51. I'm thinking (frightening!)

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My book publishing blog, with murder mysteries woven through it.

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So I found myself thinking about...

• My and my family’s move and drive back from Pittsburgh to Boston.

• My road trips with Alan Fairbanks out of Boston and into much of New England.

• The mystery I’m watching on Brit Box,

• and its classic scene with detectives at the police station in front of a map with all the murder scenes push-pinned.

I sit up.

I go to my computer.

I start to Google.

Tomorrow:  I’m back!

50. I’ve been low before, and turned to making a book

BESTSELLERS & BEST FRIENDS

My book publishing blog, with murder mysteries woven through it.

If this is your first visit, be sure to start with “1. Let’s do it!”

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1991 was an awful year! Until August.

We (wife/Sally, son/Max, and me) relocated to Pittsburgh so that I could launch a regional publishing company. I was so frustrated by the large bookstore chains (bullies) that were key to successfully publishing nationally.   

So instead of going wide with book distribution, I liked the idea of going deep into a local market like Pittsburgh.  I’d publish local sports, local cookbooks, local calendars, local history, local biographies, local travel guides, etc.  Then distribute and sell deep into retailers of all sorts, not just bookstores.

But I never really stepped up to the intent. 

We pulled Max from his good buddies in Cambridge (MA), my wife didn’t give a damn about Pittsburgh (good lord, she hates football!), she had a miscarriage, I wasn’t making any money, I had health issues, my nearby brother was going through a divorce, then Sally got pregnant, at last, again, but then the pregnancy immediately went critical and Sally had to do full bed rest for four months.

Every second of those four months she just laid there, no friends, no extended family, no Internet, no podcasts, just frightened she’d lose another child.  And, of course, her income was also now gone.

I had to care for my son, care for my bedridden wife, and pay the mortgage.  I tried to get a housekeeping job on the night shift at a local hospital, figuring I could do that while my son slept.  The hospital didn’t want me.  Yep, 1991 was awful.

My divorcing brother bitched about lawyers and told nasty lawyer jokes.  Oh boy, I wish there was a book to give him. A small gift book, filled with anti-lawyer quotes, jokes, anecdotes—

Holy shit!  There’s an idea.  I could do that! 

This is all pre-Internet, but I had stacks of quotation and anecdote books, including those we published at Little Brown.  And Carnegie Library had a surprisingly good collection of joke books.

I put together a manuscript, titled it Lawyers & Other Reptiles, and at some point, submitted it to Contemporary Books in Chicago (Contemporary was later sold to McGraw Hill after which Contemporary disappeared). They offered me $5,000 for it.  Holy shit!  Hell, I would have sold it for $100 to buy that week’s groceries.  I signed the contract immediately.

Meanwhile, supportive colleagues (like gentleman George Gibson and sales guru David Goehring) helped me get the Director of Marketing position at Addison-Wesley, outside of Boston, and phew, we were on our way back.  I started the Addison-Wesley job, working from Pittsburgh, on August 1, 1991. 

Our beautiful—and healthy—daughter was born on August 12.  And in October, we moved back to Boston, where we would be for the next 25 years.

(I did two trips to Addison-Wesley between August and October.  I had to find a house.  Again, this is all pre-Internet.  I met a real estate broker one morning at 8:30 a.m.  I said, “Let’s hurry, I have a marketing meeting at 11, I got to find a house by 10:30.”  I bought the third one she showed me and made it to the marketing meeting with minutes to spare.)

So, I was at Addison-Wesley when Lawyers & Other Reptiles published.  And holy hell, it took off!  Actually, the book’s not really that “mean” to lawyers.  It’s more tongue-in-cheek. Contemporary did a perfect job on the trim size, interior design, and cover. And lawyers loved it!

Sample pages, Lawyers & Other Reptiles

Firms bought it by the case, to have copies in their waiting room and on the shelf of every office in the firm. They gave it to new partners and clients.   The book hit the Boston Globe, Denver Post, San Francisco Chronicle, and Ingram bestseller lists. 

I was a bestselling author!

Tomorrow:  I’m thinking

49. Killer Doyle is NOT in custody and I’m horribly hung over

BESTSELLERS & BEST FRIENDS

My book publishing blog, with murder mysteries woven through it.

If this is your first visit, be sure to start with “1. Let’s do it!”

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So as promised, I called back Ligonier Police Chief Jim.

They did find James Doyle. 

He was already in custody.  Sort of. 

At Blue Sky Monastery in Colorado.  He’s a monk in training, has been there the last six months, and has not left the Monastery at all.  Not even once. 

