Final Edit
Authors: Robert A Carter
MANHATTAN PRIMITIVE
CASUAL SLAUGHTERS
Copyright © 1994 by Robert A. Carter
All rights reserved.
Grand Central Publishing
Hachette Book Group
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New York, NY 10017
Visit our website at
www.HachetteBookGroup.com
The Grand Central Publishing name and logo are registered trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
First eBook Edition: November 2009
Originally published in hardcover by Mysterious Press
ISBN: 978-0-446-57006-0
This one is for Regula Noetzli,
my favorite literary agent
Contents
ACCLAIM FOR THE FIRST BICHÓLAS BAHLOW MTSTBHY
My thanks to Roger Bryant Hunting, former Judge of the New York Criminal Court, for helpful information; to my wife, Reade
Johnson Carter, for her steadfast support; and to William Malloy and Justine Elias of Mysterious Press, for their invaluable
editorial guidance.
Nothing in his life
became him like the leaving it; he died
as one that had been studied in his death
To throw away the dearest thing he ow’ed
As ‘twere a careless trifle.
Macbeth
, I, iv, 7-11
The murder of Parker Foxcroft sent shock waves through the book publishing community that would easily have registered 7.5
on the Richter scale.
This is the how the
New York Times
obituary writer eulogized him:
Not since the legendary Max Perkins has an editor inspired so much devotion among his authors and colleagues. The words “A
Parker Foxcroft Book” were a hallmark of quality and literary distinction. Foxcroft did in fact have his own imprint at Barlow
& Company, a small, prestigious, family-owned Manhattan firm. During the course of his twenty-two-year career, Foxcroft edited
the works of two Nobel laureates, several Pulitzer Prize winners, and at least five National Book Award winners and nominees.
Among his authors were…
This song of praise was followed by laudatory comments from several of Foxcroft’s authors, a brace of literary agents,
and three editors from other houses. Conspicuous by his absence from this outpouring of esteem was the publisher of Barlow
& Company, Nicholas Barlow. Many wondered at the time about his silence.
If ever a man was cut out to be a murder victim, it was certainly Parker Foxcroft. Arrogant, ruthless, manipulative, a womanizer
and a rampant literary snob, he was notoriously devious, vicious at times—even for the book business.
I ought to know; he worked for me. As the president and publisher of Barlow & Company, I hired Parker as a senior editor and
gave him his own imprint three years ago. I was within a nanominute of firing him, too, when someone with a stronger motive
than I
iced
him, as the mobsters put it in the crime novels I so happily and successfully publish. Or is the word now
whacked? Offed,
perhaps? At any rate, there may soon be almost as many synonyms for “killed” as there are for “drunk” (357 at last count,
beginning with “bagged” and ending with “zonked”).
I can’t say I was surprised when Parker turned up dead, but I was certainly inconvenienced, in more ways than one. You see,
I
was the one who found his body, not long after we had a violent shouting match.
* * *
It was at the ABA Convention that I realized something would have to be done about Parker.
Like the Trobriand Islanders or the Benevolent and Protective Order of Elks, we book publishers have our peculiar and arcane
tribal rites. One is the Frankfurt Book Fair; another is the American Booksellers Association Convention. Frankfurt, however,
is a global affair, an
Oktoberfest
held in four cavernous convention halls a third of a mile west of the
Bahnhof,
Frankfurt’s rail station, while the ABA—it is never referred to formally—is a moveable feast, convened each year in a different
locale. There are only a handful of cities in America with convention centers large enough to hold it, for it is a mighty
gathering of the clans: some 25,000 to 30,000 people attending—5,000 or 6,000 of whom are actually booksellers—and there are
1,200 or more exhibitors, most of them book publishers. At the ABA, publishers launch their new lists and push their established
titles; booksellers come to see, to buy, to attend seminars, and to meet old friends.
All of which explains why I found myself in Washington, D.C., on Friday, May 28, the Memorial Day weekend. The choice of this
holiday for the ABA is also part of the ritual. It is one of the cruelest bits of scheduling I know: to keep the publishers
away from the beaches, the tennis courts, and the golf links, so that the booksellers—who would normally close their shops
on this weekend—can enjoy their moment in the sun.
And sun was what hit me when I got off the shuttle at Washington National, collected my bag, and stepped out of the terminal.
Hit me with tropical force. Here it was, only the tag end of May, and already ninety in the shade.
I turned to Sidney Leopold, the editor in chief of my
publishing house, who had accompanied me on the flight down.
“God,
Sidney, the heat. ‘Summer is icumen in,’ no? ‘Lhude sing cuccu!’
“Ice-cream weather all right, Nuh-Nick,” he said.
“I was thinking vodka and tonic myself.”
“Do you know, Nick,” said Sidney, “that Hä-HäagenDazs has come out with a new line called ‘Exträas’—wuwith an umlaut, of course.”
“Oh?”
“A thousand cuh-calories more than their regular—
flavors.”
It was enough to turn me ashen. I must explain that ice cream, all kinds and varieties of it, is Sidney’s ruling passion.
Were I to consume as much of it as he packs away in an ordinary month, I would probably weigh in at 50 pounds over my fighting
weight, which is 225 or 230, give or take a few pounds. Nicholas Barlow,
Homo giganticus.
