reread the letter and refilled his glass. Always , the letter was signed. Through all the short-term partnerships in his life, the failing marriage, the deteriorating career, Watters was the one entity Nico had thought would be… always.
He slurped half the drink and missed the coaster he tried to set it on, instead hitting the edge of the table and spilling whiskey onto his pants. He stared up at the ceiling, his heart pounding, as if expecting God himself to apologize. Nico took a breath and wiped himself off with a piece of paper from the printer.
There was less than an inch left in the bottle. Nico knocked the tumbler over as he grabbed the handle and swallowed the last bit. He slammed it down on the table hard enough to crack the glass, then tossed it in the garbage and read the email again.
What does he want, my soul? Ben Affleck to star in a shitty movie adaptation? All of his books are the same , Nico thought. Watters wrote historical novels, all set in the south, all about cookie-cutter blond-haired, square-jawed heroes combating the evils of racism. They were good reads, he'd give Watters that, but they weren't the kind of books that would break new ground or make Hollywood stand up and take notice. Each book fetched a respectable six figures, but his last few paydays had decreased dramatically. His last book sold for a hundred and fifty grand—a full hundred thousand less than his first novel had gone for. And that one he'd sold twenty-five years ago.
The sales for his latest, Sweet Song of the Susquehanna, were disappointing. One insightful review noted that Watters's books were like an aging actor who was content to mail in his performances for a steady paycheck, coasting on name recognition alone.
And just like that, after twelve books, four New York Times bestsellers, three film options and one made-for-T.V. movie starring Robert Urich, Clarence Watters decided that Nico Vanetti should no longer represent him. Suddenly, Nico's clientele was dangerously unproven.
He opened up his desk and pulled out the two hundred odd pages of John Gillis's memoir. Glanced over the first twenty pages, Nico gently ran his fingers along the paper as if it might crumble into dust. At 6:30, when he'd received Watters's email, Nico knew the future of Vanetti Literati rested on John Gillis. He needed a breakout star, a new idol to pin on the marquee. Bad fortune was riding Nico's coattails like an angry mob and if he didn't do something to stem the onslaught, soon he'd be bled out. He could sense other agents waiting in the wings like greedy shadows waiting to poach his top clients. If he didn't give them a reason to believe, they'd surely be tempted just as Watters had.
It's a soft market , he'd told himself on several occasions. The recession is killing everybody. But in his heart, he knew it wasn't true. Other agencies were breeding new stables of media-ready authors whose appearances on Oprah and Regis and Kelly sent their asking prices into the stratosphere. John Gillis was the ace up his sleeve. Clarence Watters was old news. Gillis was the future.
“Goddamn fucking country bumpkin,” Nico seethed, sneering at the yellowed contract on his wall. He looked at the gorgeous bookshelf to the right of his desk, four stories high and packed tight with millions of dollars worth of sales. Foreign translations, audio copies, even books that had been translated into Braille. It was a life's work, a good life. But that life was being attacked at its very foundation.
Nico stood up, held onto the corner of the desk for balance, and groped his way to the shelf. He ran his finger along the spines of each book, pausing at his favorites, the ones he'd worked the hardest for, the books that weren't commercially viable but simply needed to be read . The ones that changed lives. The ones that would be caressed by ancient hands whose weathered skin had turned the pages for years.
There were times he'd be walking down the street, riding
He slurped half the drink and missed the coaster he tried to set it on, instead hitting the edge of the table and spilling whiskey onto his pants. He stared up at the ceiling, his heart pounding, as if expecting God himself to apologize. Nico took a breath and wiped himself off with a piece of paper from the printer.
There was less than an inch left in the bottle. Nico knocked the tumbler over as he grabbed the handle and swallowed the last bit. He slammed it down on the table hard enough to crack the glass, then tossed it in the garbage and read the email again.
What does he want, my soul? Ben Affleck to star in a shitty movie adaptation? All of his books are the same , Nico thought. Watters wrote historical novels, all set in the south, all about cookie-cutter blond-haired, square-jawed heroes combating the evils of racism. They were good reads, he'd give Watters that, but they weren't the kind of books that would break new ground or make Hollywood stand up and take notice. Each book fetched a respectable six figures, but his last few paydays had decreased dramatically. His last book sold for a hundred and fifty grand—a full hundred thousand less than his first novel had gone for. And that one he'd sold twenty-five years ago.
The sales for his latest, Sweet Song of the Susquehanna, were disappointing. One insightful review noted that Watters's books were like an aging actor who was content to mail in his performances for a steady paycheck, coasting on name recognition alone.
And just like that, after twelve books, four New York Times bestsellers, three film options and one made-for-T.V. movie starring Robert Urich, Clarence Watters decided that Nico Vanetti should no longer represent him. Suddenly, Nico's clientele was dangerously unproven.
He opened up his desk and pulled out the two hundred odd pages of John Gillis's memoir. Glanced over the first twenty pages, Nico gently ran his fingers along the paper as if it might crumble into dust. At 6:30, when he'd received Watters's email, Nico knew the future of Vanetti Literati rested on John Gillis. He needed a breakout star, a new idol to pin on the marquee. Bad fortune was riding Nico's coattails like an angry mob and if he didn't do something to stem the onslaught, soon he'd be bled out. He could sense other agents waiting in the wings like greedy shadows waiting to poach his top clients. If he didn't give them a reason to believe, they'd surely be tempted just as Watters had.
It's a soft market , he'd told himself on several occasions. The recession is killing everybody. But in his heart, he knew it wasn't true. Other agencies were breeding new stables of media-ready authors whose appearances on Oprah and Regis and Kelly sent their asking prices into the stratosphere. John Gillis was the ace up his sleeve. Clarence Watters was old news. Gillis was the future.
“Goddamn fucking country bumpkin,” Nico seethed, sneering at the yellowed contract on his wall. He looked at the gorgeous bookshelf to the right of his desk, four stories high and packed tight with millions of dollars worth of sales. Foreign translations, audio copies, even books that had been translated into Braille. It was a life's work, a good life. But that life was being attacked at its very foundation.
Nico stood up, held onto the corner of the desk for balance, and groped his way to the shelf. He ran his finger along the spines of each book, pausing at his favorites, the ones he'd worked the hardest for, the books that weren't commercially viable but simply needed to be read . The ones that changed lives. The ones that would be caressed by ancient hands whose weathered skin had turned the pages for years.
There were times he'd be walking down the street, riding
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