Forty-seven fellow Jesus-loving monks will attest to that despite their vows of silence.

Holy (really!) shit!  I did not see that coming. 

It’s not Doyle!  I didn’t solve a damn thing!  He’s been walking around in a robe, not saying a thing, not reading any stupid blog, walking no further than the monastery garden, and without a typewriter or computer or Post-it note pad in sight.

So who killed Laurie and Barbara?  Who’s using stuff in my blog while running amock, tossing books around, and killing booksellers?

I’m not smart enough for this!  I’m just a Joe Average book publisher. 

And in the spirit of a Joe Average book publisher in the midst of a crisis, I grab my bottle of Dorothy Parker. Then I call the liquor store to order another, “Tell Eddie [the store’s delivery guy] to hurry.  And not wear an Einstein sweatshirt!” (Recall this post.)

Maybe I should end this blog.

Feels like I unleashed something bad.

The world won’t miss my nonsense.  And the world’s certainly worse off for Laurie and Barbara no longer being in it.

I should go back to writing my stupid books.  You know, actually pick up a couple of thousand dollars here and there.  Use that to take a trip somewhere.  I wrote (and sold to a great house) a children’s book series about a cute little bat who lives at the Joanina Library in Coibra, Portugal.  I could visit there and write off some of the trip. Portugal sounds lovely.  I should do that. 

Enough with this blog.

Tomorrow:  I’ve been low before, and turned to making a book

48. Vanessa calls, Jim calls, and I've just about got this one solved!

BESTSELLERS & BEST FRIENDS

My book publishing blog, with murder mysteries woven through it.

If this is your first visit, be sure to start with “1. Let’s do it!”

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Vanessa called.

She talked to her co-worker.

Guess what books were scattered on the floor next to Barbara’s body?

They were paperback editions of Mailer’s The Naked and the Dead, Wouk’s Marjorie Morningstar, and Shirer’s The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich.

And then with no nudge from me, Vanessa said, “And there was a manuscript, like one printed at a photocopy shop, in our front window’s featured slot.”  She paused.  “Something about a rose, maybe?”

Under the Rose!  I knew it!

I thanked her and hung up.

I’ve just double-confirmed it!  The killer is that wacko James Doyle.  He’s still pissed-off about the authors we did a great job of publishing all those years ago.  And in his craziness, it’s somehow OK for him to kill innocent people like Laurie and Barbara.  And what the hell? Does he really think it’s going to cause some house to publish his final draft of Under the Rose?  Madness is a frightening and horrible thing.

Meanwhile, my mobile buzzed a few minutes ago.  It was Ligonier Police Chief Jim.

They must have caught Killer Doyle. Hmm, I sorta like that, “Killer Doyle.” Good for a book title or character.

I’ll post this, then call Jim back.

Tomorrow:  Killer Doyle in custody!

47. Blue Highways, a wonderfully unexpected bestseller

BESTSELLERS & BEST FRIENDS

My book publishing blog, with murder mysteries woven through it.

If this is your first visit, be sure to start with “1. Let’s do it!”

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In 1982, at Little Brown, we published Blue Highways, by William Least Heat-Moon.

I loved everything about that book.  Its clean, tight, reflective, nearly poetic writing.  Its clever title (travel the blue lines on a map, not the heartless interstates). And the author’s name.

Everybody on the publishing team felt likewise.  It was our passion project. 

The market soon agreed with us.  Great reviews.  Booksellers joyfully handselling it.  The word-of-mouth among excited readers nearly tangible. 

Least Heat-Moon wasn’t literary elite, he was unknown and unproven.  His writing didn’t come out of pretentious New York or California.  His was of the heart and the heartland.   

The book’s weekly sales were just under the rate needed to place it on the New York Times bestseller list. Each week we fell just short of the list by a slot or two. 

It was late October. Peter Davison (book’s editor), David Goehring (sales director), and I (marketing guy) gathered in Little Brown’s first floor conference room at 34 Beacon Street.

(By the way, Peter was a brilliant editor and writer.  In his day, he hung out with Robert Lowell, Robert Frost, Anne Sexton, Richard Wilbur, and Donald Hall.  And he slept with Sylvia Plath which really pissed off Ted Hughes. But that’s a story for another day.)

If we were going to get Blue Highways onto the Times bestseller list, we were about out of time.  Back then, 60% of all the books sold in a year, were sold in the 40 days prior to Christmas.  The big holiday commercial books were now publishing. The bestseller challenge was only going to get a hell of a lot more difficult.

Peter Davison

We talked about how Blue Highways was the perfect gift.  Everybody liked it, a delightful discovery.  Perfect to give to anyone.

