Cut Me In (Hard Case Crime)

by Ed McBain

  Phelps brightened. “That sounds fine.”

  “Good. Let me just make a note of that.” I pretended to pick up a non-existent pencil. “Call Mr. Phelps,” I said very slowly, as if I were pacing the words to match the imaginary writing I was doing on a figmental scrap of paper. “At Tarrance. There.”

  “Fine, fine. And in the meantime…”

  “We’ll keep the stuff coming, of course.”

  “On this one yarn we have here—Big Boys.”

  “Oh, yes. A fine story.”

  “Yes, it certainly has a lot to recommend it.”

  I waited.

  “However…”

  I waited.

  “…the author has no real conception of Englishmen. I mean, I spent a good deal of time in England; got my Bachelor’s at Oxford, in fact.”

  “Oh really?”

  “Yes. And his conception of Englishmen is all off. His Englishmen are fully as bad as any British novelist’s Americans.”

  “Perhaps he meant them to be bad,” I said. “I think he was trying to satirize them. Give the American reader the stereotype of the Englishman. I don’t think he was trying…”

  “Yes, but his conception is all wrong.”

  I shrugged wearily. “I’ll have the yarn picked up,” I said.

  “Would you? And please keep them coming. We’re always in the market for science-fiction humor.”

  “If grimly,” I said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I was just making a note to have the yarn picked up.”

  “Oh, fine. Nice talking to you, Mr. Blake.”

  “The same here, Mr. Phelps. I’ll be calling you soon.”

  “Fine, fine. Well, goodbye.”

  “Goodbye, Mr. Phelps.”

  I hung up and stared at the phone and wondered what the publishing business was coming to. I shook my head. A nice kid, Phelps, undoubtedly. Fresh out of college and so impressed with his first editorial job. The author of that yarn had written and sold some four hundred short stories and three novels. Phelps had written several term papers, and maybe a few one-act plays in a half-ass college course. The only thing he’d ever sold was probably a spot on the gym floor to an incoming freshman. But he was now an editor. He now had the right to say aye or nay to stories that came in. It would never cease to amaze me.

  Reading enjoyment, no matter how you sliced it, was a purely personal thing. One editor’s meat was another’s poison. I’d seen assigned stories fail at low-pay, slow-pay markets, only to sell higher up the line for ten times what we would have gotten. It all depended on how Harry or Jake or Sam or Fred or Pete or Barnaby felt when he read the yarn. If his wife had served him cold eggs for breakfast, too bad about the story, even if it went on to win a Pulitzer Prize later. But if Fred had won ten dollars as door prize in his annual community get-together, by God, everything looked good. That was the time to unload all the crap.

  Still, it seemed unfair. There should be a course for prospective editors—a yardstick. Something an author could go by, besides his own judgment—which was often wrong. I’ve seen writers turn out practically a carbon copy of a yarn that sold two months ago. We’d send the yarn to the very same market, and they’d send back a note, or make a call, saying it was not their type of stuff.

  Did that mean the yarn was bad? Hell, no.

  Did that mean the author was slipping? Christ, no.

  Did that mean the publishing business was being revolutionized overnight? Perish the thought.

  It simply meant the eggs had been cold that morning.

  Which reminded me.

  I buzzed Jeanette, and when she came on, I said, “Honey, order me some breakfast, will you?”

  “Yes, sir. What would you like, Mr. Blake?”

  “Orange juice, coffee, toast, a soft-boiled egg, and a jelly doughnut. Fast, please. I’m very hungry.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I glanced at the mail on my desk and then rummaged through the neatly stacked, opened letters. I pulled a sheet from the pile at random.

  It was from Stagg Bellew, the tough-guy writer with the Pekinese look.

  Dear Josh;

  You’ll find herewith (unless that thieving bastard of a postmaster is slitting my envelopes again) a gem titled Call Me, Adam. It features that dauntless private dick, Adam Addams, take him or leave him. It runs to 20,000 words, which is too long for most markets and too short for the majority, Which means it can be used to stuff the soles of your shoes. Please get three million pesos for it.

