Final Edit (21 page)

“Whatever you say.”

“Why do the police suspect you of murdering Parker Foxcroft?”

“I had the motive—which you know—and the opportunity.”

“I understand.”

Drew pulled out a rumpled pack of cigarettes and lit one, then held the pack out to me. I shook my head.

“No thanks.”

He inhaled deeply, blew a perfect blue smoke ring, then put the cigarette down in an ashtray, where it smoked away by itself
for the rest of our conversation.

“It was Juan,” he said at last.

“The bartender at The Players?”

He nodded. “The police questioned the staff of the Club. About you apparently, Nick. They wanted to know who you’d spoken
to and whether you’d had any phone calls. The concierge told them that Foxcroft had called, and Juan told them that when you
went into the phone booth to take your call, I picked up the extension on the bar and listened to your call.”

“And did you?”
Had I been right after all?

“Sure. I knew Foxcroft would be waiting for you in his office. I decided to go there and confront him. Tell him off.”

“To murder him?”

“No,
no”

“And?”

“I got as far as your office building but I didn’t go in. Lost my nerve, I guess. Or maybe it was fear. Fear that I hated
his guts so much I might do him an injury.”

He sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose, and shut his eyes. “Lost my nerve,” he repeated. “I wish I had killed him, but
I didn’t.”

“And the police—”

“Learned from Juan that I left the bar as soon as Parker’s phone call was over. Opportunity, you see, Nick.”

“Yeah, I see.”

“But I didn’t do it, Nick. You believe me, don’t you?”

“Sure, I believe you.” And I did—purely a matter of faith. “I still don’t see why the police are holding you. What evidence
could they possibly have?”

“It wasn’t evidence, it was what I said when they questioned me. I was drunk, I suppose. Confused—you know how it is. I wasn’t
sure what I was saying. I… oh shit, I…”

His voice trailed off. I could picture the scene. Hatcher and Falco probably badgered the poor bastard until he got angry.
Frederick Drew in a drunken, inchoate rage would say almost anything. He would contradict himself right and left.

“Why did you say anything at all?” I demanded. “Why answer any questions? Didn’t they read you your rights?”

Again he nodded. “They read me my rights. Fuck ‘em. Fuck their rights. So they booked me.” Then he smiled, but it was an odd
smile, almost sly, crafty, as though he’d put a fast one over on the cops.
They’d
be sorry, all right.
I’ll
show ‘em.

I made a face which I hope was commiserative.

“Okay, Fred,” I said, “I’ll do what I can to help. The first thing is to find you a lawyer.”

“I don’t have much money, Nick.” He started coughing, rather violently, and wiping his eyes. The smoke from his festering
cigarette was beginning to sting my eyes, too. “Rewrite that line. I don’t have
any
money to speak of.”

“We’ll work something out, Fred. You’re a member of the Authors Guild, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“I believe they have a fund of some kind to lend out. So does The Players. The John Drew Fund, appropriately enough. Anyway,
let me worry about that for now. Is there anything you need here, Fred?”

“Yeah, but I don’t think you’ll be able to provide it for me.”

“What is it?”

He pantomimed lifting a glass to his lips and chugalugging. Typical. It was the sauce that had done him in, and still he wanted
more of it. Once an alcoholic…

I knew there was no way I could or even would bring him liquor, but I’ve always thought that if I were in prison, or in a
hospital, I would be grateful if some Good Samaritan were to supply me with a martini or two. On that score, I remember visiting
a colleague once in North Shore Hospital on Long Island. I brought along a small thermos of martinis, and in turn was given
a hospital lunch at the same time my colleague was served—one of the best lunches I have ever enjoyed, in a hospital or out:
a small, rare filet mignon, with tiny roasted new potatoes, and asparagus in butter and garlic sauce. Only the proper red
wine was lacking.

“I’ll be back when I have news for you, Fred,” I said, and got up. The guard stiffened to attention. “It’s okay,” I told him.
“I’m just leaving.”

“Thanks for coming, Nick,” said the poet.

Poet indeed.
Un poète maudit,
the French would call him. A poet cursed.

That same day I called my attorney for all seasons, Alex Margolies, and told him about Drew’s plight.

“Sure you want to get involved in this, Nick?”

