The Salinger Contract

by Adam Langer

  “Maybe you need some help,” I said. “A writing partner? Or an outside editor? Someone to bounce ideas off of?”

  Conner smiled. “Thanks, man,” he said. “But it’s a little late for that. I already wrote the son of a bitch, but it’s not exactly what I thought I was gonna write.”

  “You wrote a thriller?” I asked.

  “Yeah, kinda,” he said with sad resignation. A light rain was beginning to fall from the charcoal-colored clouds. “But you shoulda seen me before I started really writing it, man. For those few weeks, I was on fire. I was writing every sort of story you can imagine. I was writing a love story, I was writing a kids’ book. I wanted to write a book for Angie; I wanted to write one for Atticus; hell, man, I was even thinking of writing a book about friendships and fathers and sons. It even crossed my mind that I should dedicate it to you. For real.”

  “That’s not what Dex wanted you to write, though,” I said.

  “Uh-uh. He wanted a thriller, and that’s the only book I didn’t feel like writing anymore.”

  “Did you give up?”

  “I thought about it for a while. I figured the hell with it. I tried to call you to get your take, but you weren’t around. So I just went with my gut. I told myself I would write the book I wanted to write, see where it led. Maybe I could turn it into a thriller somehow.”

  But he couldn’t. His mood was too light and thrillers were too dark. He spent a month with Angie and Atticus in Maine, getting more and more frustrated, and during that time, it occurred to him that maybe he could return the money to Dex. Maybe he could say he just didn’t have any ideas for thrillers anymore and then he could take all his new ideas and use them to sell his next book to Shascha. Maybe she would like to see a romantic novel or one that he would write for his son.

  Conner put the thriller out of his mind and made an appointment to meet with Shascha. “The only thing I wanted was to give Shascha a really good story, the best I’d ever written,” said Conner. “Never in a million years did I think she would give me the idea for a story about a perfect crime.”

  21

  I had never met Shajilah Shascha Schapiro, but I knew her reputation. Legendarily solicitous of her authors, she was equally standoffish when it came to showing herself in public. She didn’t do the New York publishing party scene, didn’t chat up journalists or would-be novelists. When I worked at Lit and called her office asking for a quote or two to fill out my article about Conner, she didn’t return my calls. She had her assistant, Courtney Guggenheim, dictate a two-sentence response so boring, noncommittal, and generic that I didn’t wind up using it, which was probably Shascha’s intention. The only publication she was ever quoted in was the New York Times.

  Shascha possessed everything you might expect a New York editor with her very own imprint at a major publishing house to possess. Her background spoke to both material and cultural wealth—her father was a hotshot in international finance; her mother a flautist with the New York Philharmonic. Her parents were on the board of just about every cultural institution and charitable foundation in the city. Shascha herself had an intimidating résumé—the Chapin School, graduated from Harvard in three years, aced the Radcliffe Publishing Program, youngest junior editor ever at Schreiber & Sons, fastest to acquire her own imprint.

  Few people would dispute her beauty, but in the handful of pictures she permitted anyone to publish, she was almost more of a representation of beauty than a beautiful woman in her own right. With her long straight black hair, her sparkling green eyes, her golden skin, her commanding stature—even in flats, she stood six feet tall—she was powerful, intimidating, and statuesque in the truest sense of the word. She looked as though she had been sculpted, not born.

  But what made Shascha exceptional, aside from her striking presence, exquisite taste, and sharp editorial instincts—qualities many in her profession possessed—was her ability to envision books and authors in their entirety, to know not only whether a book was good or marketable but also how it would perform over the years, how its author would be perceived, how authors and books could be packaged. She was as much soothsayer as editor. Fifteen different publishing houses had passed on The Unmitigated Empty, the first installment of Margot Hetley’s Wizard Vampire Chronicles series, but not only did Shascha pay $3 million for that book and its first two sequels, she reenvisioned Hetley—a foulmouthed former heroin addict, petty criminal, and rock ’n’ roll groupie who had done time for larceny and had only one memoir to her credit—as a tart-tongued role model for teenagers who would go over big time on Oprah, Ellen, and The View. When Shascha’s stylists were done with her, Margot’s saucy good looks came to suggest the actress Helen Mirren in her prime; her unpolished Yorkshire accent gave her the everywoman approachability of the singer Susan Boyle. What Shascha perceived, Margot Hetley became to tens of millions of readers.

