probably prove frustratingfor the reader in most cases. I speak as one myself. I don’t like loose ends; I want things neatly tied up.”
“I’m not saying I’m going to write one like that,” Poole said in his limpid drawl. “Like most authors, I write of what I know
best.”
“In the case of your current best-seller,” I said, “sex.”
Poole smiled. “I prefer to think of it as love, Mr. Barlow.”
“Please—call me Nick. And I stand corrected.
Love,
certainly.”
At this point Kay interrupted us. “Herbert has an idea which I think may appeal to you, Nick.”
“Go ahead,” I said.
“What I would like to do,” Poole said, “is spend some time in your office, like a fly on the wall, so to speak. I’d like to
meet and talk with your Joe Scanlon, for one—and any other mystery writers who might show up. I’d like to know how you managed
to crack the Jordan Walker murder case, too.”
“Well…”
“I promise I won’t get in your way, or interfere with any of your normal business days. When you want me out of the way, I’ll
make myself scarce. And meanwhile I’ll be making notes and writing.”
Kay was wrong; I did not cotton to the idea. I like authors well enough—in their place. In mine, however, only when necessary.
“Well…” I said, doing my best to think of a way to soften my refusal, “at the moment…”
“You’d rather not,” Poole suggested.
“Precisely.”
“Perhaps at a later date?” said Kay.
“We’ll see.”
Meanwhile, as I reminded Kay, there was the little matter of the contract.
“Ordinarily we’d go to auction, Nick, but this is quite unusual. We’ll take into account the fact that Herbert has never written
a mystery, and will need editorial guidance and help from you. The advance I’ll ask for is lower than we’d usually expect
to see. However, we’ll want ninety percent of the paperback rights as well as the usual foreign and domestic rights.”
I knew what Kay meant by that. One hundred percent of the performing rights, first and second serial rights, book club edition,
large-print edition, library edition, abridgment, condensation, digest—
“Data storage transmission and retrieval,” I said aloud.
“And electronic publishing in the teletext, video text, or any other form whether now in existence or hereafter developed.”
Kay finished the sentence for me. We both spoke the language of contract fluently.
“Only ten percent of the paperback money,” I said. “I wonder if I’ll be able to live with that.”
“Tell you what,” said Kay. “You go back to your office and figure out what you would expect to make from hardcover sales alone,
and give me
your
suggested advance figure based on that number—and a straight fifteen percent royalty from the sale of the first copy.”
“Fair enough, Kay.”
“We ought to be able to come up with a mutually satisfactory offer by this afternoon.”
“I would like that.” I glanced down at the three empty glasses on the table. “Another round?”
“Not for me,” said Poole, and Kay also shook her head.
“Then let’s lunch,” I said, and led the way through a set of double doors into what is called the Library Dining Room. The
walls are, in fact, lined with books of all kinds, vintages,and imprints—rather like what you would expect to find in the library of a well-stocked country house.
We put in our orders; all three of us chose the fish of the day, which was blackened catfish. The sommelier brought a bottle
of a good Montrachet, and while we wined and dined, Herbert Poole enlightened me on how it felt to go from obscurity to fame
in one giant leap.
It felt, he said, “like winning the lottery. I don’t think any of my earlier books ever sold more than five or six thousand
copies. The first one sold even fewer than that.”
“But this one—?”
“Is completely different in style and subject matter—and that has apparently made all the
“I’m not saying I’m going to write one like that,” Poole said in his limpid drawl. “Like most authors, I write of what I know
best.”
“In the case of your current best-seller,” I said, “sex.”
Poole smiled. “I prefer to think of it as love, Mr. Barlow.”
“Please—call me Nick. And I stand corrected.
Love,
certainly.”
At this point Kay interrupted us. “Herbert has an idea which I think may appeal to you, Nick.”
“Go ahead,” I said.
“What I would like to do,” Poole said, “is spend some time in your office, like a fly on the wall, so to speak. I’d like to
meet and talk with your Joe Scanlon, for one—and any other mystery writers who might show up. I’d like to know how you managed
to crack the Jordan Walker murder case, too.”
“Well…”
“I promise I won’t get in your way, or interfere with any of your normal business days. When you want me out of the way, I’ll
make myself scarce. And meanwhile I’ll be making notes and writing.”
Kay was wrong; I did not cotton to the idea. I like authors well enough—in their place. In mine, however, only when necessary.
“Well…” I said, doing my best to think of a way to soften my refusal, “at the moment…”
“You’d rather not,” Poole suggested.
“Precisely.”
“Perhaps at a later date?” said Kay.
“We’ll see.”
Meanwhile, as I reminded Kay, there was the little matter of the contract.
“Ordinarily we’d go to auction, Nick, but this is quite unusual. We’ll take into account the fact that Herbert has never written
a mystery, and will need editorial guidance and help from you. The advance I’ll ask for is lower than we’d usually expect
to see. However, we’ll want ninety percent of the paperback rights as well as the usual foreign and domestic rights.”
I knew what Kay meant by that. One hundred percent of the performing rights, first and second serial rights, book club edition,
large-print edition, library edition, abridgment, condensation, digest—
“Data storage transmission and retrieval,” I said aloud.
“And electronic publishing in the teletext, video text, or any other form whether now in existence or hereafter developed.”
Kay finished the sentence for me. We both spoke the language of contract fluently.
“Only ten percent of the paperback money,” I said. “I wonder if I’ll be able to live with that.”
“Tell you what,” said Kay. “You go back to your office and figure out what you would expect to make from hardcover sales alone,
and give me
your
suggested advance figure based on that number—and a straight fifteen percent royalty from the sale of the first copy.”
“Fair enough, Kay.”
“We ought to be able to come up with a mutually satisfactory offer by this afternoon.”
“I would like that.” I glanced down at the three empty glasses on the table. “Another round?”
“Not for me,” said Poole, and Kay also shook her head.
“Then let’s lunch,” I said, and led the way through a set of double doors into what is called the Library Dining Room. The
walls are, in fact, lined with books of all kinds, vintages,and imprints—rather like what you would expect to find in the library of a well-stocked country house.
We put in our orders; all three of us chose the fish of the day, which was blackened catfish. The sommelier brought a bottle
of a good Montrachet, and while we wined and dined, Herbert Poole enlightened me on how it felt to go from obscurity to fame
in one giant leap.
It felt, he said, “like winning the lottery. I don’t think any of my earlier books ever sold more than five or six thousand
copies. The first one sold even fewer than that.”
“But this one—?”
“Is completely different in style and subject matter—and that has apparently made all the
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