Killerfest (8 page)

I love that
name, she thought. 

CHAPTER 13 - SNAKE OIL

The Bascombe
was on Central Park South. According to the information supplied to Scarne by
Safeguard Security, it had 20 common rooms with almost 12,000 square feet of
total meeting space. The organizers of the Killerfest had reserved the
4,000-square-foot Grand Salon, which had a seating capacity of 650, for the
conference’s larger functions, as well as eight “breakout” meeting rooms for
seminars, agent pitch sessions and various receptions hosted by publishers. All
were located on the mezzanine level, and were accessible by stairs, escalators
and elevators.

Scarne arrived
at 3:30 P.M., just as the Thursday registration for the event began. Killerfest
conference staffers were checking people in at several large desks outside the
Grand Salon. He identified himself as the book critic of Shields Inc. He was
dressed much the way Cobb suggested, and felt ridiculous.

“Oh, yes, Mr.
Scarne, we’ve been expecting you,” gushed a sweet young thing who began to
shower him with a “V.I.P.” I.D. tag, free pens, pads, brochures, promotional
material and goodie bags full of bookmarks, candy bars, water bottles, key
rings and God knew what else. “It’s such an honor.”

“Does everyone
get one of these bags,” he asked. It was very heavy.

“Yes. But I
put some extra stuff in yours I thought you might like.” She gave him a
conspiratorial smile. “And if you want more, just ask. Did anyone ever tell you
that you look like Sebastian Junger?”

Her name tag
said, “Wendy Wasser,” and from the adoring look she gave him, Scarne was pretty
sure she would be glad to provide him with her own “goodies.” Bart Cobb had
been right. Maybe the clothes weren’t that bad.

“All the
time,” Scarne replied absently, thinking that the plethora of goodie bags would
be a security nightmare.

He spent the
next two hours checking every Killerfest meeting room and the bar areas. 
Fortunately, his I.D. tag didn’t identify his alleged occupation, so he was
able to mingle with arriving attendees. None of the women slipped him their
room key. He quickly gave up profiling people, since it appeared that every
nationality and race was represented. It would be like profiling at a reception
in the U.N. No one rode up on a camel or walked in carrying an RPG.

Scarne’s
canvassing attracted the attention of a beefy man in a brown suit that didn’t
quite cover the bulge of the gun on his right hip. The man sidled up to him.

“How you
doin’, bud? Looking for someone.”

The man’s eyes
ran up and down Scarne’s frame. It wasn’t a comment on how he was dressed. He
was looking for a telltale bulge himself.

“You’re the
house dick,” Scarne said. “Spotted me pretty quickly.”

“You don’t
look like a writer,” the man said.

“Neither does
Sebastian Junger.”

The hotel cop
smiled, but his eyes were still wary.

“
The
Perfect Storm
guy? You got a point. But you still don’t fit.”

The man’s eyes
flicked past Scarne. Backup.

“I’m supposed
to be a book critic.”

“Supposed to
be?”

Scarne felt
another man behind him.

“How about we
go to my office,” the first man said.

“Got coffee?”

***

The house
detective’s name was Cisneros and he was a retired N.Y.P.D. cop. The other guy
was named McKean and he went back on patrol as soon as they had established
Scarne’s credentials.

“You expect
trouble,” Cisneros asked.

“Be stupid not
to,” Scarne replied. “You’ve spoken to the Safeguard people?”

“Yeah. And to
the cops. They’ll have some plainclothes guys roamin’ around. And maybe even a
bomb-sniffing dog.”

“Won’t that be
bad for business?”

“It’s going to
be disguised, if that’s the word, as a service dog. The handler is supposed to
wear dark glasses and stumble a bit. Waste of time, in my opinion, but who
knows?”

“Yeah. I don’t
figure a bomb. But the goodie bags worry me.”

“We’ll keep an
eye on anyone carrying one after the first day. Most people leave them home or
in their rooms. But they don’t need a bag to sneak in a gun. By the way, you’re
not packing, are you?”

“Not now. But
I will be, starting tomorrow. You might want to let your guys know.”

“Sure thing.”

“Can I leave
this damn bag with you,” Scarne said, hefting it on the house cop’s desk. “I
think it’s got a bowling ball in it.”

