by Parnell Hall
“No big deal. We figure it out. Hey, Sammy, more coffee.”
The waiter came over, filled his cup.
“So what’s this about someone wants to kill Kenny’s wife?” Abe said.
The waiter smiled.
I blinked. Coughed. Held my cup out for a refill.
As the waiter moved off, I said, “Could we keep this somewhat quiet?”
Abe shrugged. “What’s the big deal. I always talk like that. It’s a plot idea. It’s a book. You think I sit at this table a lunch goes by I don’t talk about who’s trying to kill who?”
“I’m sure you do,” I said. “This time it happens to be real.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“So do I. But it happens to be true, and that’s why I’m here.”
“Uh-huh,” he said. “So why don’t you fill me in?”
I gave Abe Feinstein a rundown of the situation.
He frowned. “I don’t get it.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s a lousy idea. The woman keeps getting phone calls. Big deal. If nothing else happens, you got no plot.”
“It’s not a book.”
“I know. And it wouldn’t be, either. You’d have your readers falling asleep.”
“A woman’s life has been threatened.”
“So what? Happens all the time in books, and a lot better than that. Where’s your failed murder attempts? The hit-and-run accident doesn’t come off. The popping sound, the whine like a bee beside her head, and next day you find a bullet lodged in her front door. Or she gets a package in the mail and a cobra jumps out.” He put up his hand. “Even the warnings could be better. A bloody knife stuck in the wall. Or a letter cut out of newspaper headlines.”
I shifted uneasily in my chair.
Without knowing it, Abe Feinstein was touching a nerve.
As a failed writer, I had sometimes considered the possibility of getting published by writing up my exploits. What stopped me was the realization that real life wasn’t nearly as interesting as fiction, and frankly no one would care.
I had resigned myself to the fact that publishers would be unimpressed by the adventures of Stanley Hastings. I could have done without Abe Feinstein underlining the point.
“So,” I said, “you find these phone calls very unlike fiction?”
He looked at me in surprise. “Yes, of course. Why?”
“Your client writes suspense novels. I was wondering if this scenario might resemble anything he’s ever written.”
“Certainly not.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Are you kidding me? For all the reasons I just said. This telephone business wouldn’t make a decent plot.”
“And your client is too skilled to come up with anything that clumsy?”
Abe Feinstein cocked his head, looked at me for a moment. He put up his hand. “I have to remember you are not a potential source of income. You are a hired employee, doing your job, who couldn’t care less. I take it you are not a personal friend of Kenny’s?”
“Never met him in my life.”
Abe Feinstein smiled. “Then it gives me great pleasure to tell you the man is a total putz, can barely write his own name.”
I blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“The man owes his career largely to me. He wrote a first novel that was uncommonly bad. Fourteen other agents turned it down. Not me. Why? I knew one editor at one publishing house who I knew would have a soft spot for the woman who was the lead character in the book. I signed Kenny up, took that manuscript and presented it to that editor and that editor only, being careful to lay just the right spiel on him. Here was an amateurish first effort, with a terrific lead character, and all the potential to be a runaway hit. A rough gem that just needed polishing.”
“He bought it?”
“He bought it, he rewrote it, and the rest is history.”
“He rewrote it?”
“Well, he had to. It was dreadfully bad.”
“I thought writers rewrote their own work.”
“Those that can, do. Doug worked with Kenny until Kenny couldn’t cut it. Then Doug simply wrote what he wanted.”
“Doug?”
“Doug Mark. The editor with two first names.”
“What happened with the book?”
“Like I said. It was a runaway hit. Reached number twelve on the New York Times best-seller list. Paperback reached number eight.”
“Uh-huh,” I said. “But this Doug Mark. He’s not Mr. Winnington’s editor anymore.”
“No, he’s not.”
“How come?”
“Kenny dumped him after the first book.”
“Why’d he do that?”
“Because he could.” Abe Feinstein shrugged. “Lots of things, power things, you do because you could. Kenny’s first book was a best seller. Everyone in the world wanted his second book. He didn’t have to stay with the same publisher. He sold the book to the highest bidder.”
“Didn’t that piss Doug Mark off?”
He shrugged. “I would assume. But that sort of thing happens all the time in publishing.”
“But if the guy was responsible for the success of his first book ...”
“Hey, you’re expecting loyalty from an author?”
“That’s not what I mean. The first book was a best seller because this guy rewrote it. So how does he write without him? Does his present editor rewrite him?”
“No, of course not. She asks for rewrites, and edits him. Par for the course.”
“So, you’re telling me he learned how to write?”
Abe looked at me in surprise. “No, of course not. His stuff is dreadful as ever. What I’ve read of it.” He shrugged. “You reach a point, I send the manuscript out, if I haven’t read it, who’s to know?”
My mind was totally blown. “But aren’t his books best sellers?”
“Yes, of course.”
“How can they be best sellers if they’re no good?”