How could we make it the season’s obvious gift book?  Place advertisements saying so?  Nah, too expensive.  And anyway, there were so many ads that time of the year, nobody would even notice.  That’s just pissing cash away.

Convince bookstores to feature it as “the” gift book of the season?  But how? Do what? Hire a thousand interns to stand in a thousand bookstores yelling, “Blue Highways is the perfect gift book!”  Nah.

We thought about gifts at birthday parties and under Christmas trees.

They’re wrapped.  That’s how you know it’s a gift.

Hold on!  So what if Blue Highways was sold already gift-wrapped? 

Unlike any other book in the bookstore.

You mean, actually gift-wrap the books?

But nobody’s ever done that before.

Exactly!

Now we were getting excited.

And we had a reprint of 15,000 due at the warehouse that day.

David ran to the production department where they wrapped a copy of Blue Highways with newspaper.  They now knew how much wrapping paper was needed per book.  They called suppliers. 

Peter ran over to the book’s designer.  She’d have a wrapping paper design in an hour.

We needed a sleeve on the book.  For price, ISBN, etc.  I called the designer back.  Told her we also needed a sleeve by end of day.  “No problem.” Like all of us, she loved the book and enjoyed the thrill of a cool idea. 

I called the warehouse manager.  She called Goodwill Industries.  30 minutes later, Goodwill confirmed it could put together a team of their residents to gift-wrap the books.  It was a perfect task for them.  And much-needed funding.

20 minutes later manufacturing called.  “We can have wrapping paper and sleeves to warehouse by end of Tuesday.”

I called the warehouse manager back.  Goodwill had meanwhile determined the time it took per-book-wrap, and confirmed that the warehouse could start shipping gift-wrapped Blue Highways on Friday.  And they could get the remainder of the 15,000 reprint onto trucks by end of next Tuesday.

David got on the phone in his office.  He called Waldenbooks.  And Dalton.  Then Barnes and Noble.  25 minutes later, with a big grin on his face (he just loved moments like this), David updated us, “Walden’s in for 3,000. Dalton for 4,000.  B&N for 7,900.  And Barbara at Grapes of Wrath took 100, figuring she can sell them along with all those autographed books of hers,” David kept smiling, “Gentlemen, we just sold out the 15,000 printing.”

And that’s why Barbara’s death reminds me of Blue Highways.  Sigh. 

Anyway, it all worked! Two weeks later after those gift-wrapped books hit stores and sold (like crazy), Blue Highways went onto the bestseller list.  And stayed on the list for the next 42 weeks.

Gift-wrapped Blue Highways

God, but I loved doing stuff like that!  Best feeling in the world (at least my world).

And we could do stuff like that back then.  The money to do it was mine to manage, the accounts were David’s, the book was Peter’s.  No calling together big meetings for a shared covering-of-asses, or checking with some overlord, just do it!  Nowadays, the motivation to work seems to be fear, not the thrill of causing success.  When I was at Pearson (for 23 years) its CEO, Marjorie Scardino, was a great believer in “just do it, ask forgiveness later.”  And she didn’t just say it, she truly had your back.  I got more done working for her than at any other stretch in my career.  It was the most freeing, empowering, liberating, make-a-real-difference way to do your life’s work.  I miss that!

Thanks, David, thanks Marjorie, and here’s to Peter (miss you!).

Oh, and when I recently compiled a collection of quotations, The Truth About Writing, Bill kindly gave a tip of the hat to the good old times, and provided the book's foreword.

 Tomorrow: Hoping for the Vanessa and Jim calls

46. I talk with Vanessa and pretend to be a private eye (losing my mind!)

BESTSELLERS & BEST FRIENDS

My book publishing blog, with murder mysteries woven through it.

If this is your first visit, be sure to start with “1. Let’s do it!”

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George’s niece and I talked. She choked up a couple of times.  Vanessa told me how a co-worker found Barbara dead on the store’s floor first thing in the morning.  There were no security cameras.   (These are bookstores. Homes to literature. Not banks, bodegas, or liquor stores.).  Nothing seemed to be stolen.  There had been no threats to Barbara.  There were a few books on the floor, maybe knocked over during a struggle.

I again explained that I was a book author, a publisher, and a friend of her Uncle George. 

Then I lied, “and a private detective.”  (Just what the hell is wrong with me!  Why do I say stuff like that?  The stuff just comes out of my mouth before my brain even knows it’s happening.)

Vanessa kindly promised to talk with her co-worker and get back to me.

