As far as I could tell, I only had one option.
If I was going to rescue West 57, I had to sell to Gernestier.
14
As I got out of a cab at the West 57 building after lunch, I spotted Nick Duggan from the Post waiting for me. He wore a plaid Goodwill sport coat that didn’t fit, a baggy white dress shirt, and wrinkled gray slacks. He’d covered up his red hair with a Yankees cap. He was eating a hot dog, and he’d dripped ketchup onto his shirt like a bloodstain.
Duggan bounced off the wall to meet me, spilling a trail of white onion bits on the sidewalk. “Ms. Chavan.”
“Mr. Duggan,” I said.
He tugged on his baseball cap, which threatened to blow away in the New York wind. “So His Lordship is on TV with Pierce tonight, huh?”
“That’s right.”
“Looks like you’ve been having trouble keeping him under wraps, though.”
“Excuse me?”
“I saw the Assy McHattie video on YouTube,” he snickered. “Classic King. I loved it when you yanked him off the balcony. You’ve got some moxie for a tiny gal.”
I wasn’t impressed with the compliment. “King was jetlagged. He’d had a long flight.”
“Jet lag, huh? Is that what you’re calling it? I hope you checked his hotel room for rum and coke. And I don’t mean the soda.” He closed off one nostril and snorted loudly.
I was annoyed with myself, because I hadn’t thought to check King’s room for alcohol or drugs. That was a mistake. Bree had stayed the night, so hopefully she’d made sure King didn’t raid the mini-bar or get a late-night delivery from one of New York’s dealers.
“I’m very busy, Mr. Duggan,” I said.
“Give me ten minutes. You can call me Nick, by the way. Or Diggin. Some people call me Diggin.”
“I’ll call you Mr. Duggan. We’re not going to be that close.”
He put a hand over his chest, fingers spread wide. “Hey, not a word about King Royal, okay? His name won’t cross my lips. I promise.”
“What do you want to talk about?”
“Irving Wolfe,” he said.
“Then I still have nothing to say to you.”
Duggan shook his head. “Come on, you don’t strike me as a head-in-the-sand girl, Ms. Chavan. People I talk to say you’re a straight shooter. Seems to me you’d like to know what’s really going on.”
I hesitated, and he could tell he’d landed a greasy hook in me. “Do you know what’s really going on?”
“I could help you get some answers. I know stuff, Ms. Chavan. It’s crap you should know, too. Maybe we can do a quid pro quo. You may know things that would help me, too, huh? We could put our heads together.”
My head wasn’t going to land anywhere near Nick Duggan’s head. “I don’t think so.”
“This isn’t just about me. You need to think about yourself, too. I heard what happened at Tavern on the Green. That guy coming after you? Scary.”
“How did you hear about that?” I asked.
“I told you, I know how to dig stuff up. Do you know who he was? That guy in the restaurant?”
“No.”
“I do. His name’s Walter Pope. Retired top exec at a big insurance company. Bailed out of the biz with a golden parachute five years ago and thought he was set for life. Trouble is, Irving Wolfe shot a hole in his parachute. Pope invested his nest egg with Wolfe and lost everything. Now his wife’s got cancer, and he can’t afford the treatment.”
I closed my eyes and wasn’t happy, because I remembered the desperation and fury in Pope’s face as he came at me. It tugged at my heart. “I hate to hear stories like that.”
“Yeah, well, people have it in their heads that you’re aiding and abetting Irving Wolfe with this book.”
“That’s not what we’re doing.”
“Are you so sure?” Duggan asked me.
“This book is about Irving Wolfe. That’s all.” I sounded defensive, but that was how I felt. Defensive. Guilty. Confused. With every day that passed, I was beginning to hate this book. You can hate things and still not be able to walk away from them.
“Maybe it’s just a book, but King makes Wolfe out like a hero. Even that freaking title. Captain Absolute. That’s bound to rub people the wrong way. Especially people who lost their shirts to this son of a bitch.”
No, he didn’t say “freaking.”
“I’m not going to debate the memoir genre with you, Mr. Duggan. I’m also not going to defend Irving Wolfe, who was obviously a terrible, terrible human being. However, he’s dead. Don’t confuse the awful things he did with a story about what he did.”
“Oh, let’s not pretend that’s all it is,” Duggan said. “King Royal was in bed with Wolfe. Literally. He knew exactly what was going on with the fraud. You know he did. And he did squat to stop it. He could have tipped off the feds. He could have tipped off the media. Instead, he kept his mouth shut and lined his pockets. Now he’s getting rich off Wolfe’s story, thanks to your father. You really don’t have a problem with that?”
Of course, I do.
A big problem.
That didn’t change what I had to do. I had to publish the book.
“You said you didn’t want to talk about King Royal, and now you’re talking about him,” I told Duggan. “Have a nice day.”
I brushed past him, but Duggan called after me. “Tell me something, Ms. Chavan, do you ever get the feeling that somebody’s following you?”
I stopped.
Duggan had an unpleasant way of knowing things he shouldn’t have any way of knowing. I thought about leaving the Gansevoort last night and wandering through the meatpacking district in search of a cab. That brunette in the brown pants suit was behind me the whole time. When I left, she was watching me eye to eye. New Yorkers don’t do that.
