“Yeah. Okay. Listen, Mister Welch—”
“Mize well call me Sam, pal.”
“I gotta hit the trail, Sam,” I said. “My pardner’s waiting on me back at the ranch.”
“Adios. Hasta mañana.”
***
On the way home I stopped off at Riley’s flower stand and bought Carol a bouquet of irises. I knew I’d been acting like an asshole, like a male fraud, as Kitty would say. Kitty. Another reason to buy Carol flowers.
Evening was rising from the streets of the barrio, a neighborhood of stately eucalypti and palms, gardens of bougainvillea, hibiscus, and star jasmine. It had been a long, stupid day, and I was glad to be almost home, even if the air there might be frosty at first.
Carol and I needed to do some fence mending. I realized at that moment that Carol was more important to me than business. More important than poetry. More important than books. That’s saying a lot.
The house was dark. I parked on the street, because the garage was for Carol’s car. Holding the irises carefully, I walked up to the front door and tried the knob. Locked. Let myself in with a key and turned on lights. Lights in the living room, lights in the dining room, lights in the kitchen, the bathroom, the bedroom and the other bedroom. Every light in the house, which made the house feel all the emptier.
There was a note on the dining room table:
Guy my dear,
I’m going up to Morro Bay for the weekend. All this crap we’re getting from Marburger and Herndon has given me a sudden craving for abalone. Believe me, I’m not punishing you. I’m not mad at you. I just have to be by myself for a while, a couple of days.
I know I’ve been a bitch, and I’m still feeling bitchy, and I don’t want to put you through that. I have to get away and cool down. I love you, and I’ll be in a better mood soon, which is what you deserve. Forgive me for being such a shrew. I promise to get a better attitude.
There’s a chicken pie in the freezer, and some of the pasta we had last night in the fridge. If you go to La Super Rica for dinner, tell Isidoro hi for me. Have a good weekend. Try to relax. We both need to relax. I’ll be back Monday.
I love you.
Carol
I took a deep breath. It was true, we both needed to relax. The Super Rica sounded like a good idea. Best Mexican food in town. In any town. Fine. Fine, then.
I realized I was still holding onto that bouquet of irises. I carried them into the kitchen so I could shorten the stems and put them in water. I took a pair of scissors out of the junk drawer and pulled the wastebasket out from under the sink. I shortened the stems, then shortened them again, then shortened and shortened and shortened them again and again and again, then dropped the blossoms down on top of the stems and shoved the wastebasket back under the sink.
Chapter Seven
“It’s basically a tell-all type thing,” Samuel Welch told me the next morning in the office. “It’s my life story, of course, but who wants to hear all that boring crap about growing up in Boston and going to Andover and Princeton and being in the Air Force and doing a bunch of summer stock? All that’s in there of course, but you know what people want to read as well as I do: they want to read about my sex life, right? I mean I’ve been on the cover of National Enquirer seventeen times, with fourteen different women. So that’s what people want to read about, right? Am I right?”
I wasn’t sure that question required an answer. I sat there and stared across my desk at the rugged, handsome face that had launched a thousand posses.
“It’s all in there,” Welch continued, tapping the manuscript on my desk. “Plus pictures. So what do you think? Do we have a best-seller on our hands or am I nuts?”
“Sam,” I said, “I’m not a publisher of best-sellers. If that’s what you’re looking for—”
“What about Lorraine’s book? From what I hear that’s off to a great start. Gangbusters.”
“It’s too early to tell,” I said. “We’ll see.” Thanks for reminding me, pardner, I thought.
“And I’ll tell you another thing,” he went on. “I’m going to promote the shit out of this book. I’m a way better promoter than Sweet Lorraine, know what I mean? I’m not temperamental, and I’m not proud. I’ll get on the Limbaugh show, I’ll go on ‘Saturday Night Live,’ whatever it takes. Because I believe in this book. This book is me.”
“I expect it’s a great book,” I said. “But look, I’m just a poetry publisher. Lorraine’s book is a fluke.”