And speaking of getting back to me, weird, I haven’t heard from Ligonier’s Police Chief Jim, or his state police cronies, after I called to tell him that Laurie’s killer was James Doyle.  You’d think they’d be more appreciative.  I’ll call Jim tomorrow.

Tomorrow (police update, Vanessa update, and all this talk of Barbara Franks makes me think of...) Blue Highways.

45. Book publishing’s last true gentleman

BESTSELLERS & BEST FRIENDS

My book publishing blog, with murder mysteries woven through it.

If this is your first visit, be sure to start with “1. Let’s do it!”

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I couldn’t say it better than did Grove Atlantic publisher Morgan Entrekin, “George Gibson is admired around the world as a brilliant, gracious, passionate publisher and editor.” 

George Gibson

I’ve known George since his early days at David Godine (a much respected Boston-based house).  Better yet, like many, I can call him “a good friend.”  George was Director of Marketing at Addison-Wesley’s trade division, the longtime publisher of Walker & Company, publishing director at Bloomsbury USA, and he’s currently executive editor at Grove Atlantic.

George edited and/or published Dava Sobel's Longitude and Galileo's Daughter, Ross King's Brunelleschi's Dome, Mark Kurlansky's Salt and Cod, Morrie Schwartz's Morrie: In His Own Words, Warren Berger's A More Beautiful Question, Carol Anderson's White Rage: The Unspoken Truth of Our Racial Divide, and my personal favorite, Donna Leon’s Inspector Guido Brunetti series.

George’s departure from Addison Wesley (“to learn Italian and better my tennis game”), and my taking over his position, is what made possible my nine-year-old son secretly signing books in the Addison Wesley warehouse on a Saturday morning.  (George, knowing that you read this blog,  Max sends along his “Thanks a lot.”).

George and I are now both in Manhattan and every other month we enjoy a dinner together at Bar Six off of 14th Street.

At our every-other-month dinner last night, I asked how his month in Martha’s Vineyard was this year (he’s done that every year since his childhood). 

Bar Six

George happily said, “It was healthy, full of promising manuscripts, and drinks with good friends.”

He continued, “Although it was weird to see Bill Franks back at Grapes of Wrath.”

“What?!”

“You don’t know?”

He quickly explained that Barbara died and per the terms of their divorce, the store went back to Bill.  “He was so happy to be back.  But really, he doesn’t look good, nor does the store.

“Hold on!  Barbara died?”

“You didn’t hear?  She was killed, found dead on the floor of her store when her staff arrived one morning.  Awful, just awful. Then Bill showed up a few days later to take over the store.”

How the hell did I miss that news?  It was surely in all the industry journals – Publishers Weekly, Publishers Lunch, and Shelf Awareness.  I’ve checked-out from world and national news these past four years.  It’s all so awful, it’s such a damn mess out there.  I no longer watch the news, I quit reading The Wall Street Journal and the Financial Times.  I ignore the news on social media and instead focus on dog videos.  And I just skim the New York Times headlines (I know what the article’s going to say).  But I do read the publishing news.

“When,” I asked George.

He told me.  Aha, that week in Los Angeles, at an Airbnb without the promised Wi-Fi, which was OK because I was completely consumed by spending time with my kids and granddaughter, and having drinks every night. It was an exhausting week.  I even skipped the industry news.

I asked, “Who?  Why?”

“Good question.  It didn’t seem to be a robbery, just a few books tossed on the floor.”

Holy hell!

Dinner over, I rushed home to Google it.  Yep, the industry journals, the Boston Globe, and the Vineyard Gazette had articles.  Each with one sentence noting Barbara’s death, a second sentence saying the police were seeking leads, and then 20 sentences of deserving and kind words about Barbara.  But nothing else.

You see where this is going, right?

Barbara’s death on Martha’s Vineyard sounded like Laurie’s death in Ligonier. 

I needed to know more.   

But I didn’t know the Vineyard police like I did Ligonier’s.

And I didn’t know anybody on staff at the island’s newspaper.

I phoned George on the wild chance he might know a clerk at the Grapes of Wrath.

“Yep, my niece, Vanessa, works there.  I’ll give her a heads-up then email you her phone number.”  Kind of him not to ask what the hell I was up to.  I would have.  But like I said, George is a gentleman.

Then, before the call ended, George suddenly laughed, but not in a funny way.  “Did you know Bill fancied himself a writer?  Specifically, nonfiction for children. That’s what he was going to do after losing the bookstore.  He claimed to have many book proposals to pitch.  Wanted me to look at them.  But Jane, Alyson, and Phoebe [childrens editors we both knew] warned me off, they all had already looked and he just didn’t have it.”

