Killerfest (7 page)

CHAPTER 11
–
BOOK LEARNING

The next
morning Sealth met Scarne at his office to get the paperwork started on his new
career. Noah and Evelyn had spoken several times on the phone but had only met
once, when the Seattle detective and the F.B.I. questioned Scarne after he
killed a West Coast mobster during the Ballantrae investigation. She greeted
him warmly.

“You two have
come a long way since you called Jake a dickwad, Noah.”

“I may have
been hasty.”

Within the
hour she had Sealth well in hand, finally dispatching him to the local office
of State Licensing Division on William Street to start the process of becoming
a private investigator in New York. He and Scarne shared a cab downtown, with
Scarne jumping out at the Shields headquarters building at Fifth Avenue and 12th
Street in Greenwich Village where he had a meeting with Nigel Blue.

“I’ll be tied
up with this Killerfest deal for a few days,” Scarne said as he got out of the
taxi. “Evelyn knows the ropes. If you have any problems, she can reach me on my
cell. I think the P.I. test is given every month. It’s just over two hours and
you’ll have to bone up on local laws, but you could probably pass it even now.
Evelyn has some old tests you can study. I’ll make some calls to line up some
New York references. Of course, I may have to lie about your abilities.”

“Just don’t
get aced protecting Quimper. We haven’t even signed any partnership agreement.”

“Spoken like a
true New Yorker. You’ll fit right in.”

***

“We got you
credentialed as a book reviewer for our magazine,” Nigel Blue said. “That will
give you unfettered access to all the meetings, speeches, seminars, book
signings and all the rest. It also will make you very popular with everyone
from the wannabe writers to the people who work in the publishing industry,
especially the agents and editors.”

“Unfettered?”

“I went to
Princeton.”

Nigel Blue was
a trim black man with an easy smile. Even when Scarne’s relations with his boss
were strained — Randolph Shields tried to ruin Scarne — Blue had always been
professional. His office was on the third floor of the nine-story
stone-and-brick Shields Building, which had recently been given landmarked
status by the City of New York. It was just down the hall from Emma’s office,
where Scarne had been a frequent visitor, their affair facilitated by the fact
that he only lived four blocks away.

“What happens
if I run into a real book reviewer.”

“You can say
‘unfettered’ a lot, if that will help.” Blue said. “Hell, just tell them you
are a new hire at Shields. Make something up. The turnover in book critics is
like that in a Marine combat platoon, especially now, with the industry in such
disarray.”

“I guess I
shouldn’t go around asking for autographs from John Grisham or Janet
Evanovich.”

“Probably not
a good idea.” Blue passed an envelope across to Scarne. In it were a press pass
good for all four days of the Killerfest and a schedule of events. “I got you a
room on the concierge level, a floor below the penthouses where Quimper and the
Safeguard people will be. Friday through Sunday. The conference starts Thursday
afternoon at 3:30 P.M. with registration and there is an opening reception at
6:30, but Quimper’s advance security team won’t be arriving until late Friday,
and he won’t show up until Saturday. I mean, it’s your call. You don’t have to
stay at the Bascombe at all.”

“I was
planning on staying in the hotel. Three nights should be fine. I don’t know how
late the mingling goes on after the meetings, or if people hang out elsewhere,
but I want to be around.” Scarne thought of something. “Does Shields have a
real book reviewer?”

“Not per se.
We have a couple of writers and columnists who occasionally review financial
books. But you could always say that we’re starting a regular review.”

“That’s not
what I was thinking. I’d like to talk to a legitimate book reviewer, someone
privy to current trends in thriller writing and crime fiction.”

Blue smiled.

“Most of the
books our people review nowadays concern financial crime. You can’t make some
of the stuff up that Wall Street has pulled recently. But I see your point. I’m
afraid I can’t help you there. Your pal, Bob Huber over at the
Times
,
must know someone you can talk to.”

Scarne smiled.

“Damn. You did
go to Princeton.”

***

After leaving
Blue’s office, Scarne called Robert Huber at
The New York Times
. Huber,
an old-school business reporter who was often a thorn in the side of his
editors, who he thought were too cozy to Wall Street, was, as usual, delighted
to hear from him.

“What do you
want? I’m busy.”

“You heard
about the threat to Sebastian Quimper?”

“Of course.
Who hasn’t? Another Rushdie deal.”

“I’ve been
asked to help protect him.”

“Who asked?
The people trying to kill him? Based on what I read in the
Post
, a lot
of people die around you.”

“That’s an
exaggeration. Wait a minute. You read the
Post
?”

“Of course. We
only run crime stories if the criminals have socially redeeming qualities. I
read the
Post
to see what’s really happening out there. Plus, John
Crudele’s business column is a must. Now, what’s in this for me? Did Randolph
Shields kiss and make up and wants you to protect his investment in Schuster
House because of the proposed Albatross merger?”

Say what you
will about “The Old Grey Lady,” Scarne thought, but its reporters were
top-notch and wired in everywhere. And none were more wired in than Robert
Emmet Huber.

“Would that be
a story?”

“Nah. It’s a
smart move. Everyone expects Quimper’s security has been beefed up, anyway.
I’ve already got plenty of stuff on the merger deal, no matter which way it
goes.”

“Then why bust
my chops?”

“Because you
want something, as usual. What is it?”

Scarne told
him.

“I might have
someone for you. But it might help if you said the magic word.”

“Magic word?”

“Don’t you
have a watch?

It was just
past noon. Scarne got it.

“Lunch?”

“I’ll call you
right back, Jake”

He did.

“Make a
reservation for three at Joe Allen’s,” Huber said. “Say, one o’clock.”

***

Joe Allen’s is
one of a group of eateries on “Restaurant Row” on West 46th Street between
Eighth and Ninth Avenues. It is a favorite of both the lunch and theater crowds
that flock to Broadway. Scarne was already at the bar nursing a beer when Huber
showed up with a much younger man in tow. Huber was in his regular uniform:
gray three-piece suit, maroon tie and cordovan wingtips. His white hair was
buzz cut and though his build was stocky he wasn’t carrying much fat. Scarne
guessed the kid with him was in his late 20’s. He was a head taller than Huber
and was wearing jeans with a red corduroy shirt under a leather jacket. That
was probably a uniform, as well. But he had a sharp, intelligent face and his
hair wasn’t too long, so Scarne was prepared to give him the benefit of the
doubt.

 “Jake Scarne,
this is Batholomew Cobb, one of our book reviewers. New to the paper.”

From the way
that Huber drew out the syllables in ‘Bartholomew’ Scarne knew he liked to ride
Cobb.

“Call me
Bart,” Cobb said, sticking out his hand.

“Glad to see
the
Times
is still hiring,” Scarne said. “I thought they were cutting
back.”

“Just the dead
wood,” Huber said. “Present company excepted, of course. We always have room
for new blood, even if it is wet behind the ears.”

“That sentence
may hold a record for mixed metaphors,” Scarne said.

None of them
had much time, so they sat and ordered. Beers, burgers and fries for everyone.

“Don’t you
want the Cobb Salad,” Huber asked. “Or maybe some corn on the cob?”

“Ignore him,”
Scarne said.

“That doesn’t
work,” the kid said. “Our only chance is a buyout. We’re thinking about taking
up a collection if the
Times
can’t come up with enough money to get rid
of him.”

CHAPTER 12 - COBB

“You don’t
look like a book critic, Mr. Scarne,” Cobb said.

“What does a
book critic look like?”

“Me. Bookish.
Slightly unkempt, with an undeserved air of superiority.”

Cobb
apparently didn’t take himself too seriously. Scarne liked that.

“Other than
the fact that I may be too ‘kempt,’ what can I do to pass as one?”

“Well, there
is nothing you can do about your build. You are obviously in terrific shape. Do
you have a corduroy jacket with elbow patches?

