“What the hell does he expect?” Simpson asked. “The asshole’s never satisfied. I’ve got each of his last three novels on the Times bestseller list.”
“You mean we’ve got each of his last three novels on the bestseller list.”
“Is Connor unhappy with you too?” Simpson asked.
“Not that I know of. But there’s a difference. I pay him a pretty hefty guaranteed advance on his book sales. You charge him a pretty hefty monthly retainer fee. Every month. He thinks he should be receiving more media coverage than he is.”
“Connor never owns it. It’s always the other guy’s fault. What he tells me is that it’s your fault. If you didn’t set the price on his books so high, he’d have far more sales and he would be number one.”
“Yeah. Maybe. But if we hadn’t been required to pay him such a whopping advance, we could afford to set his book prices lower. Our margins on him are too damn thin as it is. Maybe you should try to get him some more publicity.”
“It’s not us. We are trying. We’re doing all the right things for him. Not to mention that I have other clients to tend to as well. Connor’s just not that appealing to the media. His interviews are just so damn boring. Frankly, so’s his writing. He’s fucking lucky to be where he’s at.”
“I agree,” Llewellyn said. “But we have a lot invested in him. Too much. Way too much. Lasko interested two other houses in Connor and was able to force us into a bidding war on his latest novel. We had to pay way too much to keep him in our catalog. I’m still pissed at her about that.”
“C’mon, you have no one to blame but yourself,” Simpson said. “You should have tied Connor down on a three-book deal at the time of his first novel when you had the chance. When you were in the driver’s seat rather than his agent.”
“You’re probably right. The problem was we weren’t sure back then that he wasn’t just a one-trick pony, a one-and-done. But, hey, it is what it is. Too late for us to cry about it now. What we do need to do is to have lunch with Connor at TJ, blow some smoke up his ass, calm him down, make him feel better, make him feel loved.”
“And also make him lower his sights. Enlighten him on today’s business realities,” Simpson added. “Unless his writing and speaking skills improve considerably, this schmuck is headed for a crash. Big time.”
GENEVIEVE LASKO SAT THERE, staring ahead at the rubble in front of her, shaking her head. Her partner-sized stainless steel and glass desk—piled high with stacks of paper, too many in number to count and each of them one to two feet high—sat in front of her, painfully reminding her of all she had on her plate.
Suddenly, her junior partner, Allison Remy, stumbled awkwardly into Lasko’s office with still more piles of papers precariously balanced across her hands and forearms. “Geez, Genevieve, I’m sorry for not knocking. Aside from the fact that I didn’t have a free hand, I also didn’t expect to see you in this early.”
“No problem, Allie, don’t sweat it. Besides, misery loves company.”
“I’m guessing all those stacks may have something to do with your glum chum look. And here I come along making things worse. When are you finally going to start delegating more of that shit? Pardon my language.”
Lasko ignored the not so subtle reminder that her life would be a lot more manageable if she would start delegating more of her work to Allie and their two other partners. “It’s not just what you see sitting here. I have to leave for Punta Maya in just a couple of days. I’m so drowning here, and I haven’t even started on all I have to do at TJ.”
Lasko’s presence every year at TJ was a must. Like all literary agents, she and her partners were compensated on a contingent fee basis. If they invested their time and money in a writer they couldn’t sell to one of the traditional publishing houses, they didn’t make a dime. In contrast to the thousands of individual query submissions they reviewed every year on an individual basis to come up with one or two possible new clients on whom to gamble, a highly visible presence at established writing conferences like TJ offered a far more efficient opportunity to meet and evaluate promising new talent in person. In one week, Lasko typically generated more worthwhile new clients than she did throughout the rest of the year.
Lasko chaired one of the most popular panel presentations at TJ every year: “What Literary Agents Want to See in an Effective Query Letter Submission Requesting Agency Representation.” Several hundred rapt writers—hungry, if not desperate, for an agent to “rep” them—hung on Lasko’s every word. And with good reason: in the literary world, Lasko’s gatekeeper influence between writer hopefuls and the publishing houses was unparalleled. Year in and year out, no literary agent negotiated more successful deals between authors and publishing houses than she and her agency, Lasko Partners Literary Agency. But with that distinction came a price: the pressure of remaining atop the heap.
Lasko also participated every year in TJ’s “Pitch Gala,” a one-after-noon-long agent querying adventure, during which authors hungry to secure an agent lined up in front of approximately fifty literary agents reportedly looking for fresh blood in a large ballroom. While some agents were just there to be seen and to maintain their image, a three-minutes, in-person speed date-style presentation of their wares to those who truly were hungry for qualified new writers offered far better odds than an impersonal one-minute possible review of a written query submission. When a typographical error, a misspelled word, a poorly crafted sentence, the smallest deviation from the agent’s website-posted submission requirements, or the absence of the coveted “Invited to Submit at Pitch Gala” often meant sudden death. The lines in front of Lasko were always the longest because of her known reputation, that she was always genuinely on the prowl for gifted new stars and knew how to land deals with the publishing houses.
This year, for the first time, Lasko was also invited to participate in TJ’s Virtuoso program, a day-long writing class—actually ten such day-long classes—held the day before TJ’s official opening date for all other TJ participants. In each class, a New York Times bestselling author is paired with ten pre-qualified, top-notch mentees to review 2,500 word samples submitted by each mentee. This year, TITO’s board decided to select a literary agent as one of the mentors. That honor—and the opportunity to identify and corral a handful of top new writers—was bestowed on Lasko, ostensibly because of her standing as a top literary agent. She knew it didn’t hurt that she also was a member of TITO’s board and an active TJ speaker and Pitch Gala participant every year.
“By the way,” Allie said to Lasko, “what’s your take on those samples? Are your mentees showing as much promise as you hoped? And justifying the time you’re spending on Virtuoso?”
Lasko pointed to the stack of samples in front of her, stifled an involuntary yawn, and grimaced. “Not based on my preliminary reviews. Hopefully, they’ll look better when I give them a closer look on my flight. This may turn out to be just some more wasted time. Still, how could I turn down the chance to be a Virtuoso mentor?”
Just then, Lasko’s interior line buzzed. “What’s up, Heidi?” she said to her secretary.
“Jonathan Connor on line one,” Heidi replied.
“Right, just what I need, Jonathan frigging pain in the ass Connor. Tell him I’m tied up and can’t possibly break away right now. Try to soften the blow by telling him I said we’ll get together on Punta Maya.” Or not.
JONATHAN CONNOR CLICKED OFF his mobile phone. And exploded! “Ms. Lasko’s tied up and can’t be interrupted right now,” he mimicked Lasko’s secretary. “She said to tell you she’d get together with you at Thriller Jubilee.”
Connor sat all alone in his home office, staring at the walls. “If she was so ‘tied up’ and ‘couldn’t possibly be interrupted,’” he fumed and shouted out loud to no one but those walls, “how was her secretary able to speak with her and relay Lasko’s message to me? Well, Ms. Lasko can bet her sweet ass that ‘we’ll get together’ on Punta Maya, a get together she won’t soon forget
!”
CHAPTER FOUR
Three Days Before
LISA CATE LEWIS, PROGRAM director of Thriller Jubilee, boarded the first leg of the two flights that would take her from JFK in New York to the sun-drenched island of Punta Maya, eleven miles off the coast of Spain. On either side of the ninety-minute layover in Barcelona to clear Spanish customs and immigration, her total flying time would be approximately eight hours, a little more than seven hours on the Trans-Atlantic jumbo jet into Barcelona and close to another hour aboard the small puddle-jumper that would carry her to her ultimate destination.
Every summer for as long as Lewis could remember, Hotel Marisol, the crown jewel and economic epicenter of Punta Maya, played host to Thriller Jubilee.