Cisneros
looked in the bag and started pulling out books. He held one up for Scarne to
see.

“
Fifty
Shades of Gray
?”

Wendy was
obviously trying to prime the pump.

“Don’t ask,”
Scarne said.

 ***

By the time
Scarne finished with hotel security, it was time for the conference’s 6:30 P.M.
opening reception in the Grand Salon. It was hosted by Bengal Publishing and
featured a short presentation by Bengal’s dynamic chairman, Chandra Kahn, which
was to be followed by a cocktail hour with cash bars. The ever-helpful Wendy
tried to take him in tow to introduce him around but he forcefully discouraged
the attempt.

“I want to
remain as anonymous as I can,” he told her.

“I
understand,” she said, and squeezed his bicep.

“I thought
this would be more crowded,” he observed.

“About half
the attendees come in tomorrow morning,” Wendy explained. “But we have almost
300 signed up for this. Oh, there’s Mr. Khan. Isn’t he gorgeous. Don’t you want
to meet him?”

Scarne decided
that he did.

“Wonderful,”
Wendy said. “As soon as he’s finished speaking come to the stairs on the right
side of the dais.”

She flitted
away.

Scarne had no
trouble spotting Khan, who was much taller than anyone around him. He had
entered the salon by the side door, accompanied by a squat but powerfully built
dark-skinned man bursting out of an ill-fitting suit. The man’s eyes scanned
the crowd. After greeting Wendy, Khan bounded up the stairs, the girl in his
wake. Scarne took an end seat about half way back from the dais and studied
that man who had come in with Khan. He was standing at the foot of the dais,
still scanning. He had “bodyguard” all but written on his broad, flat forehead.
Scarne looked for the telltale bulge of a gun but couldn’t see one. The man
looked like a blockhouse; maybe he didn’t need one. But why, Scarne wondered,
did Khan need a bodyguard? Perhaps the threat to Quimper was making everyone
nervous. The bodyguard’s eyes locked on Scarne. I don’t fit in, so he’s marked
me as a potential problem, Scarne thought. He’s good.

Wendy was
holding a microphone, urging everyone in the audience to take their seats.
After they did, she thanked them all for coming and Bengal Publishing for
hosting the reception. There was a nice round of applause. Then, reading from a
small piece of paper, she began reciting the background of the man she was
about to introduce, who was standing off to the side of the dais. She hadn’t gone
two sentences when the man shouted, “Stop!” and took the mike from her.

“Thank you,
Wendy,” Chandra Khan said, nodding to the startled girl, who quickly moved off
the stage. “But I can’t stand to see you tell all these lies about me, even if
I wrote them.”

There was a
burst of laughter from the crowd, which he now had in the palm of his hand, as
was undoubtedly his intention, Scarne knew. Wendy went down the stairs

“How Bengal
Publishing got to where we are today is much less interesting than where we,
and the industry, are going. And we are going where you are going. For you, the
authors of tomorrow, are the future of publishing, in both print and digital.
Look at the person sitting next to you. He or she could be a best-selling
author by this time next year! If there is no one sitting next to you, just
look in the mirror when you get to your room.” More laughter. “And, hopefully,
Bengal will be your partner in that success.”

The crowd ate
it up. Scarne smiled. A snake oil salesman couldn’t have done it any better.
Khan then went into a concise, but detailed, explanation of how the publishing
industry was being revolutionized. He didn’t say anything Scarne didn’t already
know, but that didn’t matter to his listeners. Scarne took the time to study
the man. Khan was tall and obviously well-muscled beneath his form-fitting
black turtleneck. Dark complexioned with startling blue eyes and a full head of
jet black hair, he was ruggedly handsome and cut an imposing figures. His deep
voice and cultured British accent commanded respect and he strode around the
dais with both grace and assurance. 

“Tomorrow you
will start meeting people who are already successful authors. Many of them, I
am proud to say, are in Bengal’s literary stable. You will get a lot of great
advice and have the chance to pitch your books. Don’t be shy. You’ve paid good
money to be here. Get all you can out of it. Now, for a little surprise. I know
what this conference costs, so I’ve decided to make your stay a little easier. There
is a cocktail hour now, with a cash bar. Well, let’s make it my cash. Your
drinks are on me!”