“I’m ashamed
to say I do.”

“That will
help. Jeans are good. And chukka boots. A Meerschaum pipe would be a nice
touch.”

“The only
place you can smoke in this city is in the shower.”

“Just chew on
the stem.”

“I’ll pass.”

“Well, then,
can you spout nonsense?”

“That won’t be
a problem,” Huber interjected.

“Then you
should be fine,” Cobb said. “Just remember to drop Raymond Chandler’s name a
lot. A couple of references to Dashiell Hammett wouldn’t hurt, either. His
first name was Samuel, by the way. That should seal the deal.”

“I’ve actually
read some of their books,” Scarne said.

“You will be
in the minority,” Cobb said. “But it still impresses people.”

Their food
came.

“Enjoy your
burger, Jake,” Huber said. “From now on you have to order quiche whenever
you’re with the literary crowd.”

“Bart is
eating a burger.”

“I’m not with
a literary crowd. No offense.”

“Warren Buffet
lives on burgers,” Huber said. “I’d rather be a billionaire than literate.”

“He would
never have accumulated his money if his burgers cost as much as these,” Scarne
said. “Now, Bart, tell me about these conferences. What can I expect? Am I
likely to run into a real book critic?”

“Probably not.
At least not one from a major media organization. Maybe a blogger looking for
some free eats. Legitimate, and I use that word advisedly, book critics won’t
be caught dead at one of those things, which are basically just ways of
generating extra revenue for whoever is sponsoring them and for already
published authors, who will get speaking fees and can also make some dough
signing and selling books. Also gives them great exposure. Some agents and
editors will attend, of course, because they get to eat and drink for free and
schmooze with other agents and editors. I went to the one last year. Never
again. Mind you, I’m not a snob. But I found the whole scene, especially the
agent pitching and the after-hours hook-up bar scene, distasteful.”

“What do you
mean?”

“Well, for
many nascent authors the highlight of one of these conferences, the reason they
shell out upwards of a grand to attend, is the chance to meet and impress an
agent or editor. They hone their story pitches into sound bites, which usually
come in two forms: the two-minute synopsis they can give an agent across a
table at a so-called pitch session, where the writers are rotated through like
cattle, or the 30-second elevator pitch. That’s for use when you bump into an agent
or editor on the elevator and they are a captive audience, at least for a few
floors. Can you see Margaret Mitchell pitching
Gone With the Wind
in an
elevator!”

“Aren’t you
being a little harsh, Bartholomew,” Huber said. “Those people are pitching
70,000-word thrillers. Somebody gets chopped up or boiled in acid, there’s a
beautiful babe in danger and the hero comes to the rescue.”

“I was being
facetious. But just for the record, most thriller writers are women, so you
might want to reverse your sexual stereotypes. Anyway, my point is still valid.
There are so many thrillers out there, in print and digital, that a plot has to
be really off the wall. And the characters have to stand out. I was in an
elevator once with an agent when this guy got on and described his new
thriller. Something about a gay jockey who discovered a Taliban plot to infect
all the entrants in the Kentucky Derby with hoof-and-mouth disease. The goddamn
agent actually wanted to see a few chapters!”

“Where do I
get that book,” Scarne said.

“The other
hurdle that most new authors face is the fact that agents and editors want to
find a literary vein that no one else has mined, in the hope that they can
start a series franchise, where the real money is. And as soon as someone does
break new ground, there is what I call the ‘lemming’ effect. All the publishers
want to find the next Scandinavian author, hoping to duplicate the success of
Larsson or Nesbϕ. For a couple of years they ignore everything else until
the well goes dry.”

“So, you’re saying
that most people who go to these conferences have no chance,” Scarne said.