Sam Welch chuckled. “This book is flukier than hers by a long shot. And it’s full of poetry. I’ve written a love poem for every one of the women in my life, and it’s all in there. With pictures. Look, just read the manuscript, okay? That’s all I ask.”
***
I Wasn’t Always a Bad Guy: My Life and Loves, by Samuel Welch. What a piece of crap. I read it that afternoon, figuring it would cheer me up to hear about the big man’s big adventures among big stars. He had pictures of himself throughout the book, most of them movie stills and publicity photos, and each chapter also started off with a doggerel poem written for one of his legendary lovers, including Shelley Winters, Marie Wilson, Ava Gardner, Marilyn Monroe, Jayne Mansfield, Dagmar, a half sister and a cousin, his fourth-grade teacher (a nun), two stewardesses (same night, same bed), a Mexican prostitute, a duchess, three ex-wives, and a heifer.
I have to admit it gave me a laugh or two and took my mind off my loneliness and my fear of bankruptcy. But what in the world was I going to tell this cowboy come Monday? This legendary bad guy?
Easy, I decided. Sorry, I’d say. We’ve put all our cash flow into the Evans book and we have to wait to see how that plays out before we’ll have any more capital to invest in another big book.
***
I called Fritz Marburger. Same announcement on his answering machine. I didn’t bother to leave another message. Called Lorraine, and her message hadn’t changed either.
***
Saturday morning I went down to the warehouse. I had the place to myself, and there was no wrapping to do, so I got out the dry mop and cleaned the place up. After I finished I noticed a hardbound book on the DocuTech machine: Onward Christian Sailors, by Commander Robert Worsham, USN, ret. The front cover depicted a battleship in a stormy sea. The back flap had a picture of the author, an elderly man in camouflage, with a gray crewcut and a Kirk Douglas grin. He looked like a very tall man. I put the book back where I’d found it.
As I was closing the warehouse door, Roger Herndon drove into the lot and parked his Datsun. I left the door unlocked and headed toward my car, but he headed me off at the pass. He gave me a toothy grin and pulled back the wings of his tan leather jacket. “Check it out,” he said.
Check what? The paunch? I glanced at his gut and saw the new ornament, a dull silver metal belt buckle in the shape of one of those shapely silhouettes you see on the mud flaps of cross-country eighteen-wheelers.
“Class,” I told him. “With a capital K.”
“Always wanted one of these,” he said. “It’s made of Monel. You should see how you stick the other end of the belt—”
“Another time, Rog,” I said.
I ate lunch at the Paradise Cafe, then went to the office and cleaned that too. Vacuumed and swept and dusted. I dusted every book in my collection. It was something to do. And it made me feel secure: no matter what else I might lose, I’d still have my books. My first editions.
I got home after dark. I baked a chicken pot pie and washed it down with three beers. I did the dishes; it took me less than a minute. Then went to the bedroom and lay on top of the covers, where I spent most of the night looking at the ceiling, which was dimly lit by the light from the bathroom.
Sunday I took a long walk on the beach, but I don’t remember what I saw there. I went home and took a nap; I don’t remember if I dreamed. While I waited around till dinnertime, I tried to read but couldn’t stay focused on the page.
*
**
She said she’d be back Monday. What did that mean, Monday?
What Monday meant was I had to go back to the office, which was fine with me. I didn’t have that much work to do, just a whole lot of worrying. Besides, I had to call Samuel Welch and tell him gently that his book sucked out loud. No, just that it wasn’t my cup of rotgut.
But even as I was reaching for the phone, it rang at me. So I picked up and said, “Guy Mallon Books.”
“Guy, this is Fritz Marburger.”
“Where have you been?” I asked. “I left four messages.”
“Listen,” he answered. “I’m afraid we have a situation on our hands. Our little friend, the so-called Sweet Lorraine, has lost touch with reality. So, uh—”
“What are you talking about, Fritz? Nice and slow, what are you talking about?”