  I smiled and went on to the next paragraph.

  In your letter of the 9th, you asked whether it was all right for Crest to change the title of my last novel. You also mention, and somewhat casually, you bastard, that they are buying the book and paying a $2,000 advance.

  Now, this is the way I feel, Josh.

  I like the title Sweet Violence. To me, it is the sweetest little title in all this sweet wide world, bar none. The fact that they wish to change it to My Flesh Is Warm disturbs me no end. I would rather relinquish my life than my original title.

  But between us, Josh, grab that goddamned 2,000 bucks and grab it fast, and tell them they can change the goddamned title to My Vagina Is Magenta, if they want to.

  Trusting you are the same,

  Stagg

  I put the letter down, sighed, thought Writers, and then wondered if I’d ever met one who was sane. My breakfast arrived at just about that time, so I didn’t have to pursue the subject further. I paid and tipped the boy, and then started on my orange juice. It was good and cold, and I enjoyed it. The coffee was hot, and the toast and egg were both warm, and I ate with relish and was beginning to feel a little like myself. I polished off the main course and was starting on the jelly doughnut when the door flew open.

  A jelly doughnut is a sloppy thing. This jelly doughnut was as sloppy as most, and it also had a liberal sprinkling of powdered sugar on it. I was holding it deftly, with my hands full of sugar, and the jelly about to drip into a large blob on my desk, and one bite of the doughnut in my mouth. That was precisely when the door opened.

  The character standing in the doorway was David Gunnison. My first reaction was to throw the doughnut at his face and watch the jelly fly. I tried to say something, but the piece of dough in my mouth prevented any outburst. I thought about all the Davids I was having trouble with. The David Gunnisons, would-be writers, and the David Beckers, would-be producers. I began to feel a little like Goliath, so I swallowed the lump of dough quickly and shouted, “What the holy hell…”

  “Steady,” Gunnison said.

  “Where’s Jeanette? How’d you get through that reception room without being…”

  “She went to the can. I waited for her to leave and then walked right in.”

  “You’re a persistent bastard, aren’t you, Gunnison?”

  “Very.”

  There was still that crafty look in his farmer eyes, and I couldn’t shake the idea that he had something important on his mind. Maybe Stagg’s letter had put me in a good mood, or maybe I just wanted to finish my coffee and doughnut without being interrupted by a lot of fisticuffs. Or maybe it was that something-important look in his eyes. Whatever it was, I didn’t run around the desk and throw him out the window.

  “Your book again?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Gunnison, why don’t you go directly to the publishers? There must be about eight million of them in New York alone. And then there’s Chicago and Indiana and…”

  “You don’t stand a chance without an agent.”

  “Gunnison, your book won’t stand a chance with or without an agent. I’m leveling with you; I’m being an honest guy. Take it and burn it. Hide it. Go away with it. Just leave me alone.”

  “No.”

  I sighed. “All right, no. Don’t leave me alone. Sit down and pretend you’re part of the furniture. Keep quiet and don’t bother me and…”

  “I’ve got something you want, Blake.”

/>   “Sure. So has every writer in the world.”

  “No. Just me. I think you’ll be very interested in what I have.”

  “You’ve got a great talent, admittedly. For annoying people. Look, Gunnison, I’m being a nice guy. Up to now, we’ve wrestled every time we’ve met. This time, we’re talking.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Fine. That’s the sensible way to do it. So, let me ask you once more to go, far away, far, far away where the swallows bide. Go, Gunnison. Adios. Goodbye. So long.”

  Gunnison reached into his jacket pocket and took out a neatly folded piece of paper. “I copied this one,” he said. “I’ve got the original, though.”

  “Plagiarism…”

  “Read it,” he said, thrusting it across the desk.

  I reached for the single sheet of paper, expecting a poem he’d lifted from the Saturday Evening Post, something inspirational perhaps, or something witty. Something more to bother me with. I unfolded it once, and then I unfolded it again, and then my eyes almost popped out of my head when I started reading the pica type.