“Why not? I believe he’s being jobbed. Frederick Drew didn’t kill anybody.”

“I’m only
suggesting,”
Margolies continued, “that it’s like the Chinese thing—you know, if you save a man’s life in China, you become responsible
for him. You want to be responsible for that lush?”

“Not particularly. Anyway, this is not China. I just want to get him out of jail.”

“Well, he needs a lawyer, all right, but not me. I don’t do criminal work myself, or windows. Give me a juicy tax problem
to unsnarl, and I’m blissed out.”

“Got any suggestions?”

“I understand that Andrew Svenson is probably available. At least I haven’t seen his name in the papers recently. You remember
Svenson—the guy who tied you in knots when you testified at that hood’s trial?”

“He didn’t exactly tie me in
knots,
Alex. Actually—”

“Made a monkey out of you, no?”

Yes. Svenson had made me appear foolish in court on the occasion of the hearing of one Salvatore Marco, whom I had accused
of attempting to mug me—but I wouldn’t hold that against the lawyer; he was only doing his job. If he was the best man around
when habeas corpus was the issue, bring him on, by all means.

Which is what I instructed Alex Margolies to do. Posthaste.

Watching Claire Bunter enter the Grill Room of The Players at exactly six-fifteen, not a minute more or less, I understood
immediately why Parker Foxcroft had taken her under his capacious wing. If she didn’t exactly walk in beauty like the night,
she did shine in her own way. She was exceptionally tall, but her proportions would have pleased any sculptor from Praxiteles
to Rodin. Auburn hair caught back in a barrette, and high, finely cut cheekbones. Kirghiz eyes, the kind Hans Castorp found
in Frau Chauchat in Thomas Mann’s
The Magic Mountain.
The only flaw in an otherwise cinematic face was her nose, which was a shade too long and too thin.

I had told Claire that dress in the Club between Memorial Day and Labor Day was always casual. She was wearing a skirt short
enough to advertise her splendid brown legs and part of her equally well-tanned thighs, and a light cotton vee-neck sweater,
blue and white stripes, with short sleeves.

I set my martin, glass down on the table and rose from my banquette to greet her.

“Claire, your latest jacket photograph doesn’t do you justice.”

She smiled and sat down in the armchair facing me. “Maybe next time you ought to hire Annie Leibovitz.”

“Ouch.”

“Never mind, Nick. I’m much more concerned with what’s inside my books than how they’re packaged.”

“You don’t believe that a book can be judged by its cover?”

“I only know that your books never look cheap.”

“Thank you.”

“Even if they are.”

Zing.
We were sparring with each other, but to what purpose I could not tell. I decided I’d better ease off. “What are you drinking,
Claire?”

“Rum and Diet Coke.”

Cuba Libre. I wonder if anyone calls it that anymore. Only in Miami, perhaps.

After I fetched her drink and a small plate of crackers and cheese, I raised my glass, touched hers lightly, and said: “Confusion
to the enemy.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

“Claire,” I said, “I appreciate your coming down here on such short notice—”

“I’m not exactly fighting off engagements, Nick.”

“That isn’t what I meant.”

“I know, I know. Don’t look so injured. Like a little boy whose game is going badly.”

“Well, I’m sorry as hell about that. However, now that you’re here, I’d like to talk book. As in your next one.”

“Talking business? Here in these sacred precincts?”

I pursed my lips but said nothing. She took several rapid swallows of her drink and then brought it down on the table with
an audible
clunk.

“I know how you men adore this place. Your playpen, your little nineteenth-century hideaway.”

“We have women members now, too,” I protested. “Quite a few of them, and they also seem to enjoy these sacred precincts, as
you put it.”

“Nick, Nick… let’s not argue the point. I’m too tired to argue. I’ve been slaving over a hot computer all day.”

“I have no desire to argue, Claire, really. I mean it. Look, let’s clear the air if we can. You were Parker’s author—”

She looked as though I had struck her. Her face turned an angry red, her eyes glittered, her jaws tightened, and I thought
for a moment she was going to hiss at me like a snake.

“—but he wasn’t the only editor in town,” I said, plowing on anyway, against all odds.

“There’s something you ought to know, Nick.” Her voice was not exactly filled with venom, but there was a frightening calmness
about her manner, a deadly sincerity.

