“That would be wonderful. The only thing...”
“What?”
“This is going to sound like St. Augustine. ‘Lord, make me chaste, but not yet.’ ”
“You lost me.”
“Look, you and I both know you didn’t do this thing, right? And we know you’re going to be cleared.”
“It’s beginning to look that way.”
“Well, that’s the important thing, in fact it’s the only thing that matters, but all things being equal...”
“What?”
“I’d just as soon it doesn’t all clear up today or tomorrow,” she said. “Or even next week or next month. God, that sounds terrible, doesn’t it?”
“It might, except I think I see where you’re going.”
“The best thing for our purposes is if you’re an accused murderer awaiting trial when we make the deal. Then, when the book comes out, you’re a guy who was falsely accused of a horrible crime and has since been completely exonerated. I know you’d like to be off the hook as soon as possible, but I’m your agent and I used to be your publisher and I can’t help seeing it from that standpoint.”
“Don’t apologize. I’m writing all the time these days, Roz. I’m completely into the book, and of course I want it to do everything it can. If I’m cooped up in my apartment for the time being, well, it’s worth it. And I’d be cooped up anyway, putting words on the screen.”
“And it’s going well?”
“It’s going beautifully.”
“I turned down a couple of preempts, sweetie. One yesterday and one this morning.”
“What were the numbers?”
“I’m not going to tell you. I’m auctioning on Friday. I told Esther at Crown what I want for a floor bid. That’ll give them topping privileges. She’s supposed to get back to me later this afternoon.”
“What do you want for a floor?”
“I’m not going to tell you that, either, until I find out if I get it. Oh, that reminds me, I was going to call you about this. Esther had a suggestion, and whether or not we wind up going with them, I think it’s worth thinking about. How would you feel about a name change?”
“You mean a pseudonym?”
“Jesus Christ, no! We’ve got all this publicity, why would we want to shitcan it?”
“That’s what I thought, but—”
“You’ve always used Blair Creighton, but all the news stories have referred to you as John Creighton, so Esther suggested bylining the books, all of them, old and new, as by John Blair Creighton. Which I think has a very nice ring to it.”
“I should have done it that way from the beginning,” he said. “I’ve had the thought off and on for years.”
“So that’s a yes?”
“An emphatic yes.”
“Jeez, that was easy. Every client I have should be like you, baby.”
“Under indictment, you mean?”
“Get back to work,” she said.
He thought he’d have trouble getting back into the book, but he looked at the last sentence he’d written and remembered what he’d planned to write next, and once he’d put the words down there were more words to follow them.
He was on a break, cracking a fresh pack of cigarettes, when she called again to report Esther Blinkoff at Crown had come up with the floor bid. In return, she got to make a final offer when all the other participants had finished bidding.
“US and Canada only,” she said, “because my guess is we’ll get the same dollars with or without foreign, so why not keep them for ourselves? Everybody’s going to think the book won’t do much overseas, because who gives a shit in Frankfurt if some woman gets strangled in New York? What they’ll forget is you’re a novelist with a following overseas, and we’re not selling true crime, we’re selling literature. They might not get much abroad, but I will.”
“What’s the floor?”
“I was coming to that. One point one.”
“Million.”
“Duh.”
“Jesus. Well, I guess my personal Philip Marlowe can order doubles if he wants. It sounds like I’m going to be able to afford to cover his tab. One million one hundred thousand. Where’d the point one come from?”
“It’s coming from Crown, but it was my idea and I was ready to fight for it. An even million sounds preemptive, even if everybody jumps up and down and calls it a floor. The extra hundred thousand makes the whole number sound like a step in the right direction.”
The extra hundred thousand was substantially higher all by itself than his highest previous advance.
“Plus,” she said, “if all the other players keep their hands in their pockets, we’ve got a hundred thousand more than we’d have otherwise.”
“There’s that.”
“You know what’s a shame? The world never knew you were a suspect in the whorehouse murders, and now they don’t get to learn you’ve been cleared.”
“It’ll probably come out. Everything seems to, sooner or later.”
“Yeah, but after the auction.”
“Ah,” he said. “Not necessarily.”
“Oh?”
“Not if somebody leaked it.”
“Holy shit. Now why the hell didn’t I think of that myself? I know Liz Smith well enough to call her...”
“Or Page Six.”
“Page Six first, to tell them the police have talked to you in connection with the triple killing, di dah di dah di dah, and then Liz Smith so she can rush to your defense and tell the world yes, they talked to you, and they cleared you. I’ll call right now. Wait a minute. Will I be breaking any laws?”
“You’ll be pissing a few people off,” he said, “but I can’t see where you’ll be doing anything illegal. They didn’t even ask us not to talk to anybody.”
“I’m sure they never thought they had to. What about your lawyer? Is he one of the people I’ll be pissing off?”
“What do you care? Anyway, he’ll figure the cops leaked it.”
“And they might, so I’d better get cracking. Bye, sweetie.”
He put down the phone and went over to the window. Below his window, a black man in camo fatigues went through the blue garbage can, selecting aluminum cans for redemption. Recycling didn’t seem to work in New York, all the trash wound up in the same landfill, but the law requiring you to separate it at least made things easier for the can collectors.
Across the street, a man with a clipboard was leading a dozen people on a walking tour of the Village. Willa Cather had lived on this block, and maybe he’d tell them as much and point out the house. They shuffled on by, leaving Creighton with a view of the old man leaning in the doorway.
He’d seen him before, in his plaid shirt and the pants from an old suit. Homeless, he guessed, or the next thing to it, but too proud or not desperate enough to root around in garbage cans.
Maybe he’d go downstairs, take the old fellow to the Corner Bistro and buy him a burger. One point one, Jesus, he could damn well afford it.
He went back to the computer first, to tinker with the last sentence he’d written, and when he looked up an hour had gone by and he’d written a page and a half. He stood up, rubbed his eyes, yawned.
One point one. He ought to call somebody, but who was there to call? And what kind of conversation could he have with someone he hadn’t talked to since before Marilyn Fairchild’s death had changed his life?
He could call Karin, tell her her money was safe, tell her the kids weren’t going to have to worry about money for college. But shouldn’t he wait until after the auction?
He was hungry, he was thirsty, he’d done a good day’s work, and damned if he wasn’t on the verge of genuine success. Blair Creighton had managed to get by, and that was no mean accomplishment in the field he’d chosen, but John Blair Creighton...