Poor Bill and his writing dreams.  His is not an uncommon tale.

Oh, and an hour ago I was left a voicemail from an unknown caller.  I listened.  It was simply a song called “Einstein Killed Me.”  Never knew such a song existed.  You can listen to it here.  It has great lyrics, like:

It’s possiblе to not tell a lie

Take you and the life you made

Step outside

Tomorrow: Vanessa

44. My innocent son and the dark underbelly of publishing

BESTSELLERS & BEST FRIENDS

My book publishing blog, with murder mysteries woven through it.

If this is your first visit, be sure to start with “1. Let’s do it!”

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In the early 1990s at Addison-Wesley, we were about to publish Accidental Empires by Robert X. Cringley.  I loved the book’s importance, its cynicism, humor, voice, and insider’s view. 

Just consider its subtitle: How the Boys of Silicon Valley Make Their Millions, Battle Foreign Competition, and Still Can't Get a Date.

And note its wonderful jacket copy: Cringley focuses on the astoundingly odd personalities—Steve Jobs, Bill Gates, Mitch Kapor, etc.—and the hacker culture that spawned remarkable technology.

The book’s author, Robert X. Cringley, was everything a marketing guy like me wants—quick, talented, an insider, and funny as hell. And I couldn’t wait to make a run at the bestseller list with it.

I was certain we’d put Accidental Empires on the bestseller list. We’d go with the same game plan that we used a few years earlier to put Tracy Kidder’s Soul of a New Machine (unknown author at the time and ugliest jacket ever) onto the list.  Seed the market—smartly, strategically.  This wasn’t about reviews or an appearance on a morning talk show.  Instead, both books were well-written and addictive reading.  That was the key.  Once read, one could not not talk about the book.  Every reader became an advocate.  If I could “seed” 1,000 signed copies of the book into the offices and cafeterias of hi-tech companies, it would take off.  And I had worked on that list of 1,000 for four months.  We were ready.

But hold on! Two things. 

First, the 1,000 books were in our offices outside of Boston.  And Cringley was in California.  I needed to fly him to Boston, put him up for a night, and hang with him as he signed all those books.

Secondly, Robert X. Cringley was a pseudonym. 

He called me the day before his flight. 

“Jess, I don’t have a signature.” 

“What?” 

“Cringley doesn’t have a signature.  Remember, he doesn’t exist.  I’m a pseudonym.  I don’t know what I’m going to write in those books.” 

Hmm, good point. 

“So why the hell pay to fly me out there?  Why don’t you just sign them?” 

Robert X. Cringley

Hmm, interesting. 

Not spending marketing money is always a good thing. Every marketing dollar not spent drops fully to the bottom line.  I had a chance to immediately add a couple thousand dollars to the profit margin.  Cool! 

“OK, Bob, stay home. I’ll cancel the flight and hotel. And sign the books.”

“Thanks.”

Signing 1,000 books is a pain in the ass – ripping open cartons, opening books, signing books, re-packing the books into cartons.  The whole thing goes much better with two people.

So early the next morning I woke my nine-year-old son, Max. “You gotta help me at the office today.”  Hey, why not?  It wasn’t like he was mowing the lawn, raking leaves, or helping old ladies at our church.

I bribed him with doughnuts.  We went to the office, unpacked the books, stacked them on tables, and I said, “OK, now we’re going to sign them,” I opened up a book to the title page, “On this page, just sign it Robert X. Cringley.”

“What?”

“Just sign it.”

“WHAT?”

“Just sign the books with the name Robert X. Cringley. I’ll do the same.  Together we can get these done by lunch.  I’ll buy you a burger.”

“But Dad, we’re not this Robert guy.”

“That’s OK.”

“Isn’t this wrong?” 

“Damn it, Max, it’s OK.  Cringley doesn’t even exist.”

“He doesn’t exist?  So you want me to lie about a lie?”

“It’s no big deal.”

“Dad, this is cheating!  Can I call Mom?”

“No!  Let’s just do this.”

“I don’t think—”

“I didn’t buy doughnuts and haul you over here to think.  Just do it.  Come on!”

And the saddest, had-just-lost-his-soul-to-evil-Dad little boy began his criminal career.  He didn’t say another word. Just signed the books. Didn’t speak to me the entire day.  Even after Cringley signed the one-thousandth book to Max.  Which Max still has.

Signed book to Max

I went into work on Monday, Max went to school, and Accidental Empires went on to be a huge bestseller.  Woo-hoo!

What I didn’t know was how much that incident haunted Max.  For decades. 