I wondered if Duggan really knew something or if it was just a guess. He came up next to me and took off his hat and rubbed his buzzed red hair with chewed fingernails. “So that’s a yes, huh?”
“No.”
“Come on, you saw somebody, right? My advice is, keep your eyes open. People are watching you.”
“Who would do that?” I asked.
“Could be the feds. You know, either the FBI or the Attorney General or the SEC. Could be lawyers or private eyes working for the victims. Could be reporters like me, smelling a story.” He added, “If I were you, I’d assume my phone was tapped, too.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Get it checked and then tell me that.”
“Someone broke into our office last night,” I said, watching his face. “Was it you?”
He smiled. “Me? Hey, I told you, there are lots of people interested in Irving Wolfe. Someone like that brings out guys who don’t play by the rules.”
“I have no idea what anyone would want with me or West 57.”
“That’s easy. Money.”
I laughed, but it wasn’t funny. “Trust me, there’s no money,” I told him.
“Not your money. Irving Wolfe’s money. Everybody thinks he stashed a fortune somewhere before he died. People want to get their hands on it.”
“Then they’re looking in the wrong place.”
He leaned in closer to me, as if all the people on the sidewalk might be listening. “Irving Wolfe had lots of secrets.”
“I don’t know anything about that,” I said.
“Maybe not, but I bet Sonny did.” He peered into my face like a palm reader at a county fair. “I think you’re starting to believe he did, too.”
“Sonny would never have been involved in anything illegal,” I said. “Never. That’s not the kind of man he was.”
Duggan pushed the last bite of his hot dog into his mouth. He spoke as he chewed. “In my experience, good men do bad things for one of two reasons. Love or money. And let’s face it, Sonny needed money.”
“Sonny made money by selling books, Mr. Duggan. My father went after Captain Absolute, because he knew it would be a com
mercial success. That’s all.”
“Oh, yeah? What about Sonny’s relationship with Irving Wolfe?”
“There was no relationship,” I said.
“You’re wrong, Ms. Chavan.”
“What are you talking about?”
Duggan stared at me and rubbed his chin. “See, I’m not sure about you, you know? I think you’re honest, but then I remember, you were an actress, right? So maybe you’re acting.”
“If I were such a good actress, I wouldn’t be in publishing,” I said.
“Okay, let’s say you don’t know.”
“Don’t know what?” I asked.
“Well, I did some digging,” he told me. “Digging is what I do. Back when your father started West 57, he needed outside investors for seed money to get the business going. Guess who one of his biggest investors was?”
Oh, no.
Oh, no, no, no, no.
Duggan saw the horror in my face. He knew I wasn’t acting. “That’s right. It was Irving Wolfe. He and Sonny knew each other for years. They were partners.”
15
Sonny and Wolfe. Partners. I wanted it to be a lie, but in my heart of hearts, I knew Duggan was telling me the truth.
I rode the elevator in a daze. I was so upset that I collided with someone going the opposite way in the doorway of the West 57 office. We crashed together like bumper cars. I nearly fell, but he held me up. I didn’t apologize or say “Excuse me!” or anything that polite people do. I was too distracted.
“Are you okay?”
I looked up. The man I’d tried to wipe out in the doorway still held my elbows. He probably thought that if he let go, I would crumple like a doll. Maybe he was right.
“Oh, hi,” I said, recognizing him. “Yes, I’m fine.”
But I wasn’t, and he knew it.
It was Brian Freeman. Brian was one of Garrett’s authors at West 57. He writes dark, emotional thrillers. It’s great stuff; you should read him if you’re not already a fan. His web site is www.bfreemanbooks.com. Bree is his agent, but I try not to hold that fact against him. Honestly, I’ve always been suspicious that Bree got Brian’s help in writing Paperback Bitch. I asked him about it once, but he wouldn’t rat her out.
I know he does ghost writer work. Sonny used him as the wordsmith behind Captain Absolute. That’s why the book is so damn good.
“I didn’t realize you were in New York,” I told him.
“I had an editorial meeting with Garrett about my new thriller,” Brian explained. He gave me a boyish grin and added, “Actually, it’s just an excuse for me and Marcia to get to Katz’s Deli.”
“That’s good stuff.”
Brian lowered his voice. “I’m sure you can’t talk about it, but Garrett told me that West 57 is on the block. I know the market is crazy these days. I’m sorry.”
Damn. Garrett knew about Gernestier. He was bound to find out sooner or later; he always had his ear to the ground. I felt bad that he hadn’t heard about it from me.
“We’ll see what happens,” I said to Brian.
“Marcia and I were so sorry to hear about Sonny. He was very supportive of me and my books. I’ll always be grateful.”
“Thanks. I appreciated getting the card from you two. Tell her I said hi, okay?”
“I will.”
He was heading for the elevator when I realized that Brian might be able to tell me things I didn’t know about King Royal. “Say, do you need to rush off? Could you stay a couple more minutes?”
“Of course.”
