Monday afternoon, Manhattan
Taylor Robinson’s office at Delaney amp; Associates was on the northwest corner of the second floor of the renovated East Fifty-third Street brownstone that Joan Delaney’s second husband had left her. Joan’s third husband had tried to get a piece of the brownstone in their divorce, but Joan’s attorney-who later became her fourth husband-managed to chase him off. After the fourth died two years later, Joan’s claim on the house was forever uncontested due to her resolve to never marry again.
The four-story brownstone, located on the north side of East Fifty-third between Second and Third Avenues, was a short two-block walk from Sutton Place, where Taylor often sat on a bench and ate a sack lunch on warm days. She would stare out over the East River, the Queensboro Bridge towering over her left shoulder, and for a few short moments leave Joan Delaney’s shrill voice behind her. The screeching of modems and fax tones, the smell of toner and burnt coffee, the background din and chatter of a busy office became just a memory blocked from her mind, at least for a while.
As Taylor sat in her tiny, high-ceilinged office on a Monday that had already seen more than its usual share of crises, she longed for a warm spring day and the benches of Sutton Place that overlooked the blue-gray ribbon glimmering in the sun that was the East River. Unfortunately for her, this was still February. A bitter wind poured down the av-enues, its momentum only slightly broken by the concrete and plate-glass forest of Manhattan. The temperature wasn’t expected to reach twenty degrees today, and the wind chill/
agony factor was well below zero.
Taylor was frazzled and already weary before her normal one o’clock lunchtime. She felt as if she had been locked in a room full of hungry, yapping Chihuahuas, not one of which could actually bring her down and finish her off, but all of whom together could wear her down and frustrate her nearly to the point of screaming.
Her state of mind and morale weren’t helped by having a houseguest all weekend. It wasn’t that Michael Schiftmann was such a bother. In fact, he was the most low-maintenance houseguest she’d had in months. But there had been the party she’d thrown for him Saturday night, and on Sunday afternoon she’d accompanied him down to the Village for his signing at a small mystery bookstore. After the book signing, she had taken Michael, the bookstore owner and his wife, and a couple of other hangers-on out for a dinner that lasted until nearly ten. By the time she got home, decompressed, and got Michael all squared away in the guest room, it had been past midnight before she collapsed into bed herself.
Sundays were almost always sacred to Taylor; a day when she often didn’t even bother to get out of her bathrobe until dinnertime. It was a day of lounging around reading the Sunday Times, catching an old movie on cable, drinking hot herb tea in the middle of the afternoon, and perhaps even taking a nap. Sundays restored Taylor Robinson, centered her, gave her that calm place deep inside herself in which to rest and recharge. She knew that by the end of the week, the loss of a Sunday was going to leave her ready to shut down completely. In essence, she’d already worked eight days without a day off, with at least four more to go.
Even tonight was shot, as Michael’s publicist had set up a signing at the Barnes amp; Noble superstore on the Upper West Side. It never occurred to Taylor not to accompany her star author to the signing; that sort of thing simply wasn’t done in Taylor Robinson’s way of conducting business.
Taylor heard a knock on the doorjamb of her office. She turned as Neil Macher, the head of contracts for the agency, stuck his head in. A lock of thinning, greasy black hair hung down over his forehead as he stared over the top of his smudged glasses.
“Bad time?”
Taylor looked around her tiny twelve-by-fifteen office, its floor-to-ceiling bookcases, and its one visitor’s chair piled high with manuscripts.
“Sorry I can’t offer you a seat,” she said, shrugging helplessly.
Neil stepped in, a stack of papers in his left hand. “Who’s got time to sit, anyway? Is Michael coming in today?”
“Probably not,” Taylor answered. “I’m meeting him for drinks and a quick dinner before his signing tonight.”
“And then he’s flying out tomorrow, right?”
Taylor nodded. “Boston.”
“Then you’ll have to get him to sign these tonight, okay?
Don’t let him get away without going over these contracts and getting his signature.” Neil leaned over a stack of manuscript boxes and extended his hand to Taylor.
“Have these incorporated the last-minute changes we talked about?” she asked, taking the half-inch-thick stack of papers.
Neil nodded quickly. “I’ve gone over them, Joan’s gone over them, and legal’s gone over them. Their legal department signed off on them last night. Everything’s cool and ready for signatures.”