He confided to college buddies about it after a few beers.  He frequently wrote of it in his journal, haunted by the dishonesty of what his father forced him to do.  He even told his girlfriend about it before he dared to propose marriage. “She should know.”  Man oh man, I had no idea!  I clearly traumatized him. He’s such a good, good guy.  

All’s well now. We talk of the experience. My daughter guides the conversation, making sure it ends with laughter and not expensive therapy.

Max went on to be a very successful author. His Last Kids on Earth series, a #1 New York Times bestseller, appears on bestseller lists year after year for months at a time and he won an Emmy for his Last Kids Netflix series.  His success puts to shame what success Addison-Wesley had with Accidental Empires.

So here’s what’s REALLY cool:  if you happen to have one of those 1,000 Accidental Empires autographed by Robert X. Cringley, you may actually have a book autographed by Max Brallier. Which these days, is a far BIGGER deal.

The dark underbelly of publishing works in funny ways.

Tomorrow:  Book publishing’s last true gentleman

43. Doyle must be reading this blog!

BESTSELLERS & BEST FRIENDS

My book publishing blog, with murder mysteries woven through it.

If this is your first visit, be sure to start with “1. Let’s do it!”

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I did posts on Mailer, Wouk, and Shirer.

In another post I recalled the words Doyle screamed at me.

I also mentioned I was going to Ligonier. Doyle correctly figures I’d visit the town’s bookstore.  He’d then swings by the store.  Probably mentions to Laurie that he knew me or worked with me. She’d kindly say in that small town way, “Oh you just missed Jess.  But he’ll be by first thing in the morning to sign more copies of his latest book.”

Doyle was last known to be working not far from Ligonier.

And the rumor for years is that Doyle was weirdly working on the final draft of the long ago published Under the Rose. 

Damn it, Doyle did it! 

In some perverted and insane way, he killed Laurie to get back at me.

I’ve solved this!

And holy shit, I’ve also just figured out that the killer is reading what I’m typing here. My head is spinning again. I’m calling Police Chief Jim as soon as I finish typing this.

So...

Hey Doyle! You dumb, sick, loser writer!

It’s over!

And meanwhile, you sicko, know that I’m safe in Manhattan. 

I’ve told building security all about you.  And hey, I know the delivery guys from both Chelsea Liquors and the Excellent Dumpling House.  So don’t try to pull that old trick on me.  I could safely live in my apartment here for as long as, well, a global pandemic.

I phoned Ligonier Police Chief Jim who then called that detective.  The Pennsylvania State Police are after your ass, Doyle, and will probably have you in handcuffs by the time I post this.

This is cause for a celebration. 

I call the liquor store for a bottle of Dorothy Parker and the Excellent Dumpling House for a delivery of their Shanghai Style Pork Fried Noodle.

Half an hour later my door buzzes.  Must be the gin or dumplings delivery. I open up the door and there’s a guy wearing an Einstein shirt.  I think I screamed.  I know I nearly wet myself. 

But it’s just Sammy from the Excellent Dumpling House.  “You OK Mr. Brallier,” he asked.

“Your shirt. Your shirt,” I catch my breath,” Well the hell did you get that?”

“At the Salvation Army on Eighth Avenue.  You like it?”

I grab the food and give Sammy a huge tip of relief.

I’m a wreck.

Sammy

Tomorrow (Back to the publishing stuff…really, I must.):  My innocent son and the dark underbelly of publishing.

42. I don’t know! Who's killing who and why?

BESTSELLERS & BEST FRIENDS

My book publishing blog, with murder mysteries woven through it.

If this is your first visit, be sure to start with “1. Let’s do it!”

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Geez, as if things don’t suck enough, pissed-off-Einstein guy commented on yesterday’s posting:  “Your joke sucks.  I’d pay that loser writer $3,000 just to kill you.” 

At times, pissed-off-Einstein guy does make me nervous.  Like now, when every time I close my eyes, I see that bloody bookstore floor in Ligonier.  Geez, just give the Einstein crap a break!

Anyway, I’m back to New York and I don’t know what to write!

My head spins.

I keep looking at the “Fuck you, Brallier” Post-it note I quietly pocketed. (Or, in other words, “I keep looking at the evidence I wrongly lifted from a murder scene.”)

Deep breath, deep breath.

Think about it.  It’s insane!

There’s a once-every-50-years-murder in Ligonier.

My favorite bookseller is killed—maybe somehow because of one budget meeting in Boston 35 years ago that caused James Doyle to publish an imperfect book.

And how the hell do those things connect if there’s really a connection? 

Me and...

• a bookstore in a little town of 1,500 where...