“Well, we had something going with Bette Midler’s people, but Lorraine told me to stuff it.”
“That’s too bad,” I said. “Well, if she doesn’t like Midler, maybe something else will turn up. The book’s only just getting started. Let’s see how reviews come in, and I’m sure we’ll get other offers. So—”
“Hold on, Guy. Lorraine told me to stuff it, period. She doesn’t want a movie deal. Period. No movie.”
“Hmm. Okay, at least we got books,” I said. “I mean, we got books. And once the People article hits the streets—”
“That’s another thing,” Fritz said. “Lorraine had her publicity person kill the People article. Took some doing, but she did it.”
“She what?”
“And she’s not going on ‘Oprah.’”
I let that one sink in. Then, very quietly, I said, “What’s this all about, Fritz? I don’t want to have to put this together like a puzzle. I want you to tell me, in plain fucking English, what the fuck is going on.”
He sighed through the phone. “The old lady in the book, that’s her mother. She died in a flophouse hotel in San Jose back in eighty-nine. She was living on food stamps and meds, delusional, making weird accusations about having been sexually abused as a child, crazy as a loon.”
“Well, I’m sorry about Lorraine’s mother, but Lorraine wrote this book, and it’s fiction or so she says, so what’s the problem?”
“The problem is when People found out it was based on Lorraine’s own family, that’s all they wanted to talk about. Made a better story, they said. Well, that drove Lorraine over the edge, some kind of bullshit guilt trip, didn’t want the world knowing her mother died crazy and penniless and abandoned.”
“How did the People people find this secret out?”
“Huh?”
“You heard me.”
“Well, I told them about it. I mean, it made a far better story. Personal experience. Look, that’s what people want to read, real human problems of real celebrities, not some stupid novel about some crazy old lady who never existed. Jesus,” Fritz said, “I was doing the woman a favor, for Christ’s sake.”
“My God,” I said. “You really think that was a favor?”
“Well, shit. Maybe it was a mistake.”
I paused and said, “Costly. You made a costly mistake, Fritz.”
“What do you mean by that? It’s not going to cost me a penny. I’m out one girlfriend, and my ego’s bruised, and my heart’s a bit beat up, but I’m done with the whole deal. She fired me as her agent. She doesn’t want anything more to do with me, and the feeling is mutual. Dumb bitch.”
Did he say “not going to cost me a penny”? “Let me remind you, Fritz, that we still have about five thousand books in the warehouse, and another ten thousand on the way, which you’ll be paying for. It’s going to take a lot longer to sell those books without the author’s cooperation, which you pretty much flushed down the toilet. How are we going to move those books? Tell me that? And if the books stop selling, the returns start coming back. And there goes—”
“That’s your problem,” Fritz told me. “You’re the publisher. And another thing that’s your problem is that ten-thousand-copy reprint. I’m not paying for that. You think I’m a fool?”
Jesus. “Fritz,” I said, “we had an agreement.”
“Not in writing. And that agreement was based on conditions that no longer exist.”
“Thanks to you.”
“Whatever.”
“You said you’d pay for this printing.”
“Guy, I’m a businessman. Show me how it will be a good return on my investment, and I’ll play ball. But you just told me the book’s dead in the water. Why should I loan you money for that?”
“Are you trying to put me out of business?”
He did not answer for a long time, and then he said, “I suppose you want me to help you out of this problem you’re in.”
“I just want you to honor—”
“Shut up and listen, my little man. Sell the company to me, and you’re not facing bankruptcy court, because I can keep the business going.”
“You want to buy Guy Mallon Books?”
“Maybe I’m out of my mind, but I want to be a publisher. I told you that from the beginning. So I’m offering to take the company off your hands. It’s a big headache for you and Carol, so why not just let me have the headache? I’ll take over all your debts as well as all your assets.”
“What are you offering for this company?” I asked. “Not that I’m interested in selling, but I’d be interested in hearing what you think the business is worth.”