Taylor smiled. “God, Neil, my first seven-figure deal.”
Neil grinned back at her. “Maybe a little celebration’s in order tonight.”
“I just hope Michael’s happy with all this.”
Neil backed out of the door frame, waving his hand dismissively. “If he’s not, he’s crazy.” He stopped, looked back at Taylor with a raised eyebrow.
“Then again, he’s a writer. By definition, he’s crazy.”
Neil closed the door as he left, leaving her to make one last review of the contracts. It was, by any sane and reasonable standard, a fantastic deal for the author and the largest book contract Taylor had ever negotiated by a factor of ten.
Under the terms of the three-book contract, Michael Schiftmann would receive one-point-five million dollars for the next book in his series, to be called The Sixth Letter. For the seventh installment, he would receive an advance of two-point-five million, and for the eighth book in the series, and last in the contract, he would receive four million.
“Eight million for three books,” Taylor whispered.
“Jeez …”
And, she reminded herself, fifteen percent of that eight million went to Delaney amp; Associates. One-point-two million in commissions, a percentage of which after expenses would go to Taylor in salary and bonuses.
Taylor smiled, but behind the smile was an undercurrent of tension. To her credit, Taylor had managed to negotiate a contract that not only provided a hefty advance for each book, but also built in a number of other provisions to protect her client. The contract was what Hollywood called “pay or play,” which meant the advances were nonreturnable. If for any reason-including turning in an unacceptable manuscript-publication of any of the three books was canceled, Michael got to keep the money. If the books exceeded their sales goals, there was a sweet performance bonus built into the deal, but if they failed to meet their targets, Michael in-curred no penalty. The publisher retained most subsidiary rights-foreign, paperback, audio, electronic-but had to split all sub rights revenue with Michael. And on top of that, her client had retained all film and television rights to the books and all the characters appearing in the books, which would mean additional revenue down the road.
All in all, Taylor felt, this was the kind of contract that would free up an author from ever having to worry about money again. It meant artistic and financial freedom. It was, Taylor mused, what Humphrey Bogart called “fuck you money.”
But Taylor also knew that this kind of book deal held some intrinsic dangers for an author as well. The industry was full of legendary tales of writers who’d received huge, phenomenal, record-breaking contracts and then crashed and burned. Fame and wealth were deadly if one didn’t have the psychological underpinnings to handle it. Writers were notoriously fragile, which was why in a profession that gave its top practitioners prestige, money, and freedom from the soul-killing strictures of traditional corporate life, there was so much depression, substance abuse, divorce, insanity, and suicide. The occupational hazards were real and very, very dangerous.
And as far as Taylor could tell, the jury was still out on Michael Schiftmann. Could he handle this? Would his ego explode over his intellect? Would he, in the greatest danger of all, come to believe his own press?
As Taylor’s eyes strained to read every word of the fine print, she couldn’t help but replay in her own mind that first conversation with Michael Schiftmann when he’d called her office just over five years ago. Taylor had been a literary agent herself for only a short while, having decided after several years as an editorial assistant that spending sixty hours a week for twenty grand a year simply wasn’t worth it.
Joan called her that late autumn morning and practically shouted, in her usual manner, that she’d made an appointment with a writer from Ohio or Illinois or some such place out there and now didn’t have time to keep it.
“You talk to him!” Joan ordered.
“But who is he?” Taylor asked.
“Shiffman, Pittman, Sheffield, Schmetering, something or other … Hell, I don’t know, just handle it!” Then Joan slammed the phone down.
“But I don’t even know who-” Taylor protested to the now silent phone.
Asking herself if any of this was worth it, Taylor had buzzed the receptionist and at least gotten the writer’s accurate name, then asked that she hold him off for a couple of minutes while she cleared a place for him to sit.
Five minutes later, Taylor walked out into the reception area and introduced herself to a man about her age and several inches taller, wearing khaki pants and a worn corduroy jacket. He needed a shave and a haircut, and the briefcase under his arm was scuffed leather with tarnished hardware.
He looked nervous and, Taylor thought, a bit like a frustrated graduate student. There was something about him, though, that Taylor found almost boyish. She invited him back to her office, where she apologized for inconveniencing him and explained that Ms. Delaney had suddenly been tied up in conference and would be unable to see him today.
“But how can I help you?” Taylor asked in as polite and professional a tone as she could muster.
