Part 31 (1/2)
Paul laughed. ”That's hysterical. But how could he guarantee it?”
Candy raised his eyebrows. ”Ain't that being a tad nave, Paul? I mean you're the first person I'd think would figure a publisher can guarantee just about anything, as long as he spends the money, and we just wanted to make sure Bobby's going to spend a lot of money. Yeah, Bobby's going to see to that book's being a huge success.”
Paul laughed again.
”And Bobby's taking a six-month leave of absence. He's having a vacation in Australia.”
”Oh, Christ! Yes!” Paul shot his fists in the air.
”We got these friends in Australia,” said Karl.
Candy nodded.
” 'Friends'?” Paul grinned like the very devil.
Karl tipped his head. ”Like good friends. Like friends'll do whatever we tell 'em to do. You know, like escort him to the Sydney Opera House, escort him to the Outback. Whatever works for them.”
Paul went on laughing. These two guys were a real tonic. ”So who takes over at Mackenzie-Haack?”
”Old Clive. Old Clive surprised us both. He actually went up against Bobby Mackenzie and that could be a real career cooler, right?”
”That's the truth.”
Karl got up, stretched; Candy followed suit.
”We gotta be goin',” said Candy.
”Yeah. Well, as long as Ned's okay, we don't have a beef with you, Paul. It's been very interesting, this talk.”
Remembering his book, Candy pulled it away from the chair and held it out. ”Now, will you sign?”
”My pleasure.” Paul got a pen from an old cup and signed the book. ”There.” He snapped it shut.
Paul walked them to the door where they shook hands.
”A very interesting conversation,” said Candy.
Karl said, ”Ditto that. Only listen, Paul, you just got to stop f.u.c.king around with other people's lives. You're a controlling son of a b.i.t.c.h, you know that?”
Paul blushed. He knew it.
They were walking down the hall when Karl turned and asked, ”You don't happen to know some guy connected with Ned named Patrick?”
Paul shook his head.
”Huh. Just a thought.”
They said good-bye again.
FORTY-SEVEN.
In the publis.h.i.+ng industry, news travels fast. Very fast. Especially bad news, which is the good news of the publis.h.i.+ng industry. Night, day, dusk, dawn-makes no difference. It's on the street.
When Bobby Mackenzie heard, a couple of hours after Ned had been hit and a couple of hours before any word was given out on his condition, that Ned Isaly was the victim of a hit-and-run! Sweet Jesus! he grabbed his ticket to Australia, ordered a car be sent round, wrote a note to his wife (which he considerately pinned to his pillow) in which he told her he was trying to sign up a writer in Australia and he had to get there fast. ”Good-bye. Don't let anyone into the wine cellar.”
FORTY-EIGHT.
What a peculiar question to end up with. Patrick? Paul stood in the open doorway, gnawing at a small callus near his thumbnail and thought about it after they left.
He closed the door and went back to his office and sat slumped in his chair as ashamed of himself as he had ever been in his life. Poor Ned Isaly, for G.o.d's sakes. He didn't believe the accident had been anything but your average New York City hit-and-run, but, still . . . He had signed the contract; Candy and Karl hadn't done it; Arthur certainly hadn't done it-anyway, those three were at the scene. And G.o.d knows Bobby Mackenzie hadn't been involved. Not only was there no reason now to get Ned out of the way, but also Bobby was scared s.h.i.+tless of the pair he had so insouciantly hired himself.
What a jerk.
What a business.
”What's a casque?”
Paul thought he had asked this in his mind until he turned around and saw Hannah, materialized in the office doorway, wearing her nightgown and clutching one of her pages. How long had she stood there, ghosting around?
”Honey, how long have you been there? What are you doing out of bed? Where-” He stopped when he realized he was asking one question after another and not waiting for the answer. ”A casque? Isn't that a headpiece? Like in armor?”
”I don't know. That's why I was asking. I need a weapon to put in the hunted gardens for the Dragonnier. I think he's having a lot of trouble.”
”Well, a sword would do. But does he need one?”
The Hunted Gardens evolved at some point-and Paul a.s.sumed at the same point as the ma.n.u.script did for just about every novel: that is, the point of clammy fear that it wasn't any good, that it wasn't working, and even if it was, the writer couldn't think of one d.a.m.ned more thing to say-into becoming the near-exclusive domain of the Dragonnier, a character whose main hold on life (and fame and a story) was his ability to get along with dragons. So he wasn't a dragon slayer, but a dragon tamer, or something like that.
He held his arms out and Hannah whisked across the room to sit in his lap.
Paul said, ”I wonder if maybe you're making your story kind of melodramatic because you think this garden hunting isn't exciting enough to hold your reader's attention.”
Her little forehead creased into furrows. ”Mela-what?”
”Dramatic.” As she channeled her anxiety into rolling and rerolling the page she held, he said, ”It's what's called unearned emotion.”
Oh, yes, that cleared the whole thing up, her squiggly little eyebrows told him.
”You're afraid that maybe people won't want to read any more about your gardens-”
”No, I'm not. I just think they'll want to read more about the Dragonnier. And, anyway, I didn't stop writing about the hunted gardens. I can't because that's where the Dragonnier lives. And the dragons are. See, they've always been there. I just haven't told anyone until lately.” Her sly look said Gotcha!
Lord knows he had to give her credit for pulling that particular rabbit out of the hat. Still, as a reader, he felt a bit cheated. ”But, listen, you've gone for ninety-some chapters without ever mentioning the dragons. I mean, do you think that's playing fair?”
”They were hidden, see. It's not my fault if they were hiding. The Dragonnier should have said.”