• I just happened to be for 48 hours to visit old friends. 

• Next to the murdered body are three books I helped publish decades ago,

• plus a revised manuscript for a long-ago published book,

• with a threatening note to me.

How does all of that somehow happen?

It’s gotta be James Doyle, right?

Those three books laying in Laurie’s blood—the very authors he screamed about at me outside Little Brown on Boston’s Beacon Street years ago.

On the Post-it, the same threatening words he cursed me with that day.

(Jackie, are you reading this blog?  It’s all nuts, right?  What do you think?  DM me.  Please.)

And there’s the “final draft” manuscript on display at Laurie’s bookstore.  The very thing it was rumored Doyle was working on.

I’ve Googled for hours. Doyle seems to have disappeared after teaching a writing class at Butler Community College early last year. Butler is north of Pittsburgh.  A very doable drive to Ligonier.  Oh boy.

I make a stiff drink. 

I want a cigarette, damn it. 

How in the hell would Doyle know—

Hold on! 

Tomorrow:  Doyle must be reading this blog!

41. Three guys are sitting at a bar.

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The first guy says, “So yeah, I make about $300,000 a year after taxes.”

Second says, “What do you do for a living?”

First replies, “I’m a stockbroker.  How much do you make?”

Second answers, “I should clear $160,000.  I’m an architect.”

The two of them turn to the third guy, who is quietly staring into his beer, and ask him how much he makes per year.

Third guys says, “About $3,000.”

First says, “Oh yeah?  What kind of stories do you write?”

* * *

By the way, it seems that Peters like my blog. So when it’s time to name my next dog….

Tomorrow: I don’t know! I’m in such a funk.

40. Laurie’s Murder

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I walked back to the bookstore with Police Chief Jim. He entered slowly. I didn’t go in.  I stood outside, near my vomit. 

Jim came back out after a few minutes.  “This one,” he said, “is out of my league.  I just called the state police.” Another Ligonier police car arrived. Police tape went up. An ambulance arrived.  People started gathering.  Most were crying, all of them were on their mobiles, texting and phoning.

Jim whispered to me, “You OK with going back to a bench on the Diamond?  I want you nearby.  State police will be here any minute.  They’ll want to talk with you.  But you do NOT talk to anybody?  Understood?”

I nodded yes, went down to the town’s newsstand, got some gum for my breath, a bottle of water to wash out my mouth, and a Snickers bar for my now empty stomach.

About an hour later, Jim came and got me.  We went back to the bookstore.  As we neared, I saw Laurie’s body go into an ambulance which then slowly left, its flashing lights on, but not its siren. 

Jim introduced me to a woman who identified herself as a detective with the state police.  I can’t remember her name.  We went into the backseat of her car.  I told her everything I had told Jim.  About being there yesterday, my coming back to sign more copies of my book, and there Laurie was, on the bloody floor.  The detective used a mobile phone to record what I shared with her.

She nodded toward Caroline Swank who was sitting in a nearby police car.  “She’s having a tough time calming down,” said the detective. 

I know Caroline.  She was a childhood neighbor and Second Chapter’s only staff beyond Laurie.  The detective said, “We’d like her to look around, see what’s not right in there.  You know, was it a robbery?  Did somebody have it out for the victim?  Stuff like that,” she shook her head, “but she’s in no shape for that to happen anytime soon.”

The detective continued, “Could you come into the store with me and look around, see if anything looks different than yesterday?  I need anything at this point.  There’re no cameras.  And no witnesses we know of.  My colleagues are talking with neighboring merchants.  And another colleague is over at the victim’s house.  We’re guessing you were first into the store after it opened and,” she nodded again at Caroline, “she’s not going to be of help.”

“Sure.”

I tried to not to look at the blood.  When I thought of it as just blood, I was mostly OK.  But the second I’d think of it as Laurie’s blood, I got dizzy. 

I focused.  I looked. 

Hold on, that’s weird! 

Laurie sold both new and used books.  Thus the “Second Chapter” name for her store.  And tossed on the bloody floor were copies of Norman Mailer’s Ancient Evenings, Herman Wouk’s The Winds of War, and William Shirer’s The Nightmare Years.

What the hell?  The three old white guys I had just blogged about.  Books that had something to do with a job I had 30 years ago.  And it’s those three books that happen to be on the bloody floor? Of all the books in the world? In this little town of 1,500 nice people? This makes no sense!  Is it personal? Holy shit!

“Notice anything?” asked the detective.  I’m sure I looked shock, confused, scared, and sick all at the same time.

“Nope,” I lied. 

