Part 13 (1/2)

As he ruminated on this, finis.h.i.+ng up his sandwich, the outer door opened and Paul Giverney walked by Jimmy's office, tossing him a wink and a salute.

Mort was always saying what an ”arrogant b.a.s.t.a.r.d” Paul Giverney was. As Jimmy couldn't imagine anyone more arrogant than Mort himself, he could only question this a.s.sessment. Mort was the least self-aware person Jimmy had ever encountered. Publishers hated him because he gouged them for such huge advances, but Jimmy had no sympathy for the publishers, not a sc.r.a.p; if Random House (and all its little Randomettes) were willing to pay these over-the-moon advances to get a writer they wanted, or else engage in an auction-a p.i.s.sing contest to see who had the biggest set of bra.s.s ones-then why blame Mort for going around with a mask and a gun?

Paul Giverney could afford being as much of a b.a.s.t.a.r.d as he liked because he was on the top tier of authors who breathed the rarefied air of seven-digit advances. Giverney's last two-book contract had been for $6.2 million. His current contract with Mackenzie-Haack, for $8 million, was as yet unsigned and would remain so ”until certain conditions were met.”

”What the h.e.l.l conditions?” Mort had asked Paul awhile back.

”You don't need to know, Mort,” Paul had said.

”What? I'm your agent for G.o.d's sakes.”

”All the more reason.”

This enigmatic estimate of Mort's worth was followed by Paul's thumbs-up, not to Mort but to Jimmy, who'd brought in the promotion plans for Paul's new book, Don't Go There.

It was this book that Jimmy was reading now at his desk. It had taken him completely by surprise. He had always thought Paul Giverney was better than he was given credit for being, but with this last book the writer had hit the ball way, way out of the genre ballpark. Yes, it was still a page-turner, a sinfully readable book, even more so than the others, at least the two Mort Durban had been agent for. Something was going on in this new book that certainly bore thinking about, something ineffably sad. It was more than anxiety (and why not fright? If familiar surroundings had turned foreign, why wasn't this woman scared as h.e.l.l? She seemed merely confused and questioning).

Jimmy loved the book. If he had been Paul's agent, he would have swept aside the extra million advance and forced its publisher, Queeg and Hyde, to produce a promotional campaign that would take the book to another level. People should realize just how good Paul was.

”How come you have this rep?” Jimmy asked. ”For being, well . . .”

”A son of a b.i.t.c.h?” Paul grinned. ”Because that's what I want people to think, some of them. You'd be surprised how it cuts through the c.r.a.p, publis.h.i.+ng being a particularly c.r.a.p-filled occupation. Or maybe you don't agree.”

This conversation had taken place a few days ago when Paul had suggested coffee. They'd gone to the coffee shop just outside the entrance to the ma.s.sive building where Mort Durban had his suite of offices.

”I agree.” Jimmy poured another ounce of sugar in his coffee. ”In the five years I've been doing this, I can count on one hand the people who didn't make me want to head for the shower.”

”Why do you stay, then? You're too good for this life; you're too good to be working for a sc.u.mbag like Mort.”

”The money.”

Paul shook his head. ”Uh-uh. Not you. You must be in hock to someone for something. Wife? Kids? Private schools? Barney's? Mob? Tony Soprano?”

Jimmy laughed. ”All those things except the mob and Tony. I guess it would be hard on the family to get along on a lot less.”

”Why would it? That's what you've been getting along on.”

Jimmy was astonished that anyone, much less Paul Giverney, could see into him so well. He was silent, turning this over. Then he said, ”I write poetry.”

”I know.” Paul pulled a narrow book out of the inside pocket of his mac. ”My wife wants your autograph. Molly, that's her name.” He slid the book across the table.

Jimmy was stunned. He opened the book and looked down at the t.i.tle page, seeing it as if for the first time. He remembered that time, ten years ago, his spirit soaring when he'd opened the package that held the ten copies sent from the publisher. It's why he could understand how important publication was to writers. It wasn't money, or at least it didn't start out to be. It was seeing your words in print. He took the pen Paul reached toward him.

”Molly loves poetry; she reads most of the quarterlies, the little magazines. She especially likes yours. A book of poetry published by FSG-that's no small matter.”

”It seems small to me.” No, it didn't, not really. Small only by comparison with novelists like Paul. He handed back the pen.

”It shouldn't. You're just too used to book publis.h.i.+ng.”

”Where did she find the book, though? It's been out of print for years.”

”From your publisher. She has a friend there. It's one of the two or three really good publishers.”

”Why don't you go there? Why Mackenzie-Haack?”

”FSG would never publish me. Too commercial.”

”FSG publishes commercial stuff. Best-sellers. Don't they publish Scott Turow?”

”He's not that kind of commercial. I'm more the John Grisham kind of commercial.” Arms folded on the dull Formica top, he leaned toward Jimmy. ”What you should do, Jimmy, is go to a place like Yaddo or the MacDowell Colony. You really should.”

Jimmy's shrug suggested the uselessness of this. ”I wish I could.”

”You can. MacDowell's stints go for as short a time as a month. Imagine not having anybody bother you-no claims on your time, you can write all day, no Mort, no wife, no one breathing down your neck. You can't get away for one f.u.c.king month?”

”Somehow the bills have got to be paid.”

Again, Paul leaned toward him. ”Listen to me: I have a wife and a seven-year-old daughter, both of whom I really love. But if I was trapped in a system that didn't allow me to write, I'd leave. There's a great line Robert De Niro got off in a movie a few years ago: 'Allow nothing to be in your life that you cannot walk out on in thirty seconds flat if you spot the heat around the corner.' That's good advice, Jimmy.”

Jimmy stared. ”h.e.l.l it is. You're telling me you could leave your family in thirty seconds?” He shook his head. ”No, you wouldn't.”

”I would.” Paul nodded.

”That's pretty d.a.m.ned ruthless.”

”I know. Could you understand it any better if I were, say, Salinger or Thomas Pynchon? Some writer we consider truly valuable?”

Jimmy thought about this. ”I see your point. But I'm pretty sure I couldn't do it. I don't mean from some high moral plane, just that I'd have a failure of nerve.”

”Okay. But right now, there's no heat”-Paul tipped his head backward-”around the corner. You still owe it to yourself.”

”Those places-you have to apply far in advance . . .”

”So apply. You can do that without ever leaving.”

There was a silence. Jimmy said, ”Could we talk about your book? I think it's enigmatic, to say the least.”

”Isn't that what you'd expect of a thriller, for lack of a better genre?”

”No. I don't mean in that sense. Maybe I should say 'ambiguous. ' My question is: Is her environment-like the pharmacy and the garden-unreal, or is she?”

Paul laughed. ”That's very good, Jimmy.”

Jimmy opened the book to the point he'd stopped reading it.

”Even along the moonlit paths of the maze there were striking differences: the white iron bench should have been sitting not at this turning but at another, though she would have been hard put to say exactly where.