  When Shascha purchased Devil Shotgun, she envisioned an entire series of thrillers. With subdued cityscape cover images and somber, black-and-white author photos, she positioned Conner as a thinking man’s genre novelist whose books could stand alongside those of Michael Connelly and Dennis Lehane. That bet had not paid off as well as Shascha had hoped, but most of her bets did.

  As for her personal life, Shascha kept it well hidden. In the New York Times Style section, she had been linked romantically with everyone from conductor Gustavo Dudamel to the actor Paul Giamatti to Condoleezza Rice. Rumors ran the gamut: she was a raging nymphomaniac; a transsexual; a virgin saving herself for marriage—as far as anyone knew, she was still single. Over the years, Shascha had been loyal to Conner, a good deal more loyal than she tended to be with authors whose spotty sales record matched his. Perhaps, some speculated, she was secretly hoping for an affair with Conner—after all, he was one of the only male authors in her stable.

  On the day of his meeting with Shascha, Conner drove his Subaru to Scranton, Pennsylvania, and took the bus into the city. On the ride over in the quiet car, he considered the conversation he and Shascha would have. He wanted to change directions, he would say. He had more in him than Cole Padgett novels.

  The Schreiber & Sons Building on Seventh Avenue had something in common with Shascha Schapiro herself—tall, commanding, elegant, and more than a little cold. It was forty stories of steel and glass with a lobby that Leni Riefenstahl might well have filmed had she been making movies about publishers instead of Olympic athletes and Nazis. Schreiber had published some of the greats, many of whose works could be found in the three-story, glass-enclosed shelves in the lobby, and in the windows that gave out onto Seventh Avenue, where authors such as Margot Hetley were represented.

  Conner felt confident as he strode toward the revolving front doors, but when he noticed a pair of police cars and a black limousine with tinted windows stalled out front, he became wary. There was a pair of navy-blue-suited men who were speaking into mouthpieces. They eyed Conner as he approached the revolving doors. “How’re you doin’, fellas?” Conner asked, but neither responded. Strange, Conner thought, but then again, Schreiber & Sons published the works of many world leaders, so perhaps Bill Clinton or Henry Kissinger was on the premises, meeting about a memoir.

  Conner walked straight past two police officers milling about in the Schreiber lobby, and headed for the front desk, where longtime security chief Steve Kaczmarak was stationed.

  “How’s it goin’, Steve?” asked Conner, but the uncharacteristically humorless, uniformed man at the front desk looked blankly at Conner.

  “ID, please, sir,” Steve said.

  “ID?” asked Conner. “You know me, man. I’ve been coming here for seven years.”

  “They told me to check everybody’s ID, no matter who it is, sir.”

  Conner laughed. “What’s going on? Is the president in town?”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t tell you that, Mr. Joyce.”

  Conner was about to ask why Steve w
as calling him “Mr. Joyce,” but he let the matter go. He waited for Steve to call Courtney Guggenheim to confirm his appointment. Then Steve issued Conner an ID and directed him to the elevators.

  Though his first journeys to Shascha’s office during the early days of Devil Shotgun had always filled Conner with a sense of accomplishment, importance, and potential, that feeling had waned with each subsequent book until he had begun to feel like an uninvited guest, or if not uninvited, then invited only out of courtesy. But now, as he stepped out of the elevator and onto Shascha’s floor, that sense of possibility was returning. He had more than eight hundred grand in savings and so didn’t truly need Shascha to publish the books he had come to discuss.

  Courtney Guggenheim met Conner at the glass doors. Whether Courtney was actually an heiress to the Guggenheim fortune was something no one at the publishing house had been able to find out for sure, but the surname, in addition to her looks, her fierce ambition, and her Ivy League pedigree, had gotten her the gig, and in a few years’ time would most probably get her an even better one.