“Yes. But
maybe Bob is right and I am being too harsh. There are some terrific agents and
editors attending, who are actually looking for new talent. And, of course,
there is nothing wrong with hobnobbing with colleagues and keeping up with
industry trends. As for the writers, I suppose rubbing shoulders with authors
who have made it can be inspiring. Some of the seminars run by successful
writers might provide useful tips. I guess the big turnoff for me was the bar
scene after the meetings were finished, where the younger agents gathered. A
real meat market. Bunch of 20 and 30 year olds trying to sound literary while
trying to get laid. It was like a singles bar. They were all huddled, heads
together, while people attending the conference bought them drinks and not too
subtly made story pitches.”

“You got
something against getting laid, Bartholomew” Huber said.

“Au contraire.
I just disliked the obvious contempt those agents had for the poor schmucks
paying for their cosmos.” Cobb smiled at Scarne. “Speaking of getting laid, if
you succeed in passing as a book critic, you will have to beat some agents and
writers off with a stick. Some of them are dynamite looking, both women and
men.”

“He’s
straighter than a hundred-yard dash,” Huber said.

“Nothing wrong
with that,” Cobb said. “But a bisexual would have a fucking field day. No pun
intended.”

“Doubles the
chance of getting a date on Saturday night,” Scarne said.

“That’s a
Woody Allen line,” Huber said.

“I only steal
from the best. What else can you tell me, Bart?”

“The
publishing industry model is broken. Amazon and other providers of digital
books will soon dominate the market. The
Times
now ranks e-book sales and
I’m starting to review self-published authors, as are some other critics. Only
a trickle now, but someday it will be a flood. The number of people reading
print books is declining. Something like a quarter of all Americans now read
e-books.”

“I thought the
sale of e-readers has slowed.”

“It has. At
least the sale of so-called dedicated e-readers has calmed somewhat. But that’s
because more people are buying tablets, which are more versatile than simple
Kindles and Nooks and the like. Not that I think that won’t slow, either. The
market may become temporarily saturated. There are so many electronic
innovations people are probably pausing to see where it’s all going.”

“Aren’t some
traditional publishers embracing the new publishing paradigm?”

“My God. You
actually sound like a book critic. Sure. They have to if they want to survive.
And the really smart ones realize that there may be advantages to chucking the
old system. For one thing, they can almost instantly adjust prices to reflect
changing trends or a changing marketplace. They can test price points on books.
It’s like the airlines, which change prices moment-to-moment, depending upon
demand. Some publishers change the prices on their e-books weekly. They can
also release books more quickly. No more waiting a year for a book to appear on
shelves after they decide to publish it. With e-books, there are no built-in
problems like deciding how many books to initially print or where and how to
distribute them.”

“What are the
downsides?”

“Quality may
suffer. In the old days, and I’m talking pre-1970, the really good agents and
editors knew talent, and the old system, while blatantly elitist, did produce
some marvelous works of literature. Great writers were discovered and nurtured
by men and women who could afford to live in Manhattan on $20,000 a year, which
is all that the best editors earned. But in recent years, as the price of
living in New York has gone through the roof, the industry has become dominated
by a younger generation looking for the big score that will enable them to
afford their 400-square-foot studio apartments. The new literary gatekeepers
could care less about finding the next great writer. They need the next great
seller. It’s driving the good writers nuts. I know one frustrated author who
sent out a chapter of
Pride and Prejudice
by Jane Austen under a new
title. She was rejected by dozens of agents and editors. And even if a new
writer can get published traditionally, sales better be good, or they will be
dumped, never to be heard again. It’s no surprise that many of them
self-publish and do their own marketing.”

The restaurant
was filling up and they had to pause while a couple of people came over to say
hello to Cobb and Huber.

“Explain the
economics of self-publishing to me,” Scarne said when they were again alone.