  Gentlemen:

  Thank you for your recent letter. This will grant you permission to handle exclusively the radio and television rights to all the published novels bearing my byline, provided a $500 option is paid within the next week. It is understood that you are the only agency acting in this capacity. Good luck.

  Sincerely,

  Between the Sincerely and the signature, Gunnison had typed in the parenthesized: (signed).

  And under that: CAM STEWART.

  It was the goods, all right. It was the agreement word for word, and I stared at it, and managed to stammer, “Where… where…where…”

  “I’ve got the original,” Gunnison said. “That is, I’ve got a photostat of the original.”

  “But, where? How…”

  “You’ll be angry.”

  “No, just tell me…” And then I realized, and I did begin to get angry, but I held the anger in check. This was only a copy, and it wasn’t signed. If Gunnison had the signed stat, I wanted it, and getting angry wouldn’t help me any.

  “You were the guy who slugged me,” I said. “Outside Lydia Rafney’s place.”

  “Yes,” Gunnison said softly.

  “Why? Why the hell…”

  “I was sore. I didn’t like the way you threw me out of here. I waited downstairs, followed you, and then got a cab and found out where you lived.”

  “So you were the guy in the cab?”

  “Yes.”

  “Go on.”

  “I kept an eye on you, then. I was really sore. I wanted to beat the hell out of you. When you went to that swank apartment, I followed you there, and I waited outside in the hall. I was getting sorer every minute.”

  So was I but I didn’t show it.

  “Go on,” I said.

  “When you came out, you were putting something into your wallet. I hit you and then I made sure you were out.”

  “By kicking me.”

  “Well, I guess I did kick you,” Gunnison said sheepishly. “I was sore.”

  “Go on.”

  “I saw this paper that fell out of your hands, and I picked it up out of curiosity. After I read it, I knew it was something big, something I could bargain with. Hell, everybody knows Cam Stewart.”

  “So you figured a little blackmail…”

  “Just a fair trade,” Gunnison corrected quickly. “I’ve still got the stat. If it’s important to you, you can have it back. Provided…”

  “Provided what?”

  “Provided you take my book on for marketing.”

  “Where’s your book?”

  “Outside. You’ll take it on?”

  “Damn right I will. Where’s the stat?”

  “I’ve got it right here. In my wallet.”

  “Let me see it.”

  Gunnison shook his head. “Uh-uh. I want a contract first. A signed piece of paper saying you’ll do your best to sell my book, expend every effort. You know.”

  “All right, fine. Fine.”

  “I’ll go get the book.”

  He went out of the office, and I swung my portable up from under the desk and typed out some nonsense about expending my best efforts to sell his goddamned novel. I was excited, really excited. This would sew up the deal. I typed fast, and by the time I was through, Gunnison was back with the novel. He plunked it down on my desk.

  “There,” he said.

  “Fine. Here’s your contract.”

  Gunnison picked up the rubbish I’d typed and read it carefully, nodding all the way. “Uh…” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “Just to make sure. I mean, just to be certain you go all out for the book.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’d like an advance against its future sale.”

  “What?”

  Gunnison nodded solemnly.

  “How much?” I asked.

  “Three hundred. That’s the usual advance, isn’t it?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “You can deduct your ten percent,” Gunnison said generously. “Make it for two-seventy. This is just to make you try harder, you understand.”

  “Sure, I understand.” I fished my personal checkbook out of my inside jacket pocket, and wrote out the check. “Here.”

  Gunnison waved the check in the air to dry the ink. “Thanks.”

  “The photostat, please.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  He took out his wallet and handed me the folded stat. I unfolded it hastily. It was the stat, all right—beautiful, with Cam Stewart’s signature on it as plain as day.

  “Okay, Gunnison,” I said. “Scram.”

  “We’re author and agent now,” he said.

  “Right. I’ll call you if there’s any good news.”

  I ran to the intercom and buzzed Jeanette. She came on, and I said, “Get me Mike Solowitz, baby.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Is he an editor?” Gunnison asked.

