Westlake, Donald E - Novel 42 Read online

  This was Dewey Heffernan. When he stood up, as he did at my arrival, smiling and bobbing his head and extending his skinny pale hand to be shaken, he proved to be a long drink of water, probably six-four. He was very thin and bony, and the salesman who’d sold him that sport jacket must have some sense of humor. It was a large yellow thing of giant checks, like what Bob Hope used to wear when playing in Damon Runyon stories, and it made Dewey Heffernan look as though he were wearing a taxicab. Somewhere in there were a white shirt and tan tie, possibly belonging to the driver.

  Then there’s the Dewey Heffernan head. A very high and shiny ivory forehead was surrounded by spikes and thistles of rough black horsehair. A scraggly beard and moustache with intermittent white skin in it looked like the symptom of some awful dermatological disorder. Between these two unfortunate examples of hair-growth was a retrousse nose with nostrils that looked out at the world rather than demurely down at his lip, a broad mouth full of big square teeth, and spaniel eyes that blinked and stared and beheld the variety of the world with unflagging wonder. “You must be Tom Diskant!” said this wonder, happy as a fresh-hatched cuckoo, as the maitre d’ pulled out my chair.

  “If I must, I must,” I said fatalistically, accepted his overly energetic handshake, and took the seat the maitre d’ punched into the back of my knees. “Sorry I’m early.” I put the galleys package to one side on the table.

  Dewey dropped into his chair. “Boy, I know what you mean! I was too excited to hang around the office!”

  “Would you gentlemen care for something from the bar?”

  “Nah,” Dewey said. “Gee, Tom, I— Wait a minute; do you want a drink or something?”

  “Maybe so,” I said casually. “Bourbon and soda.” (There’s something about meeting a new editor that drives me to that particular drink.)

  “I guess I’ll try one of those, too,” Dewey said, grinning at the maitre d’, who gave him the old fish-eye and stalked off.

  Dewey’s happy face zeroed in on me again. “Gee, Tom,” he said, “I’m really happy about this. When Miss Douglas handed the file over, she said you were a little worried, maybe the new editor wouldn’t be as enthusiastic as she was, but gosh, Tom, I want you to know I think The Christmas Book is just great! I mean it, it’s fabulous!”

  “Thank you,” I said modestly.

  “See, I have a lot of ideas about publishing,” he said, shoving his silverware and display plate out of the way so he could lean his forearms on the table. “New ideas to shake up the whole industry!”

  “Ah.”

  “And this book of yours, Tom, this book of yours fits right into what I’m thinking about.”

  That was depressing. I looked politely interested.

  “Pictures,” he said. “Color. Youth appeal. You see what I mean?”

  “Yes, I do,” I said.

  “We’ve got to attract that youth audience, Tom,” he told me. “Those are the readers of the futureV'

  “Undoubtedly true.”

  “They see things differently, Tom! They’re used to, they’re used to, video screens. Display! Computer programs! Rock and roll!”

  “Ah hah.”

  “If we want youth to be interested in us, Tom,” he said, leaning close over his forearms, eyes and nostrils staring impassionedly at me, “ive have to be interested in what interests youth.”

  “Interesting,” I said, as our waiter brought our drinks. Dewey lifted his. “To a long association, Tom!” “Mmm,” I said.

  We drank, he putting away close to half his bourbon and soda at once, then grinning and nodding and gesturing with the glass as he said, “Nice!”

  I thought: He has never tasted bourbon before. “Dewey,” I said, “if we’re going to get to know one another, maybe you could tell me a little about yourself.”

  “Oh, sure,” he said. “See, I’ve always been interested in books, you know.”

  But he was interrupted at that point by the waiter, bringing us our menus and wishing to tell us today’s specials. He did so in a sepulchral tone, as though reporting a list of towns destroyed by the Italian earthquake, during which the happy Dewey polished off his drink. When the funeral march of specials was done, the waiter picked Dewey’s glass out of his fingers and said, “Would you care for another, sir?” “Yeah, sure! Tom?”

