Breathe No More My Lady

Matt deliberately tried to cover up the killing, pass it off as an accident. He had some kind of alibi set-up... until a county detective got a confession from him hours later. I don't know, as of now, exactly what he's confessed to, but all of this doesn't put Matt in a good light.”

“I suppose the papers will get this?”

“Of course. I didn't make any attempt to hush it up. Be impossible anyway—we don't advertise in the tabloids and this is a juicy item. And it could ruin us if such an attempt ever became known. There's another bad angle: earlier in the afternoon Matt and his wife had a drag-'em-down fight over a guest—a Prof. Henry Brown. He was recently dismissed from his college chair for taking the Fifth Amendment in one of these investigations. True, Matt was—is—one of our writers, but in no way can Longson be considered responsible for the antics of a wild joker like Anthony. My advice is for us to say nothing, keep hands off.”

Long took his time relighting his cigar before he said, “Norm, you have an admirable grasp of the situation, but unfortunately it isn't as simple as you paint it. One of our main stockholders is a frightful biddy, a nosey old ass who has a hobby of raising stupid questions over every minor expense item. I don't have to tell you, what with TV, the trade books business hasn't shown any zooming profits. While we're not losing money, still... eh... you know how it is with neurotic women with too much time on their hands. At our last meeting she made an issue of unrealized advances to our authors; a relatively small sum, under $17,000. However she picked on Matt Anthony. Claimed she'd never heard of him and he's into us for about $4,000 on a war book he never wrote.”

Long stared at his desk, as if he'd just made a deep point I nodded, as though I knew what Bill was talking about.

Putting his cigar back in the ash tray, Long said, “Norm, it occurred to me that with all this bloody publicity we might reissue one of Matt's old novels. Since we already have the plates, production costs would be low. An edition of about 20,000 copies. Naturally the success of this would depend upon the advertising campaign you work up. If it comes off, things will be considerably easier for me at the January stockholders' meeting. You see, I'm asking for a new building, Norm, a really large outlay, and I wouldn't want the project side-tracked by minor squabbles. There's also this: I happen to know Matt is busted. While I'm not trying to sound mucky or altruistic he will be desperate for money now and I have the old-fashioned idea a publishing house should stand by its writers. I'm positive my father would have seen it that way.”

“Very commendable, sir,” I said, thinking, why is he giving me a lot of old fashioned slop? Even if we sold out the 20,000 copies Matt's royalties wouldn't cover more than the four grand advance. “It will require a tightly planned ad campaign. If it looks as if we are capitalizing in any way on the... the notoriety, it might affect our textbook sales. Bill, you realize that the moment we advertise, Longson is standing side by side with Anthony.”

“Now we're at the core of the problem. It will be up to you to decide if we should advertise, and the type ads. As advertising manager the entire project will be your responsibility. In short, I want you to very thoroughly consider the consequences of the wrong kind of advertising—if wrong is the correct word. Now, it may very well turn out you decide we should forget the matter, that we should not reissue the book. In that case, I shall completely respect your judgment Norm, I'm sure you know how much I hate pressuring people. Although the trial probably won't start for months, I've checked with our printers. They'll have an open press run on the 19th... giving you ten days to decide whether we do the Anthony book or not. And by God, if we ever get this new building we're going to have our own presses in the basement!”

I stood up as I told him, “I understand, sir.”

Long puffed on his cigar nervously. “I know it's a gamble. As you said, if it hits the public wrong, or seems done in poor taste—the consequences can be extremely rough. Against that we must weigh the matter of appeasing our stockholders, and our new building... plus the integrity of the house in standing by an author in distress.” Bill walked around the desk and placed an arm on my shoulder. “I fully realize I'm confronting you with a hell of a decision. As I said, I want you to feel perfectly free to turn it down if you think it's too risky. However, should you decide to go through with it, you must accept full responsibility. Do we understand each other, Norm?”

“Yes, sir. Since advertising is the key, it should be my decision.” I almost added, “and I sincerely welcome the challenge,” but I knew it would sound as phony as it was. And what was the old gag about beware a boss putting his arms on your shoulders—he's only placing you in position?

Walking me toward the door, Bill asked, “Have you ever met Matt Anthony?”

“Not really. I recall a story he did years ago in one of these literary anthologies; a charming bit about a Mexican kid who wants to be a football player. Quite different from his tough mystery novels.”

“He's a holdover from the post World War I school of writers. Last of the big, blustering, hero type. Mad Matt Anthony he's sometimes called. These days ever since the decadent school has been in vogue, most writers seem to be precocious fags.” Long laughed. “Don't quote me on that. All generalizations are fuzzy. But... well, if you ever meet Matt, you'll know what I mean.”

I said, “I lunched with him, years ago. I was working on one of those shoe string imitations of Esquire. The editor decided to bankrupt himself by paying $800 for Anthony's byline on a long adventure piece. Some horrible tripe about Matt's alleged visit to a Central American tribe of witch doctors. It was so bad no other mag would touch it. Anyway, Anthony wanted a thousand dollars, so we took him to lunch at the Algonquin—we were being very literary. Matt made the grand entrance, a salt-stained trench coat wrapped tightly around his big body. He was sporting a pointed beard and when he removed the coat he was wearing a faded sailor's striped Basque shirt and dungarees. I think he was between wives then and getting ready to sail the Atlantic. He talked loudly, drank a great deal, and of course we were the center of all eyes. The fact is, the editor became so high he finally agreed to pay the thousand. When we staggered back to the office I remember saying the article wasn't worth the money. The editor said, 'Sure, the sonofabitch can't write any more, but... by damn, doesn't he look like a writer?'”

Long clapped his thin hands together, one loud clap. “Norm, what a delicious story.'... but doesn't he look like a writer.' I must remember that, a perfect description of Matt Anthony. Well, enough of this. Let me know what decision you reach. Take your time. Confer with Kelly, if you wish.”

“No, this is my baby. I'll buzz you the second I get any clever ideas.” And what made me say, my baby? Oh Michele.

“Responsible ideas, Norm, rather than clever. And don't be afraid to say thumbs down, if you feel that way.”

Riding the elevator I thought, The bastard is giving me the horns. He wants to reissue the book but hasn't the guts. Norm, the whipping boy. Oh, hell, I'd do the same thing if I were in his position, I suppose.

As I walked into the office, Miss Park said, “I'm about to try the Turkish...”

I shook my head and closed the door. Taking out my blending kit, I mixed enough tobacco to last the day, glanced at my work sheet. There wasn't a thing that couldn't be put off for a day or two. Or that Miss Park couldn't