  “No, he’s a lawyer. Goodbye, Gunnison. I’ll contact you.”

  He stood in the doorway, undecided for a moment, and wondering perhaps if I wasn’t calling a lawyer because of the nifty blackmail he’d just pulled.

  “Well, all right,” he said at last, and then he left, closing the door behind him.

  You sonovabitch, I thought after him.

  The buzzer sounded.

  “Yes?”

  “Mr. Solowitz on seven.”

  “Thank you.” I lifted the phone. “Hello, Mike.”

  “What now, Josh?”

  “I’ve got the agreement.”

  “What? Who…”

  “The bastard who stole it returned it. It’s a stat, but clear as mud.”

  “Good. Send it over.”

  “Uh-uh, baby. This isn’t leaving my hands again. I’ll bring it over. But first, I have a visit to make.”

  “Who?”

  “Cam Stewart.”

  “Why?”

  “She’s sensible. Once I show her the agreement, she’ll realize she’s pulled a boner. She’ll call off the hounds. We’re in, Mike.”

  “It looks that way.”

  “It sure as hell does.”

  “Okay, good luck. Let me know what happens.”

  “I will. So long.”

  I hung up and pulled on a jacket, making sure that the stat was in my wallet and buttoned in my pocket. I walked over to Jeanette and said, “If anyone calls, I’m out to see Cam Stewart, honey.”

  “All right.”

  One of the switchboard lights went on at that moment, and I waited to see if the call was an important one. Jeanette plugged in and said, “Gilbert and Blake, good afternoon.”

  She listened, and I waited, and then she said, “Mr. Donato, sir.”

  “Who?”

  “Mr. Donato. He’s been calling every half hour, practically. He says those…”

  “Tell him to call back, honey. This is important.”

 
I walked out of the office, took the elevator down, and then got the Oldsmobile from the garage I’d left it in. I’d put in a call from Cam’s place on the Buick, and the highway police had promised to deliver it there as soon as they located it. It gave me an excuse to visit her again, if I’d needed one. In the meantime, I was using the car belonging to Charlie and Ed, or whoever had hired them. It was a nice car, the Olds, and I almost regretted having to return it eventually.

  I drove fast this time. The roads weren’t wet or slippery, and it was a little too early for the suburban going-home traffic. I drove with the stat in my pocket and a big smile on my face, I was ready to set this deal on its feet, and I was also going to see Cam again, and that made me feel better than anything else. She was a remarkable woman—the kind you run across maybe five times in a lifetime, if you’re lucky. I drove, and anticipation rose within me, and I almost didn’t think of the stat until I was very close to Gunsmoke Acres.

  Something of its significance penetrated, then.

  I hadn’t been slugged for the stat.

  I’d been slugged because one of the crazier writers, David Gunnison by name, had a grudge. He’d taken it out on me, unfortunately recognizing the importance of the stat at the same time.

  An accident, pure and simple. David Gunnison was simply a red herring, the reddest herring I’d ever encountered.

  I began to realize how tough Di Luca’s job really was. How do you pick a murderer? How do you distinguish the significant things from those that are unimportant, especially when the unimportant ones look significant? Life has no rules. Neither does murder. Gunnison didn’t even know my partner had been killed. He had his own personal motivation, and he followed it. He wanted to beat up a guy who’d made him sore. So he followed the guy in a cab, and then kept a close surveillance on him, and when the time was ripe, bop! Unfortunately, I was the guy who’d been bopped. And, unfortunately, I’d been holding the stat in my hand when the roof fell in. Gunnison had picked up the stat, still oblivious of any murder, had recognized it as something that would help his particular cause, and had used it.

  But I’d assumed I’d been slugged by someone interested in getting the stat. In fact, I’d assumed the murderer had slugged me.

  I’d been wrong, and Gunnison could have been a red herring if you looked at it that way. But things aren’t always as simple as Di Luca made them out to be. As long as there were people, there would be complications. There was no pattern, except in mystery novels.