After nine successive years of volunteer service as TJ’s program director, Lewis continued to enjoy her annual sojourn to Hotel Marisol. What was not to like? Great climes, where the dress code favored comfortable shorts and tee-shirts, a chance to shine and be appreciated for what she brought to TJ, and the opportunity to network and develop her own budding writing career, which was advancing at a record clip, thanks in large measure to her standing in the TITO community and the many perks that came with that, including, for example, her private access to and use of TITO’s extensive membership email list. Word of mouth was the number one factor in book sales and email lists were the single most significant word of mouth vehicle.
Lewis was flying high, figuratively and literally.
Several hours into her cross-atlantic flight, Lewis suddenly found her first-class cabin a bit chilly. She zipped up the jacket of her Prada sweatsuit. In anticipation of the approaching layover, she pulled the makeup kit out of her carry-on, studied the reflection in her compact mirror, released her ponytail of long wavy blonde hair, and nodded in approval. Never know who I might bump into in the lounge.
SEATED ON THE CONNECTING flight into Punta Maya, Lewis removed the laptop from her computer bag and reviewed her daily TJ material one more time. She allowed her mind to fast forward to the daily retreat schedule. She was confident that everything was locked in and ready to go. All of the panels and programs were in place. More importantly, all of the choice speaking assignments had been meted out, and everyone who had received one or more of those assignments knew they were in her debt.
All at once, she sensed someone staring at her from the adjacent aisle. She looked up.
After a moment of awkward silence: “Lisa Lewis, right? Or should I say L.C. Lewis? Or Ms. Lewis? I’m Robin Donnelly. We met at TJ last year. I learned so much and love attending the event. I’m on my way to this year’s. By the way, I’ve also read and enjoyed both of your novels. I’m a huge fan. You have really made the big time. I’m on your email list and looking forward to your third.”
“Hi, Robin. Yes. Of course, I remember meeting you last year.” Yeah, right. Seriously? “Nice to see you again. I’m so glad you’ve enjoyed my novels. Both of them, no less. Wow. And thanks for subscribing to my newsletter. How nice to have your support. And I’m still just Lisa. To my friends.”
“Lisa, it is.” Donnelly’s eyes shifted to the laptop. “Working on your next one?”
“Not this week. Going over everything I still have to do for the retreat. Not much time left, I’m afraid.” How the hell do I get rid of this bore?
Lewis returned her gaze to the laptop. Fiddled with the keyboard.
“Well, I should let you get back to it. Maybe we can get a drink sometime during the week. I’d appreciate the chance to show you what I’m working on. Get your thoughts.”
“For sure, Robin. I’ll look forward to that.” Zip-a-dee-doo-dah, I can hardly wait!
CONNOR CLIMBED OUT OF the limousine as it stopped at the main entrance to the Hotel Marisol. He was greeted by a bellhop who said, “Checking in? Can I help you with your luggage?”
“That won’t be necessary,” he replied. “I’ll handle them myself. They contain some very delicate items,” he added. “I need the frig in my room as quickly as possible. Will appreciate if you can move me through check in ASAP, and get me my keys.” He handed the bellhop a ten dollar bill.
“Yes sir, right away!” the bellhop responded.
CHAPTER FIVE
One Day Before, 5 a.m.
FIVE IN THE MORNING, three hours before her Virtuoso class was set to commence, Lasko was up, showered, sitting at her hotel casita desk, already on her second cup of coffee, and studying her mentee samples. Again. It was almost show time. She was all business. No screwing around. She knew the samples cold. From what she could see, better than her students could. She was ready to shine. To impress. Because that’s what she did. Always.
Soft as it was, the knock at the door startled her. At this hour?
“Business Center, Ms. Lasko. Special Delivery package for you. It’s marked urgent.”
She shrugged and pursed her lips. Standing, she tightened the belt on her robe and opened the door.
CHAPTER SIX
One Day Before, 7:50 a.m.
PETRA PAPPAS ARRIVED A few minutes ahead of schedule. No way was she going to be late. Not one second. This was her third Thriller Jubilee, but the first time she had managed to scrape together the extra money to attend a Virtuoso class. She felt as special as the turquoise-painted toenails peeking out of her tony new sandals.