No thank you. As it is, I can hardly open a menu these days, or pass by a bakery, without gaining weight—or so it would seem.
Sidney, meanwhile, remains slim and flat-bellied through it all.
A cab, mercifully air-conditioned, pulled up just then and rescued us from the heat. And the humidity. Washington is world-famous
for both.
Fond as I am of our nation’s capital, I’ve always appreciated John F. Kennedy’s quip at its expense. “Washington,” JFK said,
“is a city of southern efficiency and northern charm.” Still, you must agree that a city that will not allow any building
to rise higher than ninety feet—so as not to block anyone’s view of the Capitol, I believe—certainly has its architectural
priorities straight.
We checked in at the Shoreham Hotel shortly after noon.
I know there are more luxurious hotels in town; the Shoreham is a trifle shabby-genteel, but I like it, and there is a great
deal of nostalgia connected with the place, for me at least. When I was still an undergraduate at Princeton, I attended a
couple of ABAs with my father. In those days, the convention was held every year in Washington—I suspect because the association
had some kind of sweetheart deal with the hotel—and the exhibits were all set up in the basement garage of the Shoreham. People
usually stayed either at the Shoreham or at the Park-Sheraton, now the Sheraton Washington, across the street.
And what memories I have…
Wandering the halls of the hotel in the small hours of the morning, looking for parties. We found them by following the roars
of laughter and boisterous conversation coming from the open doors of hospitality suites, or the sound of a guitar and someone
singing a folk song… The nights then seemed to be one long, continuous party… and the mornings one long hangover. Vodka stingers
and brandy Alexanders were high on our list of preferred drinks. So, like the chain-smokers of long ago who were unwittingly
writing their death certificates every day that passed, we were heedless in our haste to wreak a similar havoc on our livers…
Lest you think I’m some kind of Mrs. Grundy, I hasten to add that I still smoke an occasional cigar, if it’s a good one, and
feel quite comfortable with a glass in my hand, if that glass is filled with the precise mixture of Absolut and Noilly Prat.
I drink, frankly, whenever the spirit moves me.
Diving into the pool one morning, I spotted something white and shining at the bottom. It was a convention badge, of all things.
When I fished it out, I discovered that it was
my
badge, though I hadn’t the faintest idea how it got there…
There was always at least one poker game, a dollar and five dollars, in one hotel room or another, blue with smoke and reeking
of malt. It was a democratic game: publishers sat facing their sales reps, and the reps went head-to-head with booksellers.
The game was stag, of course…
Pleasant memories, to be sure. The year has never quite been complete for me without an ABA. And as much as they grouse about
the expense of it, and claim that it’s really not worth it (”Nobody does any business there” is the common refrain), I suspect
that most of my fellow publishers feel the same way, even if they go because it would be imprudent to stay away. If it’s an
orgy, at least it’s our very own orgy.
As soon as we had unpacked, Sidney and I headed for the Convention Center, this time in an unair-conditioned cab.
We found our booth quickly enough, and in it Mary Sunday, our sales manager, wearing the most woeful expression I had seen
on her face since our star sales rep defected to Simon & Schuster.
“Oh, Nick,” she wailed, “the
books
haven’t come. That buggerall exhibitor’s service has fucked us up for fair.” Not for Mary the ladylike euphemisms.
I made an effort to cheer her up. “Well, at least the posters are here.”
Some of the exhibitors at the ABA still make it a practice to show off actual books; others display only oversize posters
or the jackets of their forthcoming titles. Barlow & Company does both, though the books somehow seem superfluous, since almost
no one takes the time to browse through them. I once calculated that if a person were to visit every booth at the ABA at least
once in the three and a half days of the convention, each booth would receive exactly forty-five seconds of one’s attention.
No, the best we could hope for
is that passersby would be attracted by the posters and stop in so we could talk up our forthcoming list. The whole point
of the exercise is to show our new stuff—best foot forward, and all that.
“But the
catalogs
haven’t shown up, either,” said Mary Sunday. “And our location is terrible.
Terrible.
It sucks.”
“I duh-don’t know,” said Sidney. “We’re not too fuh-far from the cuh-concession stands. Could be worse.” I knew that Sidney,
once again, was thinking ice cream.
But Mary was inconsolable. “I wish they’d let us pick our own space the way they used to, instead of assigning booths by lottery,”
she said. “Here we are with a greeting-card company on one side of us and a university press on the other.”
Two of our sales reps were with us in the booth (actually we had splurged and taken
three
booths, and at considerable expense. Though small, we’re a proud company, in my humble opinion the best publisher of mysteries
and thrillers in the business, among our other achievements). The reps were stacking up order forms in the hope that when
the booksellers did come around tomorrow, they would really want to place orders. One of the reps, Chezna Newman, a comely
young woman with a distinctive New York accent, chimed in with: “What’s wrong”—the word came out “wrong-uh”—“with a univoisity
press?” Chezna also had a distressing habit of chewing gum with her mouth open. Those two imperfections aside, she was damned
good at pushing books out into the marketplace.
“I don’t know, the proximity of all that high-toned scholarship might give us even more class than we already have.”
