“Okay,” Ryan said. “I won’t get into the TV scam for the moment. That’s a long story all by itself. But Krieg didn’t ask you to fake a miracle for his TV viewers. He wants your pen, not your crutches.”
Augustine snorted.
“Part of it works this way,” Ryan said. “Krieg maintains offices in Los Angeles for budding writers. Haven’t you ever seen the ads in magazines, trade papers?”
“’Fraid not.”
“Damn, that’s right; you don’t read the trades anymore.”
Augustine shook his head, a motion that could not be heard over the phone. Reading the trades was just one of many, many things he no longer did.
Ryan continued. “Say you’re an amateur writer, know in your heart you’re good, and that sooner or later you’ll get published. All you need is a chance, a break.”
Millions of them, thought Augustine.
“Well,” Ryan said, “you look at the ad from P.G. Press-”
“Excuse, Dick: Whatinhell does P.G. stand for?”
“‘Praise God,’ P.G.-get it?” It was Ryan’s turn to snort. “Krieg is doing God no favor.
“Anyway, you see this ad. It says, ‘You haven’t been published? Not to worry. Send us your manuscript. Either we’ll publish you or we’ll tell you what little more you need to get published. Of course this uses up a lot of our time, and time is money. So if you want us to read you, help you, publish you, counsel you, it only stands to reason that you should reimburse us for our time. Depending on the length and complexity of the script, $100 and $500 for a reading. A guaranteed response. This is your big chance. Don’t let it slip by.’”
Augustine interrupted. “Don’t tell me: The writers don’t have a chance. It’s stacked against them.”
“You got it. Krieg maintains a large office full of people who read these manuscripts. They’ve got one job and one job alone: to reject and return every manuscript they get. No exceptions.”
“Then why do they have to read the scripts? They’re just going to turn them down anyway.”
“They’ve got a boilerplate introduction and conclusion for their rejects. The opening theme is: ‘You’ve come so close. You’re not far from best-seller fame.’ Stuff like that goes on for maybe three, four pages. The conclusion goes: “We are genuinely interested in your talent. We want to see your work again. So make sure you keep in touch and should you turn out another manuscript. .’ But the middle of the rejection has to evidence that they actually read your script. The reader has to get specific about some of the things in the script. That’s the only reason anyone there reads the submission.”
It was Augustine’s turn to whistle softly. “Is that legal?”
“Legal? Yeah, I think so. And definitely not unique. They said they’d read your submission and they did. They didn’t promise they’d do any more than read and critique. They didn’t say they had no plan other than to reject your work. Moral? Hardly. Legal? I think so. One thing you learn quickly when you study Krieg: Morality has nothing to do with his entire operation.”
“Amazing! Frightening, really. But what’s it got to do with me? Why is he so interested in me? I’m published. Just once, so far, but published anyway.”
“Like I said in the beginning, old buddy: authenticity. Anybody can write that crap that Krieg publishes. Anybody. It’s formula. They give the writer a plot-some of those writers can think up their own, some can’t-anyway, P.G. sets the pace: After the plot, the publisher sets a frequency of moral turpitude. Every three pages, straight sex; every ten pages, kinky sex; every seven pages, group sex. If the background is a convent, you get lesbians. If it’s a parish or a diocese-or, in your case, a monastery-you get every kind of sex imaginable. If your imagination needs help, they’ll help you.”
“Am I getting thick in my moderate age?” Augustine asked. “I still don’t get it. Why me?”
“I was getting to that. As I said, anybody can write this stuff. And it sells pretty good. Actually, it sells damn good. The thing is, it would sell one helluva lot better even than it does now if the author were on the inside. Nothing titillates the reader like having the genuine article tell the story: ‘How can an innocent, celibate monk like Father Augustine know so much about forbidden sex?’”
“I’m beginning to get it.”
“Uh-huh. I’m not surprised that Krieg’s laying on you to climb aboard. I’d be surprised if he weren’t leaning on every man or woman of the cloth who writes to join his stable.”
“Still,” Augustine objected, “it doesn’t make sense. I wouldn’t write that stuff.”
“He’s willing to take the gamble. But not till he narrows the odds.”
“Pardon?”
“I haven’t seen his pitch personally. But I’ll bet the first wave of persuasion is lots and lots of assurance that he’ll keep all the annoyances out of your quiet life. P.G. Press will shield you from all the mess attendant on publication of a book. Leaving you to quiet contemplation within the secure walls of your monastery.”
“He’s already mentioned that.”
“I was right then. The next step I’m pretty sure about. He’ll offer you a contract with a very handsome advance. That’s what all those readers of his are working for: The money those poor suckers shell out to have their scripts read goes in part to pay the meager salary of the readers, but mostly it goes to offer people like you a sizable advance. . sound good so far?”
Augustine thought for a few moments. “Well, yes. . I suppose. But what good does all that do him? I’m still not going to write the kind of junk he wants.”
“Wait. You get a lot of money on signing, but if P.G. doesn’t find your manuscript acceptable-which they inevitably won’t-you’ll have to pay it back. And they tie you up in an option on your next book. Most authors-who’ve already spent the money just to live on-eventually capitulate-either to writing the kind of trash they want, or letting them do it.”
“But. .” Augustine was puzzled. “Is one lousy book by me worth all the trouble they’re going to?”
“Oh, yeah, Harold; if they could get a real live monk, religious habit and all, belonging to the Trappists-one of the biggies; if they could get you to write one of the T amp;A books-don’t ask what that stands for. .”
Augustine hadn’t been out of the world that long. He remembered tits and ass.
“. . if they could get you, they’d make a quantum leap out of and above their regular sales level. Might even garner a little bit of respectability. And as far as getting one book and one book alone from you, they’d figure you; you and your abbot; you, your abbot and your order would be so overwhelmed with the royalties that you’d write some more garbage for them.”
“Fat chance!”
“Harold, it’s a gamble. The whole thing is a gamble. The table stakes are just the dollars they offer you as an advance for signing the contract. If you didn’t produce, or if you produced what in their lexicon was an unacceptable manuscript, they’d demand the advance back. It’s well worth their time and money.”
Augustine grimaced. “I think I’ve got the whole picture, Dick. I thank you mightily. Now that you’ve shown me the pitfalls so clearly, I’ll be careful where I step.”
“Okay, buddy. Just watch very carefully where you step. Krieg does not give up easily. He’ll use everything he’s got, everything he can get. So, cover your a-uh, watch out behind you.”
Augustine smiled now, recalling his conversation with Dick Ryan. Funny how when one becomes a monk, erstwhile acquaintances feel they must clean up a language that once you shared.
But his smile quickly faded. Dick Ryan had been more prophetic than he possibly could have suspected. In a little while Augustine would meet Krieg again face to face. They would sup together. Then, in the words of John F. Kennedy, they would see who ate what.