For a moment, he sat there staring at her, his dark eyes darting shyly around the room. Taylor found herself wondering how old he was. Finally, he spoke. And as he began his story, Taylor found herself curiously yet cautiously drawn to him, as if somehow an element of fate or destiny had brought them together.
Michael Schiftmann explained to her that he had already published five novels in five years, all of them paperback mysteries. He went on to explain that as an unpublished writer, he had been turned down by every agent he’d queried with the exception of a man who operated out of his home in Lexington, Kentucky. That agent, as it turned out, was a dis-barred lawyer and former concert promoter whose wife was supporting the two of them by working at the local Kmart.
The agent had sold his first novel to the paperback imprint division of a major New York trade house for an advance of thirty-five hundred dollars. At the time, after nearly ten years of collecting rejection slips, Michael Schiftmann had been thrilled to finally break into print. His first novel was well-received and reviewed, even winning a nomination for a mystery award. Michael thought that finally his career was on its way.
But then the offer for his next book came back and he was shocked to find that with all the good reviews and the prize nomination, his first novel had failed to sell out its first printing. Michael’s editor explained that the best he could do was offer another thirty-five hundred.
Shock turning to disappointment, Michael took his agent’s advice and accepted the offer. Over the next four years or so, he went back to contract three more times, for a total of five published books. His latest book had sold for an advance of five thousand dollars. When Michael went back to contract for a sixth book, he told his agent he wanted a hardcover deal and at least a ten-thousand-dollar advance. The agent had laughed over the phone. When the agent came back with an offer of six thousand dollars, still mass-market paperback, Michael fired him on the spot and caught the next bus to Manhattan. Now he was staying in a midtown hotel that ca-tered to budget travelers, eating at hot-dog stands and kiosks, and making the rounds of literary agents all over town.
“So how many have you seen?” Taylor asked.
“You’re the third one today,” he admitted, “and the seven-teenth agent I’ve talked to since I got to town a week ago.”
“Any takers?” Taylor asked.
Michael’s face softened. Relaxed now after telling his story, he smiled at her. He had beautiful teeth, she noticed, and a charming smile. “Not so far,” he admitted.
He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a stack of paper, a partial manuscript along with a synopsis as a proposal.
“This is something completely new and different,” he explained. “I’ve spent the last five years writing good books that went nowhere. I learned what made a good mystery, a good crime novel, and I used that to write books that got me great reviews, awards, prizes. Everything a writer could want, except one thing: a living. So I’m breaking molds here, Ms. Robinson. What I’ve got here is the first in a projected series of twenty-six novels, which means if we make this work, we’ve both got job security for the next couple of decades. This is something nobody’s ever seen before. At least not like this …”
He handed her the stack of papers. Taylor read the title page: The First Letter.
“So,” Taylor asked, “what’s the one-sentence pitch?”
Michael looked at her. “In the battle between good and evil,” he said, “evil wins.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Interesting. Is your series protagonist likable, sympathetic?”
“He’s a brutal, sadistic serial killer,” Michael answered.
“And you’re going to love him.”
Taylor pursed her lips, stared down at the manuscript, and let out a long sigh. “That’s a tall order, Mr. Schiftmann. Usually the bad guy loses and that makes people feel good. Af-firms their moral view of life.”
“This book’s going to change their moral view of life.”
“Hmm,” she said. “Again, tall order.”
“Give it a try,” he said, motioning toward the manuscript.
“It works.”
“Maybe,” she said. “We’ll see.”
Taylor felt the manuscript in her hands, thumbed through the first few pages and saw that it was professionally prepared, that it had the feel of a manuscript done by a pro. You could tell a lot, Taylor knew, about the look of a manuscript.
When a novel came in typed single-spaced on onion-skin paper with handwritten corrections and hand-drawn illus-trations, it was almost always as badly written as it was prepared.
“So tell me, Mr. Schiftmann,” she asked casually. “Where do you want to be as a writer?”
“At the top,” he said without a moment’s hesitation. “On The List.”
Neither of them had to elaborate about which list he was referring to. She eyed him for a second. He didn’t appear delusional or crazy, just determined. She wondered if he knew what he was in for. She found herself feeling protective toward him, as if she could somehow shelter him from the price one paid for that kind of success.