Abe Feinstein made a face. “Good? What’s good got to do with it? You don’t know anything, do you? His books are best sellers because his books have always been best sellers. And always will be best sellers. That’s the way it is. He could copy the phone directory, and enough book stores would order enough books to put it on the best-seller list.”
I blinked. “Why are you telling me all this?”
“Are you kidding me? How often do you think I get to talk like this? Everyone I talk to is in the industry. I gotta put on a happy face, hawk the next Kenneth P. Winnington book. It’s nice every once in a while to be able to say the man’s a doughnut, wouldn’t be anywhere at all if it weren’t for me.”
“Does he know you feel this way?”
“What, are you nuts? I told him the facts of life from the word go. Kid, you can’t write, but I can help you. What, you think I kiss his ass, tell him he’s the great pooh-bah? From other people, that he’d believe. Not from me.”
“How come he hasn’t fired you?”
Abe Feinstein’s eyes narrowed. “How come you ask me that?”
“If you’re the only one who tells him like it is, why would he want you around?”
Abe nodded. “Good point. But it is for exactly that reason. I’m like a reality check. Plus I have him under long-term contract. I’m not as dumb as I look.”
“How long have you known him?”
“Ever since his first book.”
“How long is that?”
He shrugged. “Seven, eight years. You should talk to his publicist.”
“I intend to.”
“Good. She’ll know for sure. She can give you a press kit, covers all that.”
“Uh-huh,” I said. “And his wife?”
“What about her?”
“How long have you known her?”
“I don’t really know her. I’ve been acquainted with her since the marriage.”
“When was that?”
“You don
’t know?”
“Actually, I don’t.”
“Two or three years ago.”
“Were you at the wedding?”
“Yes, I was. So were all his publishing people.”
“Are they the same ones he has now?”
“Huh?”
“You mentioned him changing houses and dumping his editor. Did he have the same one then he has now?”
“Oh, sure. He’s been with her the last three books.”
“Is that one a year?”
“I wish. Kenny’s not that fast. With him it’s every other year.
“Uh-huh,” I said. “Now, about his phone number.”
“I have the new number,” Abe said. “Is that a crime? I’m his agent, I should, have his new number.”
“Of course,” I said. “And when did you get it?”
“I got it when that putz called me. That male secretary. What’s-his-name. And what’s the deal with that? I mean, a famous author should have a guy secretary instead of a nice-looking piece of fluff?”
I looked, at him. “Is that something that changed since the marriage?”
“What do you think?”
So. Abe Feinstein resented my client for preventing her husband from hiring an attractive young secretary. Somehow I doubted if that was sufficient motive to want to kill her.
“Uh-huh,” I said. “What about the phone number?”
“What about it? The guy called and gave it to me.”
“When was that?”
“How should I know? Sometime last week.”
“Could you be more precise?”
“No, but what’s the big deal? Doesn’t he know?”
“Who?”
“The secretary. He called me. Wouldn’t he know?”
“He says it was Thursday afternoon.”
“Well, there you are. Why ask if you already know?”
“I like to verify the information. Just ’cause someone tells me something, it isn’t necessarily true.”
“Uh-huh,” Abe said. He shoved the last bite of sandwich into his mouth, signaled for the waiter. “Hey, Sammy, lemme have a piece of pie.”
“So, to the best of your recollection you’ve had the new number since Thursday?”
“If you say so.”
“Would you care to contradict that?”
“Not at all. Why would I do that?”
“And who did you give the new number to?”
“What?”
“The new number—who’d you give it out to?”
“I didn’t give it out to anybody.”
“Are you sure?”
The waiter took Abe’s plate, slid a piece of lemon meringue pie in front of him. Abe picked up a fork and went to work. “Am I sure?” he said between mouthfuls. “Sure, I’m sure. Who would I give it out to? Why would I do a thing like that?”
“How about a publisher or an editor? Couldn’t there be a business reason?”
“Hell, no.” Abe jerked his thumb at his chest. “I’m the agent. People work through me. You think I want them callin’ the guy direct? Why the hell would I want that? First thing you know, someone’s trying to make a deal behind my back, cut me out of my percentage.”
“Uh-huh,” I said. “So you wouldn’t normally give out your client’s number. I’m just wondering if for any reason at all you might have done so in this case.”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t. Of that I am sure.”
“Then let me ask you this. Where were you at nine fifteen this morning?”
Abe Feinstein looked at me. Blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“I thought that might give you a chuckle. The old staple from detective fiction. What were you doing on the night of etcetera, etcetera. In this case it’s this morning at nine fifteen.”
“Are you serious?”
“Absolutely. Someone made a threatening phone call at that time. Whoever made it was someone with access to the new number.”
“Well, it wasn’t me.”
“Yes, but you didn’t give it out to anyone. Which narrows the field of who it could be.”
Abe made an irritated gesture. “Just because I didn’t give it out doesn’t mean it wasn’t given. That numbnuts secretary probably told the whole world.”
The waiter slid the check on the table. Abe snatched it up with a proprietary air. He held it at arm’s length, squinted at it, scowled. “Well, now,” he said. “We can add this up, or just split it down the middle. Of course, I may have had a little more.”