  Courtney greeted Conner with a hug and a cheek kiss. She was wearing a magenta dress, a pink rose in her hair, and matching high heels with which she walked across the gray carpet as effortlessly as if she were wearing sneakers.

  “So, what’s with all the security downstairs?” Conner asked Courtney as he tried to keep up with her.

  Courtney grinned. Her expression was that of a woman who had been sworn to secrecy and loved the sense of authority her prized knowledge gave her.

  “Shascha’s around today, isn’t she?” Conner asked. They were walking quickly past cubicles in which editorial assistants were slaving over manuscripts on desktop computers. In offices with closed doors, grim-faced senior editors, red pencils in their mouths or poised in one hand, punctiliously sliced up manuscripts.

  “She’s meeting with somebody,” said Courtney.

  “Who with?”

  Usually, Courtney loved being pressed for information, grudgingly surrendering it as if she had no other choice. This time, her smile broadened but she offered nothing more than a knowing little melody—“Dee-dah-dee-dah-dee,” she sang.

  The door to Shascha’s office was closed, so Conner stopped at Courtney’s cubicle. Manuscripts flagged with yellow stickies with “Out” written on them were stacked and rubber-banded. Letters from agents were filed in color-coded folders. Even Courtney’s computer screen was exquisitely organized—folders were arranged in alphabetized rows. But what caught Conner’s eye and forced him to linger was a stack of signed eight-by-ten photos of Margot Hetley with her wavy blond hair and big black eyes.

  “Is that who Shascha’s meeting with?” Conner asked.

  “Dee-da-dee-da-dee,” said Courtney.

  “Is she delivering her new manuscript or something?”

  “Doo-dah-doo-dah-doo.”

  Just about every major publishing house had a franchise superstar author such as Margot Alexandra Hetley in its catalog. Franchise authors’ book sales paid the salaries of the Courtney Guggenheims of the world, and underwrote the advances for Conner Joyce novels, as well as Nine Fathers, now that I think of it. At Doubleday, Dan Brown was the franchise; at Little, Brown, it was James Patterson. At Merrill Publishers, it was Blade Markham. When these authors made their deadlines, editors got year-end bonuses; when they didn’t and the annual profit-and-loss statements didn’t add up, entire departments got axed. Younger editors with more uncompromising literary tastes and more idealistic mind-sets than their superiors would grumble in secret or in pseudonymous Twitter posts about the franchise authors’ lousy writing. They would criticize their bosses for selling out, make fun of the franchise authors’ grammar and spelling. But Shascha Schapiro and her ilk knew better; without a few Margot Hetleys, publishing could not survive, and these authors were afforded every perk imaginable. Three-course lunches, executive suites, personal drivers, and business-class travel were just the beginning; even lapses in common decency were immediately forgiven, if they were noticed at all.

  Which was why, when the door to Shascha Schapiro’s office opened and Margot Hetley, in the flesh, asked Conner Joyce, “What the fuck’re you starin’ at, mate?” then cupped her breasts, waggled them mockingly, and asked, “Ain’t you never seen a pair?” no one thought to admonish her or to apologize to Conner, who had been planning only to say hello to Margot and to tell her how much his wife enjoyed her work. Courtney clapped her hands together and giggled as if Ms. Hetley had told a splendid joke. And Shascha gave Margot a warm embrace, telling her how good it had been to see her again, and to have a pleasant flight back to London. Margot told Shascha, “Take good care of my baby,” then added, “you certainly paid a lot for the little bugger.” No one introduced Conner to Margot; he tried to win her over with a smile.

  “My wife loves your books,” he essayed.

  “Tell the cunt to get in line,” Hetley said, then gave a nod to the men on her security detail. She strutted down the hallway with Courtney Guggenheim guiding her out.

  Conner followed Shascha into her office; Shascha shut the door.