  “I’ll nurse this one,” I said.

  The waiter went away, and Dewey said, “Let’s see. Where was I?”

  “Interested in books.”

  “Right. So naturally I was an American Lit major. Northwestern. I got my Master’s in June and came straight to New York!”

  I stared at him. I couldn’t think of a single thing to say. ‘’I have a cousin at Random House,” this Master went on, “but there weren’t any openings there—”

  Smart cousin.

  '—but he has a good friend on the board at Solenex, so he—”

  “Solenex?”

  “That’s the company that owns Craig, Harry & Bourke.”

  “Oh,” I said. I had vaguely known that Craig, like most of the other New York publishing companies, was no longer an actual independent publisher but was a subsidiary of some conglomerate somewhere, but the fact had never seemed to matter very much. Not till now.

  “Anyway,” Dewey said, “This fellow at Solenex called somebody at Craig, Harry & Bourke, and the next thing I knew, I was an editor!”

  This is not happening, I thought. And yet it was. The waiter brought Deweys new drink and I said, “On second thought, I believe I will have another.”

  The waiter gave me a dirty look and went away, and Dewey said, “Of course, this is still a trial period for me.”

  “For all of us,” I said.

  “Eh?”

  “Nothing. Never mind. Tell me more.”

  He gulped half a drink. “For right now, of course,” he said, “I’m not generating any of my own projects, but that will come. What Fve got on my plate so far is three books from Miss Douglas, and some war books a man named Scunthorpe had.”

  “The fellow who died.”

  “Oh, is that what happened to him?” Glugg went more bourbon into the Heffernan maw. “Anyway, what’s so exciting about your book is how it fits in so perfectly with what I want to do anyway!”

  “That is nice.”

  “See,” he said, gesturing widely, “I want to do adult books, but with the zing and zip of juveniles!”

  “Oh?”

  “Science fiction!” He brought his unsteady hands close together over the table, palms down and cupped slightly, as though holding down a soccer ball. “Books that just, just— fly out at you!” And his hands flew up and out and away, just missing the waiter with my new drink. “Pop-ups!” Dewey went on, all oblivious, staring madly at me. “You know what I mean? They put ’em in kids’ books! Why not grown-up books?”

  “Pop-ups in grown-up books,” I said.

  The waiter said, “Would you care to order?”

  Dewey drained his drink. “Yeah!” he said, but to me, not the waiter. “Start with science fiction, just to get the idea across, see? You turn the page, and the planet comes up, or the spaceship comes up!”

  Or the lunch, I thought.

  The waiter said, “Are you ready to order, gentlemen?” “But it wouldn’t,” Dewey said, “it wouldn’t, it wouldn’t have to stop there! All kinds of books. War books, historicals! You turn the page, and there’s the cavalry right there, comes right up!”

  “And there’s always pornography,” I suggested.

  Dewey blinked owlishly at me, stymied.

  The waiter said, “Would you like to order now?”

  “Yes,” I said firmly. “I’ll have the sole Veronique.”

  “And to begin?”

  “The endive salad.”

  “Thank you.” He turned to Dewey. “Sir?”

  Dewey frowned massively, looking utterly helpless. “I don’t know, I—” He stared at the closed menu beside him, then looked at me. “What was that you said?”r />
  “Sole Veronique."

  “Okay.” Dewey nodded to the waiter as he pointed at me. "That’s what I’ll have.”

  “And to begin?”

  “Begin?” said Dewey.

  “The other gentleman is having the endive salad.”

  “Oh. Okay. I’ll have that, too. Oh, and another one of these drink things.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The waiter left. Dewey rubbed a knuckly hand over his mouth, frowning at his place. A busboy removed the display plates, which startled Dewey; he jumped slightly, then stared after the busboy. I said, “What does Wilson have to say about The Christmas Book, do you know?”

  He considered that. “Who?”

  “Robert Wilson. The managing editor, or whatever his title is. The man in charge.”

  “Oh. I haven’t met him. Actually, I haven’t met many people yet. It’s the slow season, the summer.”

  “Yes.”

