The Way of All Fish: A Novel by Martha Grimes Page A

Dwight gets for each one of his parapsychotic books. What a jerk.”
    “Yeah. We met him in Pittsburgh. The point being that Hess—”
    Bobby interrupted. “Hess will move Dwight Staines to another publisher if we don’t drop Cindy Sella.”
    “This is sounding familiar,” said Candy, looking at Karl. “That really sucks.” Candy cleared his throat of what sounded like major wreckage.
    “It’s like blackmail, right?” said Karl. “So is that what authors do? They do whatever some dumbass agent tells them?”
    “Not always. But Dwight Staines is a dumbass author. So they’re a lock.” Bobby interwove his fingers. “Hess is going to have a hard time, since Staines’s contract calls for two more books.”
    “You know that stuff right off the top of your head?”
    “I’m the publisher; I’m supposed to know it.” He yanked open a drawer, pulled a few pages out of a folder, held one up. “From Cindy Sella’s last contract—”
    Karl interrupted. “Then you know all this stuff. Why’d you let us go on about it?”
    “I figured you’d give up and go away. So, here’s the clause: ‘The Author shall indemnify and hold the publisher harmless against any loss, liability, damage, cost or expense . . . arising out of any breach or alleged breach,’ et cetera. And it continues, points a, b, c, d, e, f—you get the idea?It’s pretty much standard in contracts, but how many times have I seen it invoked against an author? Never. Now, tell me, are you guys actually working for Cindy Sella?”
    “If you mean ‘employed by,’ no. This is, you could say, pro bono.”
    “Then why the fuck don’t you do what you do so well?” Bobby made a gun of his thumb and forefinger.
    “Who’d be the first person the cops would put the hit down to? Stop and think.”
    Bobby sat back, hands tight behind his head. “Probably Cindy Sella, although with him, there could be other candidates.”
    “Yeah, Cindy Sella would be prime, seems to us.”
    “I still don’t see what this has to do with me.”
    “Really?” Karl stopped chewing his gum and stared. It had the unnerving effect of a thumb slowly pulling back the hammer of a gun. Bobby wasn’t about to give in to these two again. “Yeah, really.” He switched his gaze from one to the other.
    Candy said, “Cindy is one of your authors.”
    “I told you. She’s Harbor Books.” He got up, reached for the bottle of Talisker, and wheeled the cap off with the index finger of the hand that held it. Seeing the twinned lethal stares, he said, “So?”
    “Harbor Books is run by Mackenzie-Haack. And you’re missing the point here, Bobby. You owe us.”
    “I don’t owe you two squat.”
    “I mean Cindy. Ned Isaly. Writers. Them, you owe.”
    “You two? Nobly standing up for the rights of authors? Don’t make me larf.” He took a sip of whiskey. “You guys think you own me, right? I’ll do whatever you want, correct?”
    Together, Candy and Karl lifted their hands, palms out. Karl said, “You’ll do it, Bobby, but not because we want you to.” He smiled. “You’ll do it because you want to.”
    “Oh, sweet Christ, there’s an elfin statement.” Bobby plopped himself down. The chair’s fine-grained leather really did go pffffff. “How do I interpret that? I join the Family? Get to be a made man? Become a capo?”
    Candy tch-tched. “You take Francis Ford Coppola too serious, Bobby. Besides, you ain’t Italian. You think we’re mobbed up? No. We are independent contractors. You’ll do it because you like it, because of the rush.”
    “The rush. I get no kick from this stuff  ”—he said, raising his glass—“so I have to turn to you guys?”
    “Come on, Bobby. She’s a Mackenzie-Haack author. That name is all over Hess’s complaint. So come off it, stop winding us up.”
    Bobby leaned over the desk. “I’m telling you, it’s Bella Bond you want to strong-arm, not yours truly.” He smiled insincerely and drank.
    Karl said, “Listen: