The Architecture of Snow (The David Morrell Short Fiction Collection #4) by David Morrell Read Free Book Online Page A
Authors: David Morrell
the compound, the office was depressing. “But Wentworth has three conditions,” I said.
“Fine, fine. Just give me the contract you took up there to get signed.”
“He didn’t sign it.”
“ What? But you said–”
“That contract’s made out to R. J. Wentworth. He wants another contract, one made out to Peter Thomas.”
“The pseudonym on the manuscript?”
“That’s the first condition. The second is that the book needs to be published with the name Peter Thomas on the cover.”
The head of marketing gasped.
“The third condition is that Wentworth won’t do interviews.”
Now the head of marketing turned red, as if choking on something. “We’ll lose CNN and the Today show and the magazine covers and –”
“No interviews? That makes it worthless,” my CEO complained. “Who the hell’s going to buy a book about a kid in a snowstorm when its author’s a nobody?”
“Those are his conditions.”
“ Couldn’t you talk him out of that? ”
“He wants the book to speak for itself. He says part of the reason he’s famous is that his family died. He won’t capitalize on that, and he won’t allow himself to be asked about it.”
“Worthless,” my boss moaned. “How can I tell the Gladstone executives we won’t have a million seller? I’ll lose my job. You’ve already lost yours .”
“There’s a way to get around Wentworth’s conditions,” a voice said.
Everyone looked in that direction, toward the person next to me: my assistant, who wore his usual black turtleneck and black sports jacket.
“Make out the contract to Peter Thomas,” my assistant continued. “Put in clauses guaranteeing that the book will be published under that name and that there won’t be any interviews.”
“Weren’t you listening? An unknown author. No interviews. No serial killer or global conspiracy in the plot. We’ll be lucky to sell ten copies.”
“A million. You’ll get the million,” my assistant promised.
“Will you please start making sense.”
“The Internet will take care of everything. A month from pub date, I’ll leak rumors to hundreds of chat groups. I’ll put up a fan website. On the social networks, I’ll spread the word that Wentworth’s the actual author. I’ll point out parallels between his early work and this one. I’ll talk about the mysterious arrival of the manuscript just as his editor died. I’ll mention that a March & Sons editor, Robert Neal, had a weekend conference at Wentworth’s home in October, something that can be verified by checking with the motel where Mr. Neal stayed. I’ll juice it up until everyone buys the rumor. Believe me, the Internet thrives on gossip. It’ll get out of control fast. Since what passes for news these days is half speculation, reporters and TV commentators will do pieces about the rumors. After a week, it’ll be taken for granted that Peter Thomas is R. J. Wentworth. People will want to be the first to buy the book to see what all the fuss is about. Believe me, you’ll sell a million copies.”
I was too stunned to say anything.
So were the others.
Finally my boss opened his mouth. “I love the way this guy thinks.” He gave me a dismissive glance. “Take the new contract back to Wentworth. Tell him he’ll get everything he wants.”
* * *
So, on Tuesday, I drove back to Tipton. Because I was now familiar with the route, I made excellent time and arrived at four in the afternoon. Indeed, I often broke the speed limit, eager to see Wentworth again and warn him how March & Sons intended to betray him.
I saw the smoke before I got to town. As I approached the main street, I found it deserted. With a terrible premonition, I stopped at the park. The smoke shrouded Wentworth’s compound. His fence was down. A fire engine rumbled next to it. Running through the leaves, I saw townspeople gathered in shock. I saw the waitress from Meg’s Pantry, the waiter from the Tipton Tavern, Jonathan Wade from the
“Fine, fine. Just give me the contract you took up there to get signed.”
“He didn’t sign it.”
“ What? But you said–”
“That contract’s made out to R. J. Wentworth. He wants another contract, one made out to Peter Thomas.”
“The pseudonym on the manuscript?”
“That’s the first condition. The second is that the book needs to be published with the name Peter Thomas on the cover.”
The head of marketing gasped.
“The third condition is that Wentworth won’t do interviews.”
Now the head of marketing turned red, as if choking on something. “We’ll lose CNN and the Today show and the magazine covers and –”
“No interviews? That makes it worthless,” my CEO complained. “Who the hell’s going to buy a book about a kid in a snowstorm when its author’s a nobody?”
“Those are his conditions.”
“ Couldn’t you talk him out of that? ”
“He wants the book to speak for itself. He says part of the reason he’s famous is that his family died. He won’t capitalize on that, and he won’t allow himself to be asked about it.”
“Worthless,” my boss moaned. “How can I tell the Gladstone executives we won’t have a million seller? I’ll lose my job. You’ve already lost yours .”
“There’s a way to get around Wentworth’s conditions,” a voice said.
Everyone looked in that direction, toward the person next to me: my assistant, who wore his usual black turtleneck and black sports jacket.
“Make out the contract to Peter Thomas,” my assistant continued. “Put in clauses guaranteeing that the book will be published under that name and that there won’t be any interviews.”
“Weren’t you listening? An unknown author. No interviews. No serial killer or global conspiracy in the plot. We’ll be lucky to sell ten copies.”
“A million. You’ll get the million,” my assistant promised.
“Will you please start making sense.”
“The Internet will take care of everything. A month from pub date, I’ll leak rumors to hundreds of chat groups. I’ll put up a fan website. On the social networks, I’ll spread the word that Wentworth’s the actual author. I’ll point out parallels between his early work and this one. I’ll talk about the mysterious arrival of the manuscript just as his editor died. I’ll mention that a March & Sons editor, Robert Neal, had a weekend conference at Wentworth’s home in October, something that can be verified by checking with the motel where Mr. Neal stayed. I’ll juice it up until everyone buys the rumor. Believe me, the Internet thrives on gossip. It’ll get out of control fast. Since what passes for news these days is half speculation, reporters and TV commentators will do pieces about the rumors. After a week, it’ll be taken for granted that Peter Thomas is R. J. Wentworth. People will want to be the first to buy the book to see what all the fuss is about. Believe me, you’ll sell a million copies.”
I was too stunned to say anything.
So were the others.
Finally my boss opened his mouth. “I love the way this guy thinks.” He gave me a dismissive glance. “Take the new contract back to Wentworth. Tell him he’ll get everything he wants.”
* * *
So, on Tuesday, I drove back to Tipton. Because I was now familiar with the route, I made excellent time and arrived at four in the afternoon. Indeed, I often broke the speed limit, eager to see Wentworth again and warn him how March & Sons intended to betray him.
I saw the smoke before I got to town. As I approached the main street, I found it deserted. With a terrible premonition, I stopped at the park. The smoke shrouded Wentworth’s compound. His fence was down. A fire engine rumbled next to it. Running through the leaves, I saw townspeople gathered in shock. I saw the waitress from Meg’s Pantry, the waiter from the Tipton Tavern, Jonathan Wade from the