But not all was the same, Cassy found out after her bath. Michael had done something new. Michael had wet the bed.
8
HOWARD AT WORK
Howard came out of the editorial meeting with Patricia MacMannis. Before the War with the business department began, Harrison had lured Patricia away from the Robinson Press to bolster their roster of “up-and-coming” writers. (Patricia had produced three bestsellers in two years, all of them first novels by writers under thirty years of age.) Thus far, Patricia had the best batting average for acquisitions in the war, largely due to what Harrison fondly described as her “divine sense of duplicity.” Simply put, the business department thought she was an angel, when, in fact, she really was the Devil when it came to a book she wanted to buy.
A case in point: Patricia had a collection of short stories she wished to publish. Short-story anthologies had been one of the first targets of the business department, so Patricia had a lot of work to do. She conspired with her colleagues to get the reader’s reports she wanted and then had lunch with Mack Sperry. (The duplicitous angel was not without powers of innuendo, either, and Mack Sperry seemed slightly mesmerized by Patricia’s long gazes and slightly parted mouth.) She nearly cried at the lunch table, bemoaning to Sperry that Harrison was making her sign up the “most lurid short stories. Mack, what will my mother say when she finds out that I edited a book that has metaphors for deep-throat oral sex on every other page?” And so Mack Sperry asked to read the stories, and since every reader’s report talked about the lurid sexual metaphors that ran throughout the book, one can only assume that Mack Sperry actually saw lurid sexual metaphors in the short stories since the book sailed through with his approval.
Six months ago, Howard had almost started an affair with Patricia. It had been Patricia’s birthday. Howard had come into her office in the evening to talk to her about a problem with one of his books. They had ended up sitting on her office floor, in the dark, until nine o’clock at night, drinking two bottles of champagne that she had received, solving all of the problems of the world. But then Howard had kissed her—and Patricia had kissed him back—and then she had started to cry. Patricia, it turned out, was already having an affair with Tom West, another senior editor at G & G. And Tom was, on her birthday, at home with his wife and kids. And so they had sat there until eleven o’clock, sharing the tormenting truths of their lives. (Which neither quite remembered.) They had been great friends since.
“I hear Sperry’s going to be coming to the editorial meeting,” Patricia said to him, coming out of the conference room.
“Who did you hear that from?” Howard said, frowning, loosening his tie.
Patricia batted her eyes. “Why, Mr. Sperry himself.”
“I’m telling you, Patricia,” Howard said, walking with her, “you better be careful of that guy.”
“Howard,” Carol Roundtree called from behind them.
He stopped and turned.
“I need to talk to you for a second.” Carol was the crafts and cookbook editor.
“Sure,” Howard said.
“I’ll stop by your office later,” Patricia said, walking on. Carol was juggling a couple of manuscripts.
Carol was always juggling a couple of manuscripts (that usually turned out to be only one). The production people always ran when they saw her. Eight hundred pages of recipes almost always did them in. “Take this one—on the top—will you?”
Howard lifted it from the stack in her arms and squinted at the top page.
“Flying Made Easy?”
Carol looked around and, lowering her voice, said, “It’s Greg’s.” She looked up and down the hall again before continuing. “I’m sorry, but you said you’d take the next one and this is it. It’s due into production next week.”
“Flying?” Howard said, pushing his glasses up. “Carol, what do I know about flying?”
“As much as the people who’ll buy it, I suspect,” she said.
“Yeah, right,” Howard said, thumbing through the top pages. “And what about the art? There must be illustrations to this.”
“Office services is bringing them up on the cart,” Carol said, quickly moving toward the door of the stairwell.
“On the cart?” Howard said, staring at her departing figure. “You can’t move the illustrations without a cart?”
Holding the door, Carol turned and whispered, “There isn’t anyone else who can do it, Howard. I’ve got the whole Elementary Photography Series in my lap.” Her eyes shifted past Howard, making him turn to look.
