“Damn, the last thing I need is a game of handball! Tell Mm I'm tied up in a sales... no. I'll talk to him.” I waited until Miss Park left, then picked up the phone, trying to choose the right words. For a new thought had entered my head— Francine Anthony's death could very well be the solution to my own problems.
“Frank? Norm Connor here. Sorry as all hell I didn't get a chance to phone you back but I'm jammed up to my ass with work. Guess you've read about the Matt Anthony mess? Well, there's all sorts of complications here and I've been busier than a whore on a battleship.” I threw in a few more cuss words, trying to make it all sound like 'man' talk, and inwardly a trifle ashamed of the phony act I was putting on. The trouble was I hadn't decided what my play should be; impress Frank with the fact this had to be my own decision, or should I play the young squirt asking the seasoned older executive for advice?
Frank said he was busy as a bastard himself and needed a workout to shake up his brains. It would do me good, too. He finished with, “I've reserved a court at the Midtown for 1 p.m. Can you make it?”
“I think I can make time for it. You're right, be the change of pace I need. But only one game.”
“Fine. Then we'll lunch at the Ad Club. By the by, I'd like to read the Moorepark novel you have scheduled for September. Judging by the catalog blurb, it will be a shocker. Can I get a copy of the galleys?”
“I'll see if I can sneak out a copy. But I'll have to have it back within a week.” A deadline always seemed to heighten Frank's enjoyment of a book.
“Of course. One sharp, Normboy.”
Hanging up I phoned the sales department for a copy of the galley proofs, told them, “And give me one that's marked up, if you can.” The higher up you went the more obvious was the childish side of big money men. Or was it that I didn't expect to find any defects in the big shots? I never could figure who Frank impressed by reading galley proofs, unless it was himself.
Now that I had a plan in mind, I felt much better. Leaving my office I told Miss Park to see if the afternoon papers were out, and stopped at a vending machine in the hallway. I ate two chocolate bars for energy. I dropped in to see Maggie Gordon, who handles our mystery books. Maggie is a large woman with a plump face and a clear, perfect complexion, who goes in for tweedy skirts and long cigarette holders. She still speaks with a soft southern drawl, although she left Alabama more than a quarter of a century ago.
“Mag, has Bill mentioned the possibility of reissuing one of the Matt Anthony books?”
“Aha. I've checked with the paperback house that publishes Matt—naturally they're planning to cash in on the notoriety, too. They're going to put out a novel called—”
“We don't intend to cash in on any notoriety, Mag.”
She gave me a fat wink. “Come, come, Norm, you talk your way and I'll talk mine.” Mag held up a slim book with a mild pink dust jacket. The cover was a kind of surrealistic picture of a big-eyed, solemn-faced young girl leaning against a yellow mud adobe hut. She was gazing at a desert sun, very red and hot. A lean girl in smartly styled jeans and a chic blouse, she looked like a fashion model—except for a small gun in a jeweled hip holster. The girl and the clothes were in sharp contrast to the deadly gun, the plain hut. The title,
I thumbed through the novel. “This was before my time here. What's it about? Not wife killing, I hope.”
“Naw. A gal who is a religious fanatic kills a young professor who is about to prove one of the Disciples intended to poison Christ during the Last Supper. Wonderful snapper: she kills the guy with a diamond bullet.”
Mag looked up at me as if expecting a shout of joy. “She killed him with... a what?” I asked.
“A diamond slug. Being harder than the steel of the gun, the diamond completely changed the ballistics of the murder weapon, throwing the cops into a tizzy. Far-fetched, but it reads fast and well. Do you know Matt made a thorough study of the Bible for this book?”
“Can you spare this copy?”
“Along with 3489 unbound copies in the warehouse. Is all this definite, Norm?”
“No. Far from it. It's an advertising thing. Of course I'll let you know the moment it is decided.”
As I reached the door, Maggie said, “Knew I had something to see you about. I have a French suspense novel that didn't do well on the other side, but my scouts swear it's a damn good yarn. Would Michele have time to read it for me?”
“Too bad you didn't tell me yesterday, she's in Paris now —or will be in a few hours. Her parents aren't feeling too well. I had to take her to Idlewild at five this morning.” And my God, how the words dragged in my mouth like rotten cotton!
“Lazy-me, the lousy book has been on my desk for a week. Well, it can wait until she returns. Wish I could pick up my fat-self and put it down in Paris. Or Rome. I like Rome even better.”
“Michele may be gone the balance of the summer,” I said, leaving her office. The balance of the summer or the rest of my damn life?
I stopped at the promotion office to pick up a background file on Matt and when I returned to my office, Marty Kelly was waiting on the phone. He said, “I hear we're going to do pages of advertising around Matt Anthony. When do we start? Like to talk it over at lunch?”
“The goddamn office grapevine,” I said, making with a mock groan. “Not true, Marty. We
“I get the message. How about having chow with your old boss anyway?”
“Remember that another day, I'm tied up for lunch,” I said, wondering if I should tell him I was eating with Frank.
“I'll drop in to see you in a few days. I have some layouts on that prize book campaign I want you to okay. And listen, we can really go to town on Anthony, he's made to order for publicity.
“I'll let you know, Marty.”