  22

  The light drizzle falling on the Overlook Trail had resolved itself into an insistent rain, and even though Conner and I were partially protected by the branches of tulip trees, our clothes were getting wet and Hal, not exactly a fan of damp weather, was growling and pulling me back toward the path. The way down was treacherous, and by the time we made it back to our cars, my sneakers and pants were dirty from the few spills I had taken. Hal was wet too, his tail muddy; he looked pissed.

  I asked Conner if he wanted to continue our conversation in a café, but he said no, he didn’t want to go anywhere people might overhear us. And though he thanked me for suggesting that we go back to my house, he said he didn’t want to bother my family. So we sat in my Volvo, watching the rain petal the windshield and our view of Lake Griffy. The car was stuffy and smelled like wet dog and Conner’s cologne, but every time I cracked a window, my sleeve got wet and Hal whined, so I shut the window and tried not to feel claustrophobic.

  “How did your meeting with Shascha go?” I asked.

  “About as well as I probably should have expected,” said Conner.

  “What does that mean?”

  “I think you can figure that out.”

  “Yeah. I guess I can.”

  For an editor as accomplished and haughty as Shascha, one might have expected her to work in a corner office with a breathtaking view of the Hudson. Her office was, in fact, in a corner; whether or not the view was good was difficult to say. She kept all her blinds drawn and relied on the overhead fluorescents and her desk lamps for illumination. Her desk, unlike those of her senior editors and her assistants, was spotless, unsullied by manuscripts or correspondence. Save for her telephone, desktop computer, and keyboard, there was nothing on it except a framed picture of herself shaking hands with the president at a White House dinner, a photograph of her parents’ wedding, and a small robin’s-egg-blue Tiffany jewelry box, inside which was what looked like a monogrammed flash drive encrusted with tiny diamonds. With other editors, the barren desk might have been a sign of laziness, of the traditional image of the high-power publisher who delegates all work to underpaid assistants so that she can spend her time planning vacations and lunches and bemoaning her arduous work schedule and the state of contemporary publishing in a postliterate age. But with Shascha, it was a sign of her discretion; when an author was in her office, he or she was never reminded of the fact that Shascha worked with other authors. If she was meeting with you, it was as if she were your only reader. Dex Dunford wasn’t the only person who could make writers feel that way.

  As he sat across from Shascha, Conner spoke eloquently and at length about his frustration with his Cole Padgett books. He was excited about taking his writing in a new direction. He summarized a few of the stories he had been develop
ing, hoping to inspire the energetic back-and-forth exchanges he’d had with Shascha in the past. But as he proceeded, he became painfully conscious of the fact that Shascha wasn’t interrupting him as she usually did; she was letting him say whatever he wanted while she checked e-mail on her iPhone and scrolled through book sales for her other authors on Bookscan. She answered messages, read the headlines of the New York Times and Publishers Lunch. Conner began to feel as though he were a convicted criminal, allowed to speak to the judge and jury after they had already completed his sentencing.

  “So,” Conner said as he wrapped up his monologue, “that’s what I’m thinking of doing—branching out. But I’m not sure whether I should start by writing that kids’ book or the more romantic novel, or whether you think I should still be trying to write another Cole Padgett book. If you think that’s the way to go, I could give it another shot.” He let his voice drift off, waiting for Shascha to respond. She had always been good about giving straight, authoritative advice, telling Conner exactly what he needed to do in order to, say, make his characters more sympathetic or to add a bit of romance for his female readers.

  Today, she said only this: “Well, I’m sure whomever you wind up publishing with will have a better idea of what the market is like at that time, and you should probably rely on their opinion.”

  Doom was sealed inside Shajilah Schapiro’s words, but Conner wasn’t certain he had heard it. “Whomever I wind up publishing with?” he asked.

  Shascha smiled grimly and eyed Conner with a wistful gaze that suggested disappointment with what could have happened, but never did, and now never would.

  “Fewer books, bigger books, that’s our new mantra over here,” Shascha said. “If we don’t think a book will sell a hundred thousand copies right off the bat, we can’t afford to be interested in it. You’re a talented guy, and you’ve done well for yourself and we’ve done well for you, but right now, our margins are too tight.”