“I just told you. I pay all the debts. I bail you out.”
“You want to bail me and Carol out of our jobs,” I said.
“No, as a matter of fact, I’d expect you both to keep on working for me. On salary—more money than you’re bringing home now. That’s part of the deal. I’d expect a five-year commitment. Then after five years, you’d go your own way, but I’d get to keep the company name.”
“What assets?” I asked. “Minimal office equipment, plus our inventory of poetry titles that sell a few hundred copies each every year? And Lorraine’s book, which may turn out to be a dud.”
“Plus other books I’ll have you publish,” he told me. “I’ll be choosing the books to be published. Books that are going to sell a lot more than a couple of thousand chickenshit copies.”
“Why do you want to do this?” I asked. “This is stupid, but I really am interested in knowing what’s on your mind.”
“I want you working for me, you and Carol, because you have a good reputation in the business and because you have already worked out distribution deals with wholesalers. And, I have to admit, you have a lot of charm, both of you, and I want that. And I want all your assets, let’s make that clear.”
What assets was this dodo talking about?
“So back to square one,” I said. “You aren’t going to pay the printer for the second printing?”
“They get thirty days?”
“That’s right.”
“I think you and I can work out the details in thirty days. The day you sign the company over to me, I’ll pay every outstanding bill you’ve got. I’ll give you thirty days to decide, but I’d rather hear your answer right now.”
“Good-bye,” I said.
“We’ll talk,” he replied.
I hung up, stood up and paced around the office, then sat back down at my desk and put my face into my hands. My mind was still full of little popping noises when the phone rang again.
“Guy Mallon Books.”
“Guy, this is Dennis with Yellow Freight. I’m here at your warehouse. I got a delivery for you, eleven pallets. How soon can you be down here to sign for these babies?”
***
When I got to the warehouse the Yellow Freight truck had already left, and a crew of beautiful women was busy moving cartons of books off the pallets and into the warehouse, stacking them on top of the existing pallets.
Beautiful women: Kitty Katz, looking splendid in hotpants and a halter, her h
air in bright pigtails. Gracie in her Kountry Klub tee shirt and jeans and a baseball cap from Disneyland.
And Carol.
Carol smiled at me shyly and walked into my hungry arms. “Come on in,” she whispered. “We have work to do.”
***
It took the three of us less than two hours to put the new books on top of the old books. When we were done the piles were like downtown Manhattan, daunting and enormous.
When the job was done and Gracie had gone back to her DocuTech and Kitty had left for the day, I finally spoke to Carol. “I have so much to tell you,” I said.
“Good news or bad?”
“The good news is you’re back.”
“Shall we go to the office so you can tell me the bad news?”
“No,” I said. “Let’s go to Morro Bay.”
“But Guy, I just—”
“I know,” I said. “You just got back from there. But I need to get away for a couple of days. This town, this business, it’s driving me nuts.”
“Okay,” she said. “Can we afford it?”
“We’ll put it on the company card. Chances are we’ll go bankrupt anyway. Either that or some kindly benefactor will come along and pay all our bills.”
“Like that’s ever going to happen.”
“You never can tell,” I said.
Then I stood on a carton of Naming Names and drew her into my arms. I kissed her long and hard. Our tongues played footsie while tears of relief rolled over all four cheeks.
Chapter Eight
We drove through the fresh, green Santa Ynez Valley, which glowed in the late afternoon light of springtime. I told Carol all about what had happened: Samuel Welch’s miraculous staff of life, Lorraine Evans’ latest freakout, Fritz Marburger’s Mephistophelian offer to take all our troubles (and all our assets) off our hands, and Roger Herndon’s belt buckle.
She said, “So you didn’t have any fun while I was gone?”
“Fun?” I asked. “Did you have fun?”
“I asked you first.”
We drove the rest of the way to Morro Bay in silence, holding hands. By the time we got there the sky behind the giant rock was bright apricot.
Vanity Fire Page 6