“I decided several months ago that I would never—never in this lifetime—ever publish another book with Parker Foxcroft, or
any company he worked for. Even if it meant I would never be in print again.”

“You disliked him that much?”

“I loathed him, I detested him, I’m glad he’s dead. Is that strong enough for you?”

“Yeah—more than strong enough.” Then I fell silent. Where was I going to go from here? How in hell was I going to turn
this
conversation around? “Claire,” I said, “I ran into Harry last weekend on a Metro North train.”

“How did he look?” Her voice, which had been harsh before, in an intense and quiet way, softened.

“Terrible.”

Drawing a deep breath, she leaned back in her chair and shook her head back and forth slowly.

“It was his idea to move out, not mine,” she said, speaking as though I wasn’t there at all. “I didn’t kick him out. He could
have stayed. It was over. All over…”

“I’m sorry,” was all I could think to say.

She brightened, or at least she managed to manufacture a smile of sorts. “Anyhow, I’m discovering what it’s like to be alone
again in the big bad city.”

“And how is it? In the big bad city?”

“Not so big—and not so bad. Do you believe that?”

“Not really.”

“Good. Because it ain’t so. I rather miss Harry, the lovable slob. Would you tell him that?”

“Sure. Another rum and Coke?”

“I’ll pass. No, I’ll take a rain check.”

“Good. And, Claire—”

“Yes?”

“I’ll get in touch with your agent. Is it still Bruno Wiley?”

“Still. And thanks for the drink, Nick.”

After she had left, I sat there thinking. Thinking—and drinking. More thinking than drinking. What had Harry Bunter said on
the train about his wife?
Claire is capable of anything.
“Anything” was the word he stressed. Did that
include murder? One thing was clear: she hated Parker Foxcroft with a crystal-pure passion.

And I thought I knew why. He had dumped her. Frankie and Johnny all over again? It could well be.

On Friday Herbert Poole and I were back in Parker Foxcroft’s office for the third day, plowing through what seemed to be every
scrap of paper the man ever covered, some pages with bile, others with syrup. As his “literary executor,” I was uncertain
what to do with the stuff, as we read and then tossed it aside. Would anyone want to buy it? I wondered. Could I even give
it away? Somehow Parker had overestimated the value of his notes and letters, at least that’s how it seemed to me. I decided
to beg the question by packing it all away in cardboard book cartons from our shipping room, that portion of it which hadn’t
drifted to the floor, where even now a mound of it had gathered. I would decide later what to do with it.

Still, even the most Herculean task must come to an end sometime, and this one was wound up around the cocktail hour.

“Thank God,” I said.

“Amen,” said Poole. “Do we have it all?”

“I devoutly hope so.”

“And what do we have?”

“As far as I can tell, nothing. When it comes to the rejection letters, we’re left with a good zillion potential suspects
but no clues. Too bad he didn’t keep a journal of some kind.”

“Well,” said Poole, “at least we haven’t
lost
any ground.”

“By the way,” I said, “we’ve been so busy burrowing into Parker’s verbiage that we haven’t discussed your book.”

“Pan at Twilight?”

“Not that book—your mystery. The one you’re going to write for me, remember?”

He laughed, more a chuckle than a laugh, but I’ve never cared for the expression “He chuckled.” It doesn’t sound serious enough.

“I’d be happy to talk about it,” Poole said. “I’ve only got the idea for the book now, but it’s taking shape in my mind.”

“Good. Let’s hear about it.”

For a variety of reasons, I no longer felt comfortable in Parker’s office, if I ever had, so I motioned Poole to follow me,
and led the way back to my own office. It isn’t exactly that I felt Parker’s presence in his office, nothing like that; he
didn’t
haunt
the place, thank God, because it was expensive real estate and I couldn’t afford to let it stand vacant much longer. Nevertheless,
I couldn’t forget that I’d found his body there. The blood may have been washed away, but the memory of that moment was still
powerful. Violent death can’t just be forgotten or brushed aside—Susan Markham’s injunction to let the dead bury the dead
notwithstanding.

“So tell me,” I said to Poole, when we were at ease on leather chairs in my familiar wood-paneled and book-lined nest. “What
do you plan to do?”