Harrison Dreiden, Tom West and Layton Sinclair were coming down the hall. Tom and Layton were arguing; Carol and Howard nodded to Harrison.
“Layton, I swear to God, if you ever tamper with one of my books again,” Tom was saying, “I’ll take a horsewhip to you.” (Layton had tried to annex one of Tom’s books for the Sperry imprint.)
“Howard,” Harrison said, touching Howard’s elbow, “I’d like to see you in my office for a minute.”
“The material should be up soon,” Carol said, disappearing into the stairwell.
Harrison led Howard to his office, motioned him in, and closed the door behind him. “Sit down,” he said.
Howard sat in one of the chairs and waited for Harrison to be seated.
“Howard,” Harrison began, leaning forward on his desk, “I wanted to tell you the news myself—before you heard it elsewhere.” This was not going to be good. Harrison looked down at his folded hands. “Mack Sperry is being named president and publisher tomorrow.”
In a split second Howard had slammed Flying Made Easy on Harrison’s desk and was on his feet. “They can’t do that! Sperry? The guy used to sell hardware, for God’s sake!”
Harrison motioned him back down into his chair. “It’s done. The announcement will come out tomorrow.” Pause, leaning back in his chair. “I’m to remain as editor-in-chief.”
“Unbelievable,” Howard muttered, dropping his head. “They’re mad.”
“They believe Sperry can turn the house around financially, and maybe they’re right.”
Howard raised his eyes to meet Harrison’s. He saw the pain in the older man’s eyes and realized how excruciating this must be for him. “Is there anything I can do?”
“Yes,” Harrison said, smiling slightly and leaning forward again. “You can show that jerk how good you are.”
Howard laughed. “Oh, boy,” he sighed a moment later, “this place.” He shook his head. Looking back at Harrison, Howard saw that his eyes were on the manuscript.
“Taking up flying?” Harrison said, a trace of his usual sparkle in his eye.
“Oh, that.”
Harrison smiled for real. “It’s Greg’s book, isn’t it?” When Howard didn’t say anything, Harrison rose from his chair. He turned and rested his hands on the windowsill, looking out at the view of the East River. “I know all about it,” he said. He glanced back at Howard. “I think you kids are terrific for doing what you’re doing.” Looking back out the window, “It’s the kind of thing that always makes me proud of Gardiner & Grayson. It is like a family. We look after our own.” Harrison turned to look at Howard. “Tell me the truth—how is he?”
“I’m not sure,” Howard said. “He’s getting blood transfusions and afterward he always feels better, has more energy...” He hesitated.
“It’s been ten weeks,” Harrison said.
“He came in last Friday—I saw him.”
“So did I.” Harrison frowned slightly. “I don’t know how long we’re going to be able to keep this from Sperry,” he said. “He’s bound to catch on, sooner or later.” He rubbed his ear. “It’s a horrible thing.”
“Yes, sir. And Sperry’s a horrible thing too.”
Silence.
Harrison pushed himself off the windowsill. “You know,” he said, moving over to the couch and sitting down, “when I started here, we didn’t know who was going to come back alive from the war. Now we don’t know who’s goin
g to come back alive from a one-night stand.” He sifted through the magazines on the coffee table. He sighed. “Why does it always take a tragedy to make us stop and think about what is really important in this world?” He paused, looking over to Howard. “It makes everything Sperry, these idiotic meetings, this whole charade—seem so... stupid. So utterly pointless.” He sat back against the couch, holding his knee up in his hands. “AIDS... Now cancer, that sounds like what it is. But AIDS... Kool-Aid. First aid. Children. Help. No...” He shook his head and sighed. “You know what I did Friday night, after I saw Greg?”
“No,” Howard said.
“I called my daughter—at three in the morning—to say hello to her.” He swallowed, staring off into space. “It’s probably the first time I ever called her just to say hello.”
Howard left Harrison Dreiden’s office feeling very sad.