“Say an author
is lucky enough to land a traditional publisher,” Cobb said, “who provides
editors to whip the book into shape and copy editors to find and correct
mistakes. That’s overhead. Then there is the marketing of the book,
commissioning a good cover, trade ads and the like. Printing the book also
costs money, although P.O.D., print on demand technology, has mitigated that
somewhat. Arranging distribution also cuts into the pie. It costs dough to get
good space on shelves in the few big booksellers left, which includes warehouse
stores. I’m not sure, but there may be some payola involved. Bottom line, a
hardcover book priced at, say, $24.95, is sliced and diced to the point that
the author, the poor slob who poured heart, soul and sweat into the
masterpiece, is lucky to get a $2 royalty per book, which will probably only
sell a few thousand copies unless it’s written by a Swede or a Norwegian with
an unpronounceable name. The author might even earn his or her surely pitiful
advance. But someone who self-publishes a book and puts it on Amazon for $2.99
gets to keep 70 percent of that, the same $2-a-book royalty without all the
aggravation. Of course, I’m afraid it will be harder to get noticed among the
diarrhea of self-published books going digital. Everyone wants to be an author.
I mean, do the math. At $3.99, the author gets almost $3. And a few of them hit
home runs and can get $9.99 for their e-books.”

“What about
those who price their books at 99 cents? How can they make money?”

“Volume, baby,
volume. A couple of them sell a million books a year. At 99 cents they get a 35
percent royalty, because the 70 percent payout only kicks in at $2.99 on
Amazon, but that’s still serious loot.”

“This all
sounds too easy.”

“It isn’t. The
typical e-book only sells a couple of hundred copies a year. It’s the rare
self-published author who is any good, either at writing or marketing. But
there are so many of them out there that they are blowing up the traditional
publishing industry. There are little old ladies in Iowa churning out thousands
of erotic novels featuring prose that would peel the paint off a Subaru. But
hell, that’s democracy, right?”      

Cobb looked at
his watch.

“Jeez. I have
to run. I’m backed up on my reviews. Thanks for lunch, Mr. Scarne. I hope I’ve
helped. If anyone at the Killerfest gives you any trouble, just wave a Kindle
or an iPad in their face. It will work like a crucifix against a vampire.”

“Bright kid,”
Scarne said as the book reviewer walked away.

“He’s ambitious,”
Huber said. “He wants someone’s job.”

“What’s your
take on the Schuster-Albatross merger, Bob? Will it go through?”

“Don’t see why
not. The only other likely suitor for Albatross would be Chandra Khan at
Bengal, but Schuster House brings more to the table.”

“Meaning
Quimper.”

“Yes. He’s a
deal breaker for Shields.”

“I saw Khan’s
name on the conference schedule,” Scarne said. “He’s speaking at one of the
forums and sponsoring one of the lunches.”

“You might
want to hear him,” Huber said. “He’s a dynamic speaker and he’s one of the new wave
who is really shaking up the publishing industry. He’ll probably lose this
round to Randy Shields, but I think he’s a comer. Well, thanks for the lunch,
even if it was overdue.”

***

“What is the
purpose of your visit to the United States?” The Customs agent at JFK looked at
the passport. “Ms. Fini.”

Just once,
Vendela Noss mused, she would love to answer, “murder.”

“Pleasure,”
she replied, which, she realized, wasn’t all that far from the truth.

She gave the
agent such a dazzling smile that he was momentarily at a loss for words.

“And how long
will you be staying in the United States,” he finally managed to blurt out.

“Just a few
days, a week at most.”

“Enjoy your
stay,” the man said, stamping the passport of “Eleanora Fini.”

“Thank you.
I’m sure I will.”

She wheeled
her luggage out to the cab stand outside the Alitalia terminal. A turbaned
driver put her bag in his trunk.

“Where you
going, Miss?”

“Manhattan.
The Bascombe Hotel. You know it? It’s fairly new.”

“Oh yes, the
Bascombe. Wonderful hotel. Everyone wants to stay there now.”

That may soon
change, Vendela mused. But she shoved that thought to the back of her mind and
started planning some of her leisure time. She always liked returning to the
United States and, particularly, New York. Next to Paris, it was her favorite
city in the world. She had all of Friday afternoon to unwind. Sebastian Quimper
wasn’t scheduled to make his appearance until Saturday, when he would give the
keynote address at the Killerfest.