ” 'Take on the project'? But that's why we're talking in the first place. I mean, I a.s.sumed you'd already decided-”

Closing his eyes as if against the blatherings of a child, Karl said, ”Depends on this.” Eyes open again, he tapped the upside-down photo of Ned Isaly. ”We have to find out more about-” He tapped the photo again. ”We have to research it; otherwise we'd be, you know, writing this project blind.” He gave them a scimitar smile.

What was this contract killer talking about, for G.o.d's sakes? Clive asked, ”Are you saying you have to get close to the subject? You're saying you want to get to know the subject?”

Candy, who'd been busy sussing out the room, waded into the conversation. ”We have rules: one is we never, I mean never, take on anything without we get to know the, uh, subject.”

Bobby and Clive looked at each other, for once equally at a loss. They shook their heads. ”Mackenzie-Haack,” said Bobby, ”pays out half a million on spec? That's what you're saying?”

”So what'd'ya want, Bobby? An ear?” Candy's laugh was like a rasping cough.

Karl's was more of a snort.

Bobby looked quickly around, shoving his palms down on air, motioning them to keep their voices down. ”Then what about the advance?” Bobby asked. ”I mean if you decide not to, uh, you know, write it?”

”Return it, obviously.” Karl rolled the cigar. ”Why do you want this thing done, anyway?” he asked.

Crossing his arms in front of his chest, sealing himself in, as it were, Bobby shook his head gravely, as if what he knew would never pa.s.s his lips; it was too solemn to be disclosed. He said, ”Can't help you there. Can't talk about it.” Bobby was boss again; Bobby was in control of the situation.

Karl and Candy looked at each other as if someone at the table were crazy and it wasn't them. Karl turned to Bobby. ”Well, if you can't help us here, I guess we can't help you there. Ready C?”

”Yeah, we're outta here.” They got up.

”Just a minute!” said Bobby. ”Come on, sit down.” They did. He said, ”It's a very volatile subject, see.” Bobby slid Don't Go There carefully across the table, the photo on the back face up. ”It's him, he's the reason.”

Clive had been getting increasingly more nervous and now was utterly astounded. Surely, he wasn't going to tell them . . . ”Bobby, let's just drop it. The whole thing.”

The look Bobby thought twice about turning on Karl and Candy he didn't even think once about turning on Clive.

Clive threw up his hands. ”Okay, okay!”

Bobby continued, with relish, leaning across the table, across the smiling face of Paul Giverney, and keeping his voice to a whisper so that the two men had to lean toward him, too.

Clive looked at the three of them, heads nearly touching. The Three Stooge Conspirators. He shook his head and looked away.

Bobby said, ”It's this guy, this writer. We can't sign him unless we get rid of Isaly. His idea”-Bobby tapped the dust jacket-”his, not mine.”

”So,” said Candy, ”he told you to cap the guy.”

Clive watched, disbelievingly, as Bobby made a movement of his hand and head that would have been completely ambiguous if anyone in this business knew what ambiguity was. ”Bobby-”

This earned Clive a kick beneath the table. ”So you see the problem,” Bobby said, leaning back with a satisfied air.

Candy and Karl both stared at him. Karl said, ”Yeah, yeah, we see the problem. This is one s.h.i.+tty business you guys are in.”

Candy asked, ”You all like this? I mean is all publis.h.i.+ng this f.u.c.ked up?”

The face of Paul Giverney seemed to grin up at them. ”No,” it would have said, ”it's even more f.u.c.ked up.”

Bobby said, smiling. ”Listen: have you two ever thought of writing a memoir? It'd be big. I guarantee it.”

Until now, Clive had never realized just how much Bobby (the son of a b.i.t.c.h) was in the right business.

FIFTEEN.

What's the deal on this guy?” Candy inclined his head toward the plate gla.s.s of Barnes & n.o.ble, which today was full-swamped, really-with Don't Go There.

Karl considered. ”Giverney's really hot. The way those two acted-” Karl motioned vaguely back downtown in the direction of Michael's. ”You'd think he was the only waiter around. You never read one of his books?”

”Not to my knowledge.”

His eyes still on the window, Karl shook his head. ”You read a book and don't remember?”

”Well, have you? I see you with books sometimes. Me, I ain't got the time.”