Jack Henry sat in a rocker on his cedar deck and faced west. The big red sun was sinking into the wetlands around the large tidal pond. He sipped his gin and tonic-his third-and felt relaxed, but also tense. He had the means to turn financial ruin into financial gain. The five million dollars-a tax-free death benefit-would pay off the government and his creditors and buy him three or four more years of comfort, and also buy him time to turn out a few more best sellers. The last two books, written perhaps too quickly under the stress of financial pressure, had not been up to his usual high standards. He could do better than that with a five-million-dollar cushion. He owed that to his readers.
And, of course, he’d have a new agent. Someone who believed in him. Someone who could negotiate a high advance for a three-book deal with a better publisher. “Someone,” he said aloud, “younger and hungrier than the late Stan Wykoff.” The late Stan Wykoff. He liked the sound of that.
Or he could liquidate everything here, take the five million, and move to St. Barths or the Bahamas. Maybe the Cayman Islands. He pictured himself in a nice beach house with servants. He smiled.
Then he frowned. Yes, he had the solution-but did he have the will to… well, do it?
In his younger days he had been a risk taker, but the risks were always calculated and the reward was always worth the risk. What he was contemplating might not be worth the risk, even with a five-million-dollar reward. But… well, what was the alternative? Poverty. No more nights at Elaine’s. Cleaning his own toilet.
In his early writing career he’d written a number of police procedural novels-crime novels-and he’d done a lot of research on the subject of murder. A homicide detective by the name of John Corey had once told him, “The perfect murder never looks like a murder. It looks like an accident. Right out in the open. And the murderer calls the cops right away. The best accident is the victim falling off a boat. Off the cliff is good, too. Gun went off by accident is a little dicey, but it can work. Everyone knows it wasn’t an accident, but how you gonna prove beyond a reasonable doubt that it was murder?” Corey had added, “Have a good story and stick to it, and make sure there are no witnesses.”
Detective Corey had given him some good inside tips on the perfect murder, and Jack remembered all of them and had incorporated some of them into his novels. His fictional detectives always got their man, of course, but Jack had always wanted to write a book where the killer outsmarted the law. “That happens in real life,” he assured himself. “Smart killers get away.”
A big crow sat on the railing of his deck and stared at him closely, waiting perhaps for him to move off and leave his bowl of peanuts. The crow, he thought, must be a literary agent. He grabbed a handful of nuts-about 15 percent-and flung them at the big black bird. The crow flew off, then circled back, and landed on the lawn where the nuts had fallen and began pecking at them. “Vulture,” Jack said. “Bloodsucking parasite.” Which reminded him to call his agent. He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and dialed Stan Wykoff.
Wykoff answered, “Hi, Jack. What’s up?”
“Not much. I’m out at the beach, and I thought I’d catch up with my old pal and agent.”
“Okay. Well, not much to report.”
“How’s the deal going with Columbia?”
“The country or the movie studio?”
“The movie studio, Stan.”
Stan replied, “There is no deal, Jack. Just some interest in Into the Night.”
“ Into the Dark Waters.”
“Right. They like it. It got good coverage, but-”
“Don’t take less than half a mil for a two-year option.”
“Let’s see if they offer.”
“I want points and a screen credit no smaller than the producer’s.”
“Okay… I’m in the middle of something, Jack. Can I call you back?”
“What are you doing this weekend?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Come on out. I have a great place this year. Plenty of room. Pool and tennis court.”
“Sounds tempting, but-”
“I’m going to the Southampton Library fund-raiser tomorrow afternoon. Fifty, sixty big authors under the tent, all signing their latest for a good cause. You can poach.”
“I don’t poach, Jack.”
“You can make their acquaintance, buy a signed copy of their book, and leave your card on their table. They all hate their agents, anyway.”
There was a short silence, then Stan said, “Well…”
“Take the train out. I’ll pick you up at East Hampton station, we’ll go to The Palm for a few drinks and a steak, then maybe we can prowl. Call me with your ETA.”
“Well…”
“I can’t promise we’ll get laid, but I can promise we’ll get drunk. And tomorrow you’ll have fifty potential victims under one tent. Plus a cocktail party afterwards with lots of top editors who you’ll know. See you later.” He hung up.
Jack sat back in his rocker and finished his gin and tonic. Well, he thought, this story is going to have a twist. Author bites agent. Plus a happy ending. Author keeps a hundred percent of what he makes.
Jack met Stan Wykoff at the East Hampton train station, and by 8:30 P.M. they were at the bar in the celeb- studded Palm restaurant. The Palm in Manhattan and the one here in East Hampton were Jack’s kind of place: overpriced, which kept the riffraff out, great steaks, Alpha male clientele, waiters who knew who he was, and women who appreciated all of the above. And if things went right this weekend, he could continue to be a regular at both Palms. If things did not go right, he’d be getting his beef at Burger King.
Jack had a scotch and Stan had white wine. Jack chatted up the lady bartender who was young enough to be his daughter. Stan played with his BlackBerry, probably, Jack thought, texting his ex-wife, imploring her to come back. Stan Wykoff was the antithesis of the macho male characters that Jack Henry created in his novels, and the antithesis of Jack Henry himself. And yet, they’d once been friends and still called each other friend. The truth, however, was that they’d grown to dislike each other, and the only bond that remained was professional. And even that had been weakened when they’d stopped making money for each other. It was like a bad marriage-worse, actually, because they both secretly feared they might be worse off without the other. So they continued the charade.
Their table was ready and they sat. Stan had a salad and fish, and Jack had a bloody red steak and more scotch. This, Jack thought, was why he hated Stan Wykoff. The man ate like a bird, drank like a worm, and took care of himself like he was going to live forever. Plus, Stan was cheap and never picked up the tab for anything. Agents were supposed to give back a little of the 15 percent. Like send a limo now and then or maybe buy a goddamn lunch once in a while.
Jack Henry was a generous man, and he had the Amex bills to prove it. Cheap people pissed him off. He wanted to remind Stan that he couldn’t take it with him. But he could leave five million behind.
They talked about the publishing business, and Jack realized, not for the first time, that Stan Wykoff was not current on the new challenges facing the industry. Nor was he up on any good gossip. In fact, Stan had no clue about what was going on along Publishers Row. Stan did not read the trade journals or online publications or go to seminars or trade fairs or do many lunches with editors. In fact, Stan Wykoff mostly sat in his Upper West Side apartment doing who knew what all day. Meanwhile his midtown agency was run by two clueless, underpaid recent college grads whose most outstanding attributes were their tits. How, Jack wondered, did this guy survive? Well, partly on his past reputation and mostly on his stable of authors who hadn’t fired him yet. In fact, most of his authors lived out of town and weren’t around enough to figure out that Stan Wykoff was lazy and out of the loop. The editors knew this, of course, but they liked Stan Wykoff because he never drove a hard bargain. Jack Henry could attest to that.
And to add insult to injury, Stan Wykoff’s reputation, such as it was, was enhanced by his being the agent of best-selling author Jack Henry. It occurred to Jack, perhaps because of the alcohol, that both their careers and reputations were in decline and that this relationship-symbiotic or parasitic-was no longer working for them. They were both dying. The writer couldn’t write, and the agent couldn’t agent. And that, Jack knew, was the truth. In scotcho veritas.
