Foul Matter by Martha Grimes Read Free Book Online Page B

a general statement about all millionaire authors or particular to Paul?”
    Tom checked out the end of his cigar again. He didn’t answer the question except to say, “Well, never mind. As long as you’re his editor and not me.”
    That gave Clive a little chill. Tom emptied the doorway of shadows when he walked away.
    Clive picked up the Danny Zito book again, opened it to where the bookmark had been (and presumed Bobby must have put it there), and read.
    This wasn’t one of your regular hits. People don’t realize killing is easy, I mean gets easier and easier, like the more you practice. Like roller-blading. Like the piano. I play, you know.
    Now, I write.
    I wouldn’t go so far as to say that, Danny, old boy. The prose was torturous but Danny had insisted he be the one to write this book; he didn’t want it ghosted or “told to” some hack writer. Clive had tried to dissuade him, telling him writing a book was not fun—
    “Then why the hell they do it, these guys?” He waved his arm to take in a display of books by Mackenzie-Haack writers.
    A good question, really. Clive sighed and went back to reading:
    Write. Here’s something I never thought I’d do. I hope I live to do another one. It does something to you; I mean, your name on a jacket, your words printed on a page. Who could resist, right?
    Clive shut the book, stared at the air for a moment, wondered if Bobby was really suggesting just that—that Danny write another book. It was true that this one had actually sold more copies than they ever thought it would. And it seemed to have developed some sort of cult following. But—
    He picked up the phone, put it down, and picked up the book. As he walked by Amy’s desk, he told her he’d be in Bobby’s office.
    “I’m finished with this?” She held up the pages of copy for the catalog.
    Clive gave her a prissy little smile. “I don’t know, sweetheart. Are you?”
    “Is he in?” Clive asked one of Bobby’s assistants, who was chattering on the telephone. What was her name, Polly? Dolly? Why weren’t these girls called secretaries, which was more or less their work? Probably because publishing houses had to pay secretaries whatever secretaries were worth. Editorial assistants, on the other hand, worked for a pittance and the glamour of it (some glamour!). And the hope of winding up as editors themselves (fat chance). They loved to talk shop. There was enough gossip floating around Mackenzie-Haack to keep them busy all day long. That’s probably what Polly was doing on the phone right now. She hung up and looked at him as if she wouldn’t lower herself.
    “I asked you, is he in? Polly?”
    “Dolly. No.” She pushed back a great wad of hair that looked as if it had been brushed by a steamroller. Then she pointed a silver-sequin-decorated nail in some direction. “He’s down the hall. In Peter’s office.” Dolly turned away.
    “Peter Genero’s?”
    Dolly’s smile was just this side of a sneer. “He’s the only Peter we have, isn’t he?”
    All of Bobby’s assistants were big on attitude, just like Bobby; they were working for the great man himself, and who were you?
    Clive walked into Bobby’s office. He liked looking at the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that lined three walls (the fourth being the glass-covered view). The shelves were full, with the newish books displayed upright, spread like a whore’s legs. As usual all the really good ones (meaning the beautifully written ones) were from Tom Kidd’s writers. There was a Grace Packard, an Eric Gruber. The other editors (himself included) had, of course, a literary writer here and there, but rarely more than one, and that one none of the editors Clive knew (again, himself included) would have the guts to edit.
    Clive’s literary plum was Jennifer Schiffler. She was close to being on a par with Gruber and Packard and Isaly. Rarely did Clive see her, and when he did, he wasn’t sure he was “seeing” her. She was one of those