Needless to
say, that got the loudest round of applause and quite a bit of cheering.

Scarne had to
admit that the whole 10-minute speech was a bravura performance. He made his
way to the front, where Wendy was talking to Khan near the door. As he
approached the bodyguard moved to block him.

“Oh, there you
are,” Wendy said. “Mr. Khan was anxious to meet you.”

The guard
didn’t budge until Khan barked something in a language Scarne didn’t recognize.
Then he slowly moved aside. His and Scarne’s eyes met and they both recognized
what they saw. He knows I’m no book critic, Scarne thought. And he’s no mere
bodyguard. Killers always know each other.

“Wendy was
just telling me about you, Mr, Scarne,” Khan said, putting out his hand and
nodding toward his bodyguard. “You will have to forgive Boga. He takes his
responsibilities very seriously. This whole Quimper situation has us all on
edge, I’m afraid.” Khan’s handshake was firm but not overpowering, his smile
and manner charming. “What do you all make of it over at Shields?”

For a moment
Scarne had almost forgotten who he was supposed to be.

“I’m only
privy to water-cooler gossip, but I get the impression they are taking it
seriously.”

“As they
should,” Khan said. “Hell, as we all should. A threat to any writer is a threat
to us all. Randolph and I disagree on a lot of things, but he has my support on
this, and I’ve told him so. These fanatics want to send us all back to the dark
ages. But enough preaching! Tell me, why did Shields decide to start reviewing
non-financial books?”

Scarne was
ready for that one.

“When
traditional print advertising started to fall off. We have to broaden our
appeal. I believe they’re looking to hire a movie critic as well.”

Khan gave
Scarne a strange look, then realized he was being kidded. He smiled
good-naturedly.

“Well, I
certainly hope that you will give the books that Bengal puts out as much
consideration as those by Schuster House.”

“Are you
suggesting that I may try to hurt your authors, Mr. Khan?”

Scarne hoped
he sounded offended.

“No. No. Of
course not. I didn’t mean to imply anything of the sort. I’m sure you will be
fair to everyone.”

“I take no
prisoners, Mr. Khan. Tripe is tripe. I’ll have you know that I’m preparing a
review of a first-time Schuster author that will probably make her a last-time
author. Can you imagine, she had the effrontery to write a takeoff on one of the
great American novels, creating a character who saves the family plantation
after the Civil War by selling bicycles. She calls it
Gone With the Schwinn
.”

This time,
Khan looked stunned. He finally stammered, “Well, Mr. Scarne, good luck. And if
you need any help getting any advance copies of our books, don’t hesitate to
call me directly.”

He walked
away. Wendy Wasser looked at Scarne.

“Gone With
the Schwinn?”

“I hear she
already sold the movie rights.”

 ***

From across
the room, Vendela Noss watched Chandra Khan. She wondered who the man he was
talking with was. Good-looking devil, if dressed funny. She saw Khan follow his
squat bodyguard out the door. When she looked back, the other man was gone. She
shrugged, adjusted her name tag, which said “Eleanora Fini,” and headed to one
of the four bars set up in the corners of the Grand Salon.

A middle-aged
woman fell into step besides her. 

“Wasn’t Mr.
Khan wonderful,” the woman gushed.

Southern
accent. Alabama? No. More like coastal Georgia. Vendela was a student of
accents. In her profession, that was a useful avocation.

“He certainly
was,” Vendela replied, not dishonestly. She, too, had been impressed with
Khan’s speech.

They reached
the bar, which, with drinks being free, was doing a brisk business.

“Fiction or
non-fiction,” the woman said as they got in line.

For a moment
Noss drew a blank, until she realized the woman was asking what kind of book
she was writing.

“Murder
mystery,” she finally replied.

“Where is it
set?”

“Liechtenstein.”

This is fun, Noss
thought.

“Why
Liechtenstein?”

“It has a
population of about 40,000. I wanted everybody to be a suspect.”

“That’s
brilliant. I bet no one ever thought of that.”

Both ordered
white wine. Deciding to be polite, Noss asked, “What are you writing?”

“Oh, nothing
as interesting as you. A cookbook. I belonged to a gourmet club in Savannah and
I’ve written down every recipe we’ve used over the last 20 years. Some are
quite unique, real down-home cooking.”