Dutifully stationed at the desk outside Howard’s office was Bob, his assistant. Howard’s office was one of six along this side of the building, and Bob’s desk was one of the six lined up outside of them. “Hi.”
“I’ve got a ton of messages for you,” Bob said, reaching for his log. Very efficient, Bob was. Not only did he make Howard call the people he didn’t want to call, he also had a safeguard system against Howard “accidentally” losing the phone messages. Each and every call was entered in the spiral bound book—the date, time of the call, the message, and the phone number—and while the top sheet could be torn off and handed to Howard, the carbon copy remained in Bob’s permanent safekeeping.
Reading from the log, Bob said, “Lucinda Ryan wants to know if the Mason contract was sent via Cape Horn. If not, where is it? You promised it last week. Roger Sneed called from Chicago to scream there aren’t any books in the bookstores. He wants to know what is the point of him promoting a book people can’t buy. Sidney from sub rights wants to discuss the floor on Lost Love, New Love. He says Avon’s biting at the bit.” Breath. “Some guy named Peter Pretzie from Alabama called to see if you want to read his book about the role of mules in World War I. He says he met you at ABA last year—don’t know how well you know him though, since he kept calling you Harold.” Turn page. “John Pratt is meeting with Arnold Stevens this afternoon at three and wonders if you can stop in. Clark Bryson says twelve-thirty is fine and he’ll see you at the Barclay. Reverend Holland says he’s got the green light for the Reading in the Prisons committee and he said to thank you for your letter and that it did the trick.” Pause, squint. “I didn’t take this message, Holly did. I think it says your wife called. That or ‘Yorfee’ called.”
Howard started to move into his office.
“Wait—” Bob said, rising out of his chair, reading as fast as he could. “Don Casey said you wanted to know where the Clarie Munson book went. He said to tell you that it went to Crown.”
“Did he say who’s the editor?”
“Betty Prashker.”
“Ten to one she makes it a bestseller,” Howard said, giving the door to his office a kick. “Damn it,” he muttered, “when are we going to buy some good books again around here?”
“Yeah, well, seems to me you’ve got too many books for this office to handle as it is,” Bob said. (A snicker from the girl at the next desk.) “Amanda Miller called and said she got your letter. She said you could stop by any time, just let her know when, or she’ll come into the office to see you. Oh—and Susan Kelly will be sending you the Norm Ericson manuscript next week.”
Bob handed him a neat stack of messages.
“Did you call contracts about the Mason contract?”
“Not yet, I haven’t had a chance.”
“Well, call now, will you? Tell them we must have it today.”
“I’ll try.”
“And tell John I’ll drop by for that meeting.”
“You’ve got a marketing meeting at three-thirty.”
“Tell him that and say I’ll swing by at about three-ten.”
In his office, Howard took off his jacket before sitting down. God, his desk looked like a bomb had hit it. All this paper, where to begin? The phone rang and Bob picked it up outside. Howard waited a minute, was satisfied that his attention wasn’t required, and then called his wife.
“Melissa Stewart,” she said. She wasted no time, no breath. If her secretary wasn’t on top of the phone, Melissa got right to it. “Hi, I had a message that Yurfee called and Bob and I figure that must be you.”
“Howard, we’ve been robbed.”
He had a chill. “What?”
“The Barneses saw a man coming out of our apartment with a TV set. They called downstairs and Ernie stopped him in the lobby and the guy dropped it and took off.”
“Did they catch him?”
“Not yet. The police are there now and need one of us to tell them what’s missing. Can you go?”
“Well—when?”
“Now.”
“Can’t they come back tonight?”
“Howard, all I know is that they called me and asked if one of us could go.”
“I’m not sure I’d even know what was missing.”
“Damn it, Howard.”
“Look, Melissa, why don’t I call Rosanne? I really can’t get out of here. Rosanne knows the apartment inside and out.”
Silence.
