• Lefferts took charge immediately.
‘This,’ he said, pointing at the manuscript but forbearing to touch it, ‘is totally unacceptable.’
‘Now wait a minute,’ my agent said. ‘We’re convened here for a nice family get-together to consider ways and means — am I right? I mean, a little cutting here and there, a little rewriting here and there, a little-’
‘Totally unacceptable,’ Lefferts repeated. ‘Totally incompetent.’
‘Aldo!’ Sol said in anguished tones. ‘You read the book?’
My publisher’s round head nodded. I was afraid it might roll off that fat neck.
‘And …?’
‘Stinks,’ Binder said.
Then the editor got down to nuts-and-bolts. The plotting was juvenile, the dialogue jejune, the characterization banal, the motivation hackneyed, the description puerile, the exposition illogical, the transitions erratic, and so on, and so on …
I came close to stalking out. I can’t take criticism — who can? — and I couldn’t believe the novel could be that bad.
‘Let’s not talk generalities,’ I told Lefferts. ‘Give me specific examples, page and paragraph.’
‘Delighted to,’ he said maliciously. ‘Juvenile plotting: On page 54, you say the girl took a cab because it was raining heavily. Two pages earlier you describe the night as crisp and clear with a full moon shining. Jejune dialogue: On page 134, the muscle, the dumbest one of the gang, a real moron, says, “I have a feeling of deja vu.” How would he know what that means? Banal characterization: The cop is fat, Irish, and drinks. The bank president wears a pince-nez and is fussy. The gang leader is lean, dark, and cold-eyed. Stock characters all. Hackneyed motivation: On page 98, the gang moll doesn’t show up for a rehearsal of the caper because her daughter is having a Sweet Sixteen party. Oh my God. Puerile description: On page 52, quote, “The moon hung in the sky like a ripe melon.” How original! Illogical exposition: On page 162, you say-’
‘All right,’ I interrupted him, ‘you’ve made your point.’
‘Points,’ he said cruelly.
‘Roscoe,’ Aldo Binder said.
‘What was that, Aldo?’ Sol asked.
‘Roscoe,’ Aldo Binder repeated.
‘On page 211,’ Lefferts explained, ‘the safe-cracker fires his gun at the bank guard. You write, ‘Ka-chow went his roscoe.’ Handguns haven’t been called roscoes since Black Mask Magazine. And Ka-chow? Since when does a gun go Ka-chow? Bang, maybe. Or blam. A gun snaps, or pops, or roars, or thunders. But Ka-chow? Sounds like a sneeze.’
I try not to take myself seriously, but despite what I may have told you about running a sausage factory, I take my work very seriously indeed. So it was hard to sit there and hear my novel being put through the shredder. I was close to tears, and only the fact that I knew Lefferts wanted to see me blub kept me outwardly unshaken. Inwardly, I was figuring how I could nail his balls to a stump and push him over backward.
We all sat in silence after his lecture on the sounds of gunfire. Then Aldo Binder took a deep breath, so deep the buttons on his waistcoat seemed threatened. Then he exhaled. He took one of his black cigars from his breast pocket and began peeling it.
‘You and you leave,’ he said, jabbing the cigar in turn at Sol Faber and Simon Lefferts. ‘I’ll talk to Jannie in private.’
God had decreed: They filed from the room. I fumbled for a cigarette. Binder held a match for me before lighting his cigar.
‘I knew Lefferts hated me,’ I said, trying to laugh, ‘but I didn’t know how much.’
During his frequent silences. Binder had the habit of tipping back his fleshy head and opening his mouth wide. The entrance of the Lincoln Tunnel, with teeth. Not the most appetizing sight in the world.
Finally he snapped his mouth shut with a click that startled me. Then he regarded me gravely.
‘Simon doesn’t hate you,’ he said. ‘Simon resents you.’
‘Resents me?’
‘You’re a successful author.’
‘Oh,’ I said faintly, beginning to feel a little better, ‘I didn’t know he wanted to write. It’s a bad sign in an editor, no?’
‘All editors want to write,’ Binder said. ‘They see trash make a fortune, and it looks so easy. However, his personal pique doesn’t make his criticism wrong.’ He waved towards the Thorndike manuscript. ‘It’s a lousy novel, Jannie. I won’t publish it.’
‘A complete rewrite?’ I said, gritting my teeth.
‘No, I don’t think so. The plot’s preposterous.’
‘Well …’ I sighed, ‘then I guess this is the parting of the ways.’
He shifted his bulk round on his uncushioned chair, then settled down with fingers laced across his corporation. Corporation? That mound was a conglomerate!
‘Jannie,’ he said, ‘you’ve made a lot of money from Binder Publications.’
‘Oh sure,’ I said hotly, ‘and Binder Publications has made a lot of money from me.’
‘True,’ he said, nodding his head. ‘And that’s why I’d hate to see our relationship come to an end. Of course, under the terms of your contract, after our rejection you’re free to try the book elsewhere. Do you want to?’
The sudden question took me by surprise. I stalled by stubbing out my cigarette and lighting another.
‘You smoke too much,’ he said.
‘You eat too much,’ I said. ‘I don’t know what I’ll do with this thing, Aldo. I’ll have to think about it.’
‘Before you make up your mind,’ Binder said, ‘will you resent it if I tell you what’s wrong with the novel? And with your two previous books?’
‘No, I won’t resent it,’ I said, lying stoutly.
‘Jannie, novels in the detective-mystery-suspense field are essentially fantasies.’
‘All right,’ I said. ‘I’ll go along with that. But-’
‘Wait,’ he said, holding up a pudgy hand. ‘Let me finish. They’re fantasies. But when a man picks up a paperback by Brick Wall, he isn’t looking for Little Red Riding Hood. He wants a hard, tough, realistic, believable story. Oh, it’s all imagination. You know it, and I know it. It’s all a creation of the author’s mind. But the reader must believe the author is doing nothing but detailing actual events in familiar language. Reporting. One misstep, one flight of fancy too many, and the writer betrays the reader’s trust.’
‘And I’ve been betraying my readers’ trust?’
Binder tapped the ash from his cigar, blew gently on the glowing tip. ‘You’ve lost all contact with reality,’ he said. That “Ka-chow went his roscoe” may sound funny now, something easily eliminated in editing, but it’s symptomatic of what’s happened to your writing. You don’t seem anchored to the real world anymore. Your readers have sensed this. That’s it in a nutshell, Jannie: You’ve lost contact.’
We sat in silence again. I looked down, tracing with a finger tip that ‘Fuck you’ carved into the oak tabletop. I wasn’t ready to accept what Binder had said. Lost contact with the real world?
‘Well,’ I said finally, ‘what do you suggest?’
‘There are things you could do. Interview cops. Take a night tour in a patrol car. Such things can be arranged. Try to meet some criminals, active or behind bars. Read the reports of sociologists and penal officials. Read the tabloids. You’re a clever lady; you’ll find ways. All I’m suggesting is that you get your head out of the clouds and your feet back on the ground.’
‘If I wrote a sentence like that,’ I said. ‘Lefferts would blue-pencil it with a notation: “Unacceptable cliche.’”
‘Think about what I’ve said. I see no reason why, with a little effort, you can’t get back to the kind of novels your readers have enjoyed in the past.’