Good guess. I’d had coffee and a toasted corn muffin. But I wasn’t about to argue.
“Down the middle’s fine,” I said.
“Good,” Abe said. “Why don’t you give me the cash, I’ll put it on my credit card.”
Sure.
I gave him the money, and he took out the card. It was his business credit card. As he handed it to the waiter, it occurred to me just how many ways the man was making out on the deal. He was pocketing my cash, which was an excessive amount, covering much of his lunch. Plus, he would doubtless be charging Kenneth P. Winnington for a business lunch on the one hand, while getting a receipt and writing it off his taxes on the other. Not bad for half an hour’s work.
Perhaps it was that cynical assessment that caused me to say, after the waiter had left with the credit card, “Thought of an answer yet?”
“Huh?”
“Where were you at nine fifteen this morning?”
“You want me to answer that?”
“Yes, I do. Don’t take it personally, but anyone who had access to the new number is gonna have to answer that.”
“I was in my apartment. Which is also my office. Where else would I be?”
“Anyone can vouch for that?”
Abe frowned irritably. “I work alone. I am a one-man show.”
“How about phone calls?”
“What?”
“Any business calls? Anyone call you at your office, can vouch for the fact you were there to answer the phone?”
“No, they didn’t. Which is not unusual. Most people are considerate, don’t call before ten.”
“So you have no alibi for nine fifteen?”
Abe Feinstein squinted his eyes, crinkled up his nose. “What, are you nuts? You think I’m a suspect. I mean, do I look like a good suspect to you?”
“Frankly, you don’t,” I said. I smiled. “But it’s not a book, it’s real life. So I have to take what I can get.”
11.
ELIZABETH ABBOTT DIDN’T LOOK LIKE a very good suspect either. A tall woman with angular features and piercing eyes, she certainly seemed intimidating enough, but I flunked her out on her voice. Elizabeth Abbott had a sharp, high-pitched, irritating voice, with which she didactically made her various points, and I just couldn’t reconcile it with the hoarse whisper I’d heard on the phone.
I wondered if I should ask her to whisper. It occurred to me at some point during the investigation I might have to have all the suspects do that.
“A good editor has to know what the readers want,” Elizabeth Abbott declaimed. “More to the point, a good editor has to know what Kenneth P. Winnington’s readers want.”
I might have asked her, “More to what point?” since I hadn’t asked her anything of the kind. But since the woman seemed to need no prompting, I was happy to sit back and listen. At least for a while.
“Uh-huh,” I said, figuring that was all that was necessary on my part.
It was.
“Absolutely,” she said. “The readers have certain expectations. If you fulfill them, you’re fine. If you don’t, you’re dead.”
“And you know what those expectations axe?”
“Of course. Take his latest book, Woman on the Edge!’ She looked at me. “Have you read it?”
“Actually, I haven’t.”
“That’s not surprising. Most of his readers are women.”
“Is that right?”
“Oh, yes, of course. Most of all readers are women.
But his in particular.”
“And why is that?”
“Because that’s who his books appeal to. Always have. Ever since Die; Lady, Die. That’s what set the standard. A likable female protagonist, sympathetic yet strong. Gets ’em every time.”
“This is a continuing character?”
She looked at me as if I were an idiot. “Certainly not. You can’t do suspense with a continuing character. If you know the character’s going to continue, where’s the suspense?”
“So when you talk about setting the standard, and the strong female protagonist?”
“That’s the standard,” she said. “The strong female protagonist. He always has one. It’s just not the same one.”
“Uh-huh,” I said. “But ...”
“But what?”
“Well, if he always has a strong female protagonist, and if you know she’s gonna survive, because the strong female protagonist survives in all the books, where’s the suspense?”
The look Elizabeth Abbott gave me was not kind. “You don’t know publishing,” she said. “One works, the other doesn’t. It’s as simple as that.”
“You were telling me about his latest book.”
“Yes, With regard to what the public wants. If you haven’t read it it won’t mean as much. But the fact is, Mr. Winnington made a mistake in that book. He wrote something his readers wouldn’t have liked. I pointed it out to him and he fixed it. If you read the book, you wouldn’t know it was ever there. But if it had gone out ...”
“What would have happened?”
“Nothing immediate. In terms of sales. Some reviewers would have picked up on it. But that doesn’t matter, no one reads the reviews anyway. Not for a best seller. They buy it because it’s there. Anyway, sales of the book wouldn’t have suffered.”
She held up one finger. “But the next book. Next time out, you’d have seen a big drop-off. How big, how small, hard to gauge. But when you’re talking best seller, even a ten percent drop is huge. It’s also the difference of being near the top of the best-seller list and the bottom. And I don’t have to tell you how a drop like that would affect the next book going out.”
“Uh-huh,” I said. “And does Mr. Winnington know this?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I mean, yes, he knows you asked for the change. But does he know the effect of it, the way you’re telling me?”
