Neil stepped in, a stack of papers in his left hand. “Who’s got time to sit, anyway? Is Michael coming in today?”
“Probably not,” Taylor answered. “I’m meeting him for drinks and a quick dinner before his signing tonight.”
“And then he’s flying out tomorrow, right?”
Taylor nodded. “Boston.”
“Then you’ll have to get him to sign these tonight, okay?
Don’t let him get away without going over these contracts and getting his signature.” Neil leaned over a stack of manuscript boxes and extended his hand to Taylor.
“Have these incorporated the last-minute changes we talked about?” she asked, taking the half-inch-thick stack of papers.
Neil nodded quickly. “I’ve gone over them, Joan’s gone over them, and legal’s gone over them. Their legal department signed off on them last night. Everything’s cool and ready for signatures.”
Taylor smiled. “God, Neil, my first seven-figure deal.”
Neil grinned back at her. “Maybe a little celebration’s in order tonight.”
“I just hope Michael’s happy with all this.”
Neil backed out of the door frame, waving his hand dismissively. “If he’s not, he’s crazy.” He stopped, looked back at Taylor with a raised eyebrow.
“Then again, he’s a writer. By definition, he’s crazy.”
Neil closed the door as he left, leaving her to make one last review of the contracts. It was, by any sane and reasonable standard, a fantastic deal for the author and the largest book contract Taylor had ever negotiated by a factor of ten.
Under the terms of the three-book contract, Michael Schiftmann would receive one-point-five million dollars for the next book in his series, to be called The Sixth Letter. For the seventh installment, he would receive an advance of two-point-five million, and for the eighth book in the series, and last in the contract, he would receive four million.
“Eight million for three books,” Taylor whispered.
“Jeez …”
And, she reminded herself, fifteen percent of that eight million went to Delaney amp; Associates. One-point-two million in commissions, a percentage of which after expenses would go to Taylor in salary and bonuses.
Taylor smiled, but behind the smile was an undercurrent of tension. To her credit, Taylor had managed to negotiate a contract that not only provided a hefty advance for each book, but also built in a number of other provisions to protect her client. The contract was what Hollywood called “pay or play,” which meant the advances were nonreturnable. If for any reason-including turning in an unacceptable manuscript-publication of any of the three books was canceled, Michael got to keep the money. If the books exceeded their sales goals, there was a sweet performance bonus built into the deal, but if they failed to meet their targets, Michael in-curred no penalty. The publisher retained most subsidiary rights-foreign, paperback, audio, electronic-but had to split all sub rights revenue with Michael. And on top of that, her client had retained all film and television rights to the books and all the characters appearing in the books, which would mean additional revenue down the road.
All in all, Taylor felt, this was the kind of contract that would free up an author from ever having to worry about money again. It meant artistic and financial freedom. It was, Taylor mused, what Humphrey Bogart called “fuck you money.”
But Taylor also knew that this kind of book deal held some intrinsic dangers for an author as well. The industry was full of legendary tales of writers who’d received huge, phenomenal, record-breaking contracts and then crashed and burned. Fame and wealth were deadly if one didn’t have the psychological underpinnings to handle it. Writers were notoriously fragile, which was why in a profession that gave its top practitioners prestige, money, and freedom from the soul-killing strictures of traditional corporate life, there was so much depression, substance abuse, divorce, insanity, and suicide. The occupational hazards were real and very, very dangerous.
And as far as Taylor could tell, the jury was still out on Michael Schiftmann. Could he handle this? Would his ego explode over his intellect? Would he, in the greatest danger of all, come to believe his own press?
As Taylor’s eyes strained to read every word of the fine print, she couldn’t help but replay in her own mind that first conversation with Michael Schiftmann when he’d called her office just over five years ago. Taylor had been a literary agent herself for only a short while, having decided after several years as an editorial assistant that spending sixty hours a week for twenty grand a year simply wasn’t worth it.
Joan called her that late autumn morning and practically shouted, in her usual manner, that she’d made an appointment with a writer from Ohio or Illinois or some such place out there and now didn’t have time to keep it.
“You talk to him!” Joan ordered.
“But who is he?” Taylor asked.
“Shiffman, Pittman, Sheffield, Schmetering, something or other … Hell, I don’t know, just handle it!” Then Joan slammed the phone down.
“But I don’t even know who-” Taylor protested to the now silent phone.
Asking herself if any of this was worth it, Taylor had buzzed the receptionist and at least gotten the writer’s accurate name, then asked that she hold him off for a couple of minutes while she cleared a place for him to sit.
Five minutes later, Taylor walked out into the reception area and introduced herself to a man about her age and several inches taller, wearing khaki pants and a worn corduroy jacket. He needed a shave and a haircut, and the briefcase under his arm was scuffed leather with tarnished hardware.
He looked nervous and, Taylor thought, a bit like a frustrated graduate student. There was something about him, though, that Taylor found almost boyish. She invited him back to her office, where she apologized for inconveniencing him and explained that Ms. Delaney had suddenly been tied up in conference and would be unable to see him today.
“But how can I help you?” Taylor asked in as polite and professional a tone as she could muster.
For a moment, he sat there staring at her, his dark eyes darting shyly around the room. Taylor found herself wondering how old he was. Finally, he spoke. And as he began his story, Taylor found herself curiously yet cautiously drawn to him, as if somehow an element of fate or destiny had brought them together.
Michael Schiftmann explained to her that he had already published five novels in five years, all of them paperback mysteries. He went on to explain that as an unpublished writer, he had been turned down by every agent he’d queried with the exception of a man who operated out of his home in Lexington, Kentucky. That agent, as it turned out, was a dis-barred lawyer and former concert promoter whose wife was supporting the two of them by working at the local Kmart.
The agent had sold his first novel to the paperback imprint division of a major New York trade house for an advance of thirty-five hundred dollars. At the time, after nearly ten years of collecting rejection slips, Michael Schiftmann had been thrilled to finally break into print. His first novel was well-received and reviewed, even winning a nomination for a mystery award. Michael thought that finally his career was on its way.
But then the offer for his next book came back and he was shocked to find that with all the good reviews and the prize nomination, his first novel had failed to sell out its first printing. Michael’s editor explained that the best he could do was offer another thirty-five hundred.
Shock turning to disappointment, Michael took his agent’s advice and accepted the offer. Over the next four years or so, he went back to contract three more times, for a total of five published books. His latest book had sold for an advance of five thousand dollars. When Michael went back to contract for a sixth book, he told his agent he wanted a hardcover deal and at least a ten-thousand-dollar advance. The agent had laughed over the phone. When the agent came back with an offer of six thousand dollars, still mass-market paperback, Michael fired him on the spot and caught the next bus to Manhattan. Now he was staying in a midtown hotel that ca-tered to budget travelers, eating at hot-dog stands and kiosks, and making the rounds of literary agents all over town.