“Can you get me there?” he asked. “Can we go there together?”
“That depends,” Taylor said, looking down at the manuscript. “It all depends on the pages.”
“Fair enough,” Michael Schiftmann said. “I’m staying at the Midtown Motor Lodge on Eighth Avenue and Fifty-sixth. I’ve got enough money to stay two more days, and then I’m on the dog back home. I’d sure like to know something before I leave, if that’s possible.”
“And where is home?” Taylor asked.
“Barberton, Ohio,” Michael replied.
“Never heard of it,” Taylor admitted.
“Nobody has. It’s working class, industrial. Close to Cleveland.”
“Oh,” Taylor said.
“Yeah.”
Taylor stood up, offered him her hand. He took it and held it firmly as they shook.
“Mr. Schiftmann, I’ll call you.”
Perhaps it was that Taylor Robinson had only about a dozen clients on her roster, not one of which was actually making a living as a writer. Perhaps it was something in Michael Schiftmann’s eyes or voice or the way he stood or the way he sat that convinced her he was somehow different from the parade of frustrated novelists who moved from agent to agent like hungry wolves roaming an unforgiving landscape. In any case, Taylor spent the rest of the afternoon reading Michael Schiftmann’s book proposal, and after that she called a friend who worked at the publishing house that had published his first five books.
Taylor Robinson learned that Michael Schiftmann’s agent had never pushed for him, had sold him cheaply into a house that was famed for paying little and promoting even less.
His books had languished first in the warehouses, then on the shelves, and finally on the tables containing stacks of remaindered books that were sold practically by the pound in discount stores and buyers’ clubs. The ones that were still lying around after that were pulped, ground back into mash, and recycled for another writer’s words.
Not one of them was still in print. Michael Schiftmann’s career as a writer was history. The nominations and prizes, the reviews and the praise meant nothing. Taylor Robinson was experienced enough to know that there was a lot more to publishing success than writing well and producing good books. But never had she seen a writer more ill-treated.
After reading Michael’s manuscript, Taylor Robinson decided to change that. In The First Letter, the series debut, Michael introduced his protagonist, known only as Chaney.
In Chaney, Michael had created a protagonist who was the personification of true evil, a man for whom murder became an act of artistic and personal liberation. Yet he was also a charming, intelligent, and erudite man, with a sense of style and taste that couldn’t help but endear him to readers. As Michael was careful to establish from the beginning, Chaney’s victims never exactly deserved their fate, but they weren’t entirely innocent, either. It wasn’t what Taylor could call a new moral code-just as there are no new stories, there are no new moral codes-but the story, in its unusual approach to style and voice, reflected the ethically ambiguous state of the world today.
More important, the book was a damn good read. Taylor convinced Joan Delaney to let her take him on as a client.
That night she phoned Michael at his hotel and told him that if he’d have her, she was willing to take him on. And while she couldn’t guarantee him a slot on The List immediately, she could promise him that no matter what, she’d break her back for him if that’s what it took.
Taylor sold the first book for ten grand, not much in the pantheon of contemporary book deals, but it was a hardcover deal to a publishing house that took its writers seriously and promoted the hell out of them. The First Letter was published just in time to hit the bookstores for Christmas. The first reviews were astounding. The reviewers either loved the book more than anything that had come off the line in years, or they vilified the book so passionately that one couldn’t help but go buy a copy to see what all the hubbub was about. What the reviews didn’t do for the book, word of mouth-that most powerful of all publishing promotional tools-did. The book earned out its advance in a month and was sold to nine foreign publishers, then into a hefty paperback reprint deal that garnered enough to allow Michael to quit his job as a proofreader for good. The second in the series went for seventy-five thousand, the third for a hundred and a quarter. The fourth book sold for two hundred thousand dollars and missed The List by only a couple of slots. She’d gone back to contract for Michael Schiftmann a year and a half ago and gotten him a neat three hundred thousand for The Fifth Letter. By then, momentum alone carried the book onto The List.
Taylor Robinson had worked herself bleary-eyed for Michael, and she had brought him from a third-rate publisher to the top of the heap. They’d worked closely together, with Taylor bringing all her editorial talent and skills to bear on the books. They had become true partners in a life’s work.
And now, with this contract, she was set to make him rich.
So, Taylor Robinson wondered that icy February afternoon in her overheated office, why was she so uneasy?