  “I suppose it’ll pick up in September.” He sounded a bit wistful.

  “Yes, it probably will.”

  Conversation lagged until his next drink was brought; after one slug, he grinned at me and said, “Let’s talk about the book.”

  “Good,” I said. “Let’s.”

  “It isn’t too late to add stuff,” he said. “I asked around specifically on that, and we still have time.”

  “The book’s pretty full, Dewey,” I said.

  “Well, we could take some stuff out,” he said. “There’s some kinda downers in there, all that Death Row stuff and all.”

  “Norman Mailer won’t give the money back,” I said. He didn’t understand me. “What?”

  “I’m pretty sure Truman Capote won’t either.” “Money?”

  “The publisher has paid for all those things, Dewey,” I explained. “I think the company would be upset if they paid for things and then we didn’t use them.”

  “Oh,” he said. “Well, what about the real old stuff? Old paintings and things.”

  “What did you want to replace them with, Dewey?” Our endive salads arrived, but I paid no attention. I was visualizing Santa Clauses, popping-up.

  But what Dewey said was, ‘'Heavy Metal''

  “Beg pardon?”

  “You know. The cartoonists that work in Heavy Metal or The National Lampoon."

  "Heavy Metal’s a magazine,” I said, remembering.

  “Yeah, sure! It’s youth, Tom!”

  Youth. Anatomically correct sex comic strips; science fiction comic strips in which people’s heads are blown off in careful red detail; drug comic strips. In place of all those old paintings and things.

  Dewey was saying, “We could get some great stuff from those guys, Tom! Korban! Crumb! Really terrific impact, audience grabbers. Put some zing in the book!”

  I filled my mouth with endive, to give me time to think. Watching me do so, Dewey did the same. And what I thought was this: This creature cannot actually hurt me, because his ideas are utterly impractical and absurd. We are to have copies of this book in the stores late in October, which means that now, late in July, there isn’t time to commission a Heavy Metal cartoonist to give us a drawing of Santa Claus fucking a space monkey. So he is merely babbling, and cannot actually hurt me at all.

  And what I further thought was this: On the other hand, Dewey Heffernan cannot help me in any way. His eagerness for the book adds up to the same thing as some other caretaker editor’s indifference, because nobody over at Craig will give this buffoon the time of day. Even if he knew how to talk to publicity or sales or production, even if he could find his way to their offices, they would pay him not the slightest bit of attention. What I have been given for an editor this time is a vacuum.

  And what I finally thought was this: Since he can neither hurt nor help me, since he is merely a child learning how to use a push-button phone and what you do in a midtown restaurant at lunchtime, since he is merely a trainee learning at my expense—who, if he remembers this lunch at all ten years from now, will look back on it in wincing embarrassment—there’s no point getting mad at him, or insulting him, or getting on my high horse. So I swallowed my endive, and took a deep breath, and smiled, and said, “Good salad, huh?”

  “Yeah!” he said.

  He ordered another bourbon when the sole Veronique came. No one mentioned wine, and I chose not to have a third drink. Dewey was very amused about the grapes on his fish. He told me about college days, and about his plans for knocking the publishing world on its ear, and in the course of lunch he became quite drunk. The waiter and I both had to help him figure out the tip and how to sign the credit card slip and all that, and then he would have left the galleys package behind if I hadn’t remembered it. He didn’t seem to realize he was drunk, but just thought he was having a good time.

  I walked him as far as his building, which I felt was good Samaritan enough; when last seen, Dewey was staggering toward the wrong bank of elevators, the galleys package clutched to his chest the way schoolgirls carry their books.

  I then took a train, and the 3:50 ferry, and walked to this house where I have removed most of my clothes, and now it’s my turn to get drunk.

  Sunday, July 3lst

  HOME again. In more ways than one, since I finally have my office back. Though that may not be permanent.

  At the moment, Lance has taken Gretchen and Joshua to California for a two-week stay with relatives of his—of theirs, too, come to think of it—in Marin County, north of San Francisco. He’ll be back in two weeks, and is supposed to have some sort of alternate living quarters worked out by then, but I must say I’ve begun to lose faith in Lance’s ability to get his life in order.

