The Way of All Fish: A Novel by Martha Grimes

own house. I wish you would, and just shoot any writer walking through the door who doesn’t sell one million copies of his ‘debut’ novel.” He sat down. “There are some writers who, like Isaly, are so good, they’ll succeed without making an armored car full of money, which is not success anyway, and he’d do it in spite of publishing.”
    Candy and Karl were taken aback that Bobby wasn’t equating success with money. Karl held up his hand like a flag he’d bring down to start a race. “Whoa, Bobby! ‘In spite of’? Man, Ned wouldn’t have his books in print, much less selling like hell, if it wasn’t for you and publishing.”
    Bobby’s eyes turned to him, molten with something Karl thought was maybe real lava. “Ned’s books shouldn’t be bestsellers; the books are too good for that. Bestsellerdom can only get him off the track. He’ll move from his cramped apartment, get a corner condo in Chelsea or someplacewith fifteen fireplaces in TriBeCa, go out more, join something or other like the Groucho Club in London, get himself a wardrobe—”
    “Excuse me, but this don’t sound like Ned Isaly, this person you’re describing.”
    Bobby got up and roamed the office as if looking for something, stopping now and then to stare at an expressionist German print or to kick at a stack of flashy-jacketed books. “It will be. Ned was doing all right.” Here Bobby clapped a hand on each of their shoulders. “And then you two guys, you decide he should be a bestselling author. Oh, yes, you who know fuck-all about publishing, decide what’s best.”
    “Hey, hey, hey, ” said Karl. “Yeah, Bobby, we decided it was best if the guy went on living for a while. It was you that paid for the hit. We just didn’t do it; we told you our terms; you should be damned glad.”
    “Again, you don’t know what I’m saying.” Bobby dropped like a boulder into his chair. “What the hell do you guys want, anyway? Why are you here?”
    “Yeah, we did get off the track there,” said Karl. “You know an author named Cindy Sella?”
    Bobby’s frown looked locked in place. “Why?” Treading carefully.
    “Well, you should. She’s published by Mackenzie-Haack.”
    “No, it’s Harbor Books, an imprint.”
    “What’s that?”
    “As I said, an imprint. One of many. I’m not the publisher of Harbor Books. That’s Bella Bond.”
    “But you’re all part of the same outfit?”
    “You mean publishing conglomerate, as they say? Yes. Why?”
    “You know an agent named L. Bass Hess?”
    “Of course. He’s a sociopath. In my opinion,” Bobby added generously. He got up, snatched the bottle of Talisker and two stumpy glasses, and poured them each a couple of fingers. He handed them the glasses and said, “Whatever”: Bobby’s way of saying “Cheers.” He set the bottle on his desk, where he would, ostensibly, have more control over it. “What’s he got to do with anything?”
    “You don’t know about him and Cindy Sella?”
    Bobby rolled his eyes and spun the cap back on the bottle. “Yes, Iheard something come down the pipeline. I know our lawyers have been busy. Well, busy for them. I try and stay away from legal.”
    “You should keep better informed, Bobby.”
    “Better informed? Let me remind you goodfellas that some of my information went out the door when I was escorted to Australia. I just got back, guys. And if I kept informed of every scam, scheme, and shell game that goes on in this business, I’d be the fucking CIA and MI5 combined.”
    Candy filled in the blank spots on the Cindy Sella situation.
    Bobby’s laugh was a single-malt blubber. “Jesus! Why doesn’t Hess just get up a poker game, mark all the cards, put a gun in his lap, and shoot them as they walk through the door? What’s it got to do with me?”
    “We found out Dwight Staines’s agent is also L. Bass Hess.”
    “Don’t I know it? He’s always trying to claw more money out of me, not satisfied with the million or two