“I think Rosanne has something to do with it,” Melissa said.
“What? Are you out of your mind?”
“Common sense,” Melissa hissed into the phone. “Don’t you think it’s the slightest bit strange that we’re robbed the day after her drug addict husband visits our apartment?”
“Melissa, you’re strange. And you sure as hell better not make any accusations to the police.”
“Since I’m the one going home, I feel free to tell them whatever I want.” She hung up.
Howard slammed the phone down.
The intercom on the phone buzzed and Howard had to pick up again.
“I’ve got contracts on the phone,” Bob told him, “and they say the Mason contract’s been sitting on Sperry’s desk.”
“Who are you talking to?”
“Beth.”
“I’ll talk to her.” Push button. “Beth, hi, it’s Howard. Why won’t Sperry countersign the contract?”
“Rumor has it he wants it renegotiated.”
“Renegotiated how?” Howard yelled. He then composed himself, thanked Beth for telling him, hung up the phone—and threw an eraser across his office as hard as he could. It ricocheted off a photograph of Gertrude and disappeared behind a pile of manuscripts in the corner.
With each phone call he returned he got more depressed. And after Lucinda Ryan got through screaming at him that if she didn’t get the countersigned contract and advance check within twenty-four hours she was going to yank the book out of Gardiner & Grayson, Howard pushed all the messages to the side save the one that had the possibility of being friendly. Amanda Miller.
He was glad he called. If nothing else, this Amanda Miller was a change of pace. She was very, very nice, and her voice was rather soothing, but—as Rosanne had forewarned him—she did sound a little “loony.” But, too, as Rosanne had promised, Howard did love the way she talked.
“You live on the Drive, Mr. Stewart, do you not?” she was asking him.
“Yes, in 153.”
“Well, then, perhaps you would consider joining me for breakfast one morning. But if it is your preference that I come to your office—”
“Actually,” Howard said, “it would be easier for me to swing by one night on my way home.”
Pause. “Do you have a particular evening in mind?”
“Uh,” Howard said, fumbling to open his calendar. “Oh, boy, let’s see here.” He whistled through his teeth. “Gosh, I didn’t realize how...” “Toward the end of June?” “No, I’d like to see you soon.” He wasn’t kidding; he was eager to put a face to this voice. “That is, if you’re not busy.”
She laughed and Howard thought it was the nicest laug
h he had heard in some time. “You must excuse me, Mr. Stewart,” she said. “I meant, you know, when you’re going to be home.” She laughed again. “Mr. Stewart, I am always at home. The more appropriate question, I’m afraid, is whether or not you will find me at home in my right mind.”
“Uh...” Howard said.
“Oh, dear,” she said. “And Rosanne secured my sacred promise that I would be on my best behavior with you.”
“Actually,” Howard said, looking at his calendar again, “I could do it tonight...”
“This evening would be fine.”
“No—sorry, I forgot.” He sighed. “We got robbed today.”
Pause. “Book bandits, perhaps?”
Howard laughed. “No, it was more—”
Bob was waving to him from the doorway.
“Could you hold on one second?” He covered the phone.
“A Cassy Cochran on 6. She says she has to talk to you for twenty seconds about some block party. And Patricia MacMannis stopped by.”
“Okay.” Back on the phone, “Uh, Ms. Miller?”
“Please call me Amanda.”
Amanda.
“Amanda, could you hang on for a minute? I’ve got Cassy Cochran on the other line—do you know her?”
“Fridays.”
“What?”
“Rosanne works for her on Fridays.”
“Well, hold on, will you?” Click. Click. “Hello?”
“I feel ridiculous calling you out of the blue at the office,” Cassy began, “but I can’t seem to get a hold of Melissa.”
“No, it’s fine.” Pause. “How do you do?”
She laughed. “I would be doing much better if Melissa was still president of the Block Association. Let’s see here, Howard—you’re doing the bookstall—yes?”
Riverside Drive Page 15