I led him back into Sonny’s office. It was in better shape than I’d found it this morning. Garrett had cleaned up. Books were back on the shelves, but you could still see copies where the spines had been sliced open. Papers were back in the drawers, not on the floor. The broken mug was in a little box for me to take home. It was the smell I missed. I wanted that musky combination of tobacco and cologne, but it was gone forever.
Brian sat down opposite me. He wore a black turtleneck, black jeans, and black dress shoes. I don’t think I’d ever seen him in anything else. He’s a thriller writer, and that’s his uniform.
“Bree is in town,” I said. “Have you seen her?”
“Sure. We had dinner the night she got in. My head still hurts from all the wine.”
“I saw her yesterday.”
His eyebrows betrayed his surprise. He knew about our feud. “Really? Are you two friends again?”
“Well, I didn’t kill her,” I said. “Despite Paperback Bitch.”
“I don’t suppose it’s your favorite book,” Brian said. “Maybe you should think about writing a novel yourself. It would give you a chance to tell your side.”
“Oh, I’m not brilliant like Bree. I’d need a ghost writer.”
He smiled again, but he still didn’t rat her out. If I ever do want to write a book, I’m calling him.
“Speaking of ghost writers,” I went on, “you did a great job with Captain Absolute.”
“Thanks. Not that I can talk about it in public. Sonny swore me to secrecy. He was pretty generous with the contract, but I had to keep my lips sealed that I was the writer.”
“Do you know why he did that?”
“I don’t, but I got the feeling that it was for my own protection. Given all the craziness about Irving Wolfe, I guess I’m happier keeping it quiet.”
“So how did the project come about?” I asked.
“Didn’t Sonny tell you?”
“No, I just assumed Bree brought you in to handle the writing when she did the deal for King.”
Brian shook his head. “Other way around. Sonny came to me directly. I don’t think Bree was even in the loop at that point.”
“Sonny called you in?” I was surprised. “When was this?”
“Everything moved pretty fast. Sonny talked to me right after Wolfe’s death. It was one of those books that he wanted to produce quickly because of the media interest. He probably figured half a dozen other books about Wolfe would wind up in the queue ahead of us if we waited. I dropped everything else to get it done.”
“So you must have spent a lot of time with King Royal.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Was it an experience?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“I take it you’re not planning to give up fiction for a career in celebrity bios,” I said.
“Get me Shakira, and we’ll talk,” he replied, chuckling.
“I’ll work on it.”
“Besides, who says I gave up fiction?” he went on. “I’ll always think of Captain Absolute as one of my best novels.”
I didn’t like the sound of that. “Novels? What do you mean?”
“I mean the more time I spent with King, the more he drank. The more he drank, the more his stories changed. By the time we were done, I couldn’t tell you which stories were true and which were made up. Honestly, I’m not even sure King knows.”
“Did you tell Sonny about this?”
“Of course. He told me not to worry about it.”
“I guess that’s one good reason not to have your name on it,” I said.
“I guess.”
“You don’t know of anything that’s actually false, though, right?” I wanted reassurance.
“I only know what King told me,” Brian said.
“You sound uncomfortable.”
“Well, to be honest with you, Julie, it’s not really the drunk parts that bothered me. If King exaggerated some of the little details, fine. No one’s going to quibble with that. I was more worried about what he told me when he was dead sober.”
“Why is that?”
“Because King was hiding things,” Brian said. “That was obvious. There were parts of the story that he didn’t want anyone to know.”
16
Garrett’s office was a sea of paper stacked like blocks in a Jenga game. You couldn’t see a square inch of wood on his desk. Most editors these days have switched to electronic copies for their work. Not Garrett
. He still wanted the feel of paper in his hands and dirty printer ink on his fingertips. He made edits in long-hand in the margins, just like Sonny. In personality, the two men couldn’t have been more different. As editors, though, they were both from the old school. Garrett would never change.
I watched him from the doorway. He sat on the floor in a corner with his long legs bent and a bound manuscript propped on his knees. His messy hair needed a brush. He had half-glasses on the end of his nose, which made him look older. He sipped from a bottle of iced tea as he turned the pages.
I’m not sure how long I stood there, unable to take my eyes off him. Finally, he felt my presence and looked up.
“Oh, hi,” he said.
“Hi.”
“Why are you smiling?” he asked me.
I didn’t realize I was. There wasn’t much to smile about, but when I put a hand to my face, sure enough, there were teeth between my lips. I think I was smiling because Garrett was in his element. He was where he should be, doing what God had put him on the planet to do. How can you not smile when you see that?
“I was thinking about a joke I heard the other day,” I said.
“I could use a good joke.”
I sat down next to him on the floor. “An editor writes this really great novel,” I said.
“Okay.”
“That’s it. That’s the joke.”
Garrett laughed. “Wow, you’re mean.”
“I got you to laugh.”
“Yes, you did.”
We sat in silence. Garrett sipped more of his tea. He put the pages of the manuscript he was reading on the floor.
“What’s the book?” I asked.
“It’s a first novel called Woodham Road. It’s set in the eighteenth century as a frontiersman heads across the country. Or so we think for most of the book. The reality is very different.”
“Good?” I asked.
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