  After its shaky beginning, with Mary and the blessedly- departed Vickie, the month’s vacation worked out very well. The kids took care of themselves to an extent that just isn’t possible here in the city, and Ginger and I had time to get sort of reacquainted and remember why we’d come together in the first place. I did a lot of work—magazine pieces, and a start on a presentation for a book about the history of greeting cards that Annie thinks maybe she can get Hallmark or somebody to subsidize—and we both got healthier and healthier, and hardly fought at all.

  Friday was Ginger’s thirty-fourth birthday; the annual trauma. Nobody ever wants to be the age they are, and this was no exception. We went to the local restaurant, Le Dock, just the two of us, and splurged on champagne, and Ginger got wistful and misty-eyed toward the end of the evening, saying, “Where are we headed, Tom? Where are we going? What are we doing? Where are we all headed?”

  “Ginger,” I said, my hand on hers on the table, “why don’t we get married?”

  She looked at me with such alarm and shock that I thought she might leap to her feet in another instant and flee the table, the restaurant, the island and possibly the country. However, she didn’t; instead, she stared wide-eyed at me while I had plenty of time to realize what an insane thing that had been to suggest: What if she’d said yes?

  Well, she wasn’t going to say yes, that much was clear from the beginning. What she did say, at last, on a rising inflection, was, “Whaa-^//?”

  Did I have to repeat myself? Did I now have to justify my moment’s madness? “It just seemed an idea,” I said.

  She withdrew her hand from mine, closed it around the champagne glass, and shakily drank. Then she frowned at me for a few seconds, frowned at the table, shook her head and said, in a tone of quiet awe, “That was really very nice," as though things that were nice came her way so seldom she hardly recognized them. “It was,” she said, agreeing with herself, and looked at me again as a pair of large tears grew in her eyes and rolled down her cheeks, glistening in the candlelight. “That was so sweet, Tom,” she said, putting her hand back on mine. “I’ll never forget that.”

  I probably never will, either.

  It did all end well, however, my gesture accepted for the noble act it was, without my having to stand by it. We weaved our way homeward from the restaurant by the pale
light of the just-past-full moon and sat on the rear deck in the silver darkness for nearly an hour, silent, holding hands. I fell asleep for a while, and I think Ginger did, too.

  The next day, yesterday, Lance came out in the morning to hamper his childrens packing. Kids travel with ridiculous things, and they never seem to mind how many different suitcases and cartons and duffle bags they fill: “You can’t carry that much,” is being said, at any instant in time, by probably several thousand exasperated parents to several thousand uncomprehending children all over America. In this instance, of course, I was all in favor of Gretchen and Joshua taking with them to Marin County every comic book, every soccer ball, every shiny stone and broken scallop shell, every LP record and tattered magazine and half-deck of playing cards and single sneaker and cuddly doll and Incredible Hulk poster they wanted to take to Marin County, because otherwise I would have to transport all that crap here to New York; which eventually, of course, I did have to do, today.

  At the last possible minute yesterday, Gretchen realized there were several thousand other Gretchens (all these kids look the same and most of them have the same half-dozen names, its like a science-fiction movie) that she must say goodbye to, so off she went, so of course they missed that ferry and Lance had a conniption, and pretty soon everybody was yelling at everybody else, except that Ginger and I didn’t have any reason to yell at one another and therefore didn’t, which even further increased our sense of solidarity.

  Lance, in his rage, kept establishing the point that this delay would mean they’d have to take a taxi from Bay Shore directly to Kennedy Airport in order not to miss their plane, rather than take the Long Island Railroad to Jamaica and then a cab which he had previously worked out and which would be much less expensive, but it’s useless to talk to children about how expensive or cheap things are. They knew Lance was angry, that’s as far as their comprehension could go. Gretchen blubbered until the next boat, and was still blubbering as it left to cross the Great South Bay, and for all I know she’s still blubbering now, in Marin County.