She felt the need to absorb every last detail of Virtuoso. It had to be her mild case of OCD. Mild? Mild my ass! Nothing mild about my hyper … Hell. I can’t even bring myself to say those words out loud: Obsessive. Compulsive. Disorder. Not that anyone has ever formally diagnosed me as suffering from that. Who can afford analysis? Besides, I’ve read up on it. I know what it is. And I know I have it.
How would her mentor conduct her class? Was each mentor instructed to follow a uniform format or would they each be free to personalize how they intended to spend the day with their mentees? Was each classroom laid out the same or were they customized to reflect the agenda and style of each mentor?
Pappas surveyed each of the classrooms from the tenth floor hallway she traversed, up and back no less: twelve identically arranged modest-sized conference rooms, six on either side of the hallway, two bathrooms at either end of the corridor. The two conference rooms farthest from the elevator bank were empty. The ten closest conference rooms contained indistinguishable trappings: a conference table surrounded by eleven matching chairs, five along each side and one at the end, in front of a wall-mounted writing board holding an assortment of different color marking pens and erasers. At the other end of each room was a sideboard with pitchers of ice water and glasses, fresh fruit and rolls, cans of soft drinks, napkins, and eating utensils. They’ve thought of everything. More cozy than spacious, probably meant to foster a team approach. Togetherness. I like that, being able to come together, form relationships with the others. Togetherness. Fun!
She observed that most of the ten rooms were already full. She entered the room with her mentor’s name on the door, Genevieve Lasko. She had not previously met Lasko, but knew what she looked like from the headshot photo of her in the TJ program. Lasko was not yet in the room.
Guess she’s not as excited as I am. Duh!
Pappas said hello and introduced herself to those already present. She chose a vacant seat close to where Lasko would undoubtedly sit, at the end of the table, just in front of the writing board.
By eight o’clock, Pappas had set up her laptop and found a power source behind her seat to keep the battery charged. All of the seats on either side of the table were now occupied. Except Lasko’s. The seat at the end of the table remained empty.
Some students were still getting acquainted, chatting away. Others seemed lost in their own thoughts. If any of them besides Pappas had noticed Lasko’s absence, they weren’t letting on.
Pappas wondered how many of them were budding novelists with circumstances similar to hers. Modestly accomplished and successful, she couldn’t quite yet eke out a living solely as a writer and had to supplem
ent her income. She was shocked when she learned that one of the members in her hometown writing class, Brandy Adams, actually did some hooking on the side. Probably pretty fucking exciting. Fucking. Wonder if Brandy’s husband knows? Not as daring as her adventurous writing partner, Pappas’s practical choices were driving a taxi or an Uber, tending bar, waiting tables, or offering social media support services to other authors.
She had become proficient at managing the various social media platforms for her own account and had decided that offering social media assistance to other writers was her most appealing option. It was creative and also grew her own literary network. And she was able to choose her own hours, comfortably work from home in her sweats or pajamas, in between working on her own novels and helping take care of her home, her husband, her teenage children, and her dogs. Doubt that Brandy’s able to supplement her income from at home. But a married woman hooking to bring in some extra cash sure as hell might generate some interesting story lines for her novels!
Through a shared client, Pappas had become acquainted with two other professionals who also offered services to the writing community, Allison Rutledge and Eileen Lonergan. Over a number of months, they came to know each other well.
Rutledge provided book publishing consulting services for self-published and indie published authors. Need your manuscript designed, laid out, or printed? Rutledge knew the experts who did that. Need to figure out how to navigate the complicated waters of where to make your novel available and at what price point? Rutledge was the one who knew all the ins and outs of that too.
Unlike Pappas, Rutledge was not a writer. She was, however, a fellow artist. And strikingly flamboyant to boot. She spent her weekends playing the piano and singing in jazz clubs up and down the New England coast. And she had her own personal driver to transport her to her gigs: her husband, who offered her a seat on the back of his Harley-Davidson, come rain or come shine.
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