I have no idea why I said “nope.”  Maybe it all just seemed so stupid.  What do I say?  Well, I had this job 33 years ago, we published lots of old white guys, one of them made a lot of noise typing, one of them had two huge dogs, and one of them had one eye.  Now their books are there on the bloody floor. Oh, and I have this blog about book publishing which on a good day has four readers, and I recently posted about those three authors....

See how so, so, so stupid that sounds?

“Nope,” I said again, sure after that bit of reflection, that it was still the right thing to say.

I turned my eyes from the books and the bloody floor, trying to catch my breath.  An oh god! Another “holy shit” moment! 

Next to the cash register, where my Olphabet book was displayed yesterday was instead a bound manuscript.  On its front, in all caps, it simply read:

UNDER THE ROSE

THE FINAL DRAFT

BY JAMES DOYLE

The room spun a bit.  I put my hand on the counter. 

“Sir? You OK?”  It was the detective.  “Mr. Brallier, are you—”

“Yep, I’m good.  Just got a bit dizzy.”

She took my left arm to walk me out of the store.  And with my right hand, I grabbed a Post-it note stuck to the front of the UNDER THE ROSE manuscript, and slipped it into my pocket.  The detective didn’t notice.

I took several deep and welcomed breaths of Ligonier air on our way back to the police car.

Once in the back seat she again started to record me.

“Well?”

“Nothing,” I said, “nothing looked different.”

“Damn it,” she said.

When I finally got back to my room at the Ramada, I pulled out the crumpled Post-it note.  The message on it read, “Fuck you, Brallier!”

I ended my night having too many drinks at Joe’s Bar....

Tomorrow:  ...so it seems somehow right to try that three-guys-sitting-at-a-bar joke.

39. Hold on! Things get very ugly in Ligonier

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There will be no joke today.  This isn’t funny.  At all.  Damn it! 

I stayed at the Ramada Inn.  (Yep, same place where the annual Ligonier Writer’s Conference is held.)  I slept in.  Then grabbed a coffee and muffin at Abigail’s and sat, peacefully, on a bench in the “Diamond.” (Which is known as the “Town Square” everywhere else.)

I looked around.  The memories were nearly overwhelming. I grew up in such goodness and innocence.  We used to joke around, referring to our hometown as“Mayberry.”  And high school friends, Jennifer and Jane, called it “Brigadoon.” 

Ligonier, PA

Just look at it!  This photo is the view from where I’ll be buried.  Not bad, eh?  In the photo’s center you can spot the town’s green-ish gazebo which sits smack in the middle of the Diamond and right next to the bench where I was enjoying this morning’s coffee.  It was very peaceful.  And just minutes before everything went to absolute hell.

At 9:57 a.m. I took a last bite of my muffin and a last sip of my coffee and headed over to Second Chapter Books to sign the five copies of Olphabet.  Laurie opens the store at 10 a.m.

I walked past a police car parked on the Diamond.  It’s often there, as the criminal activity in Ligonier is mostly about folks not coming to a full stop when entering the Diamond. 

Police Chief Jim was in the car, window down. We smiled and shook hands.  Jim, the son of a high school buddy, and I had spent a lot of time together recently.  If you don’t know what I’m talking about, head back to my posting for Blog 20.

Jim started talking about the Clark girl who was running around with the Horrell boy, the one who lived out by the Marker farm—

“Excuse me, Jim.  Laurie’s expecting me.”

I walked into Second Chapter Books and there was Laurie.  On the floor.  So much blood.  No need to check for a pulse like they do on TV.  She was very dead.  It was horrible.  I can see it now.  Worse yet, I can’t not see it.

I backed out of the store and threw up.  Then staggered back down the street to the police car.

Tomorrow:  I have no idea what will happen tomorrow.

38. Back to Ligonier

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So yesterday I drove to my hometown of Ligonier (PA).

I parked on the Diamond and purposely walked over to a specific street corner.  I paused where Joey Freeman had stood, back when this blog was crazily disrupted, and the friends of a lifetime ended up scaring the shit out of me.  I should have worn my snug letterman’s jacket.

I looked up East Main Street and waved to the Ligonier webcam.  It’s mounted on the roof of a small, friendly, and perhaps better-than-the-town-deserves bookstore, Second Chapter Books.

Joey was grabbed next to the stop sign, Second Chapter Books

I walked to the store to see if its owner, Laurie, was there.  She always keeps a few of my books in stock. 

And holy smokes, she had three generation of Brallier books in there. Seriously!

There are my son’s (Max’s) two bestselling series, Galactic Hot Dogs and Last Kids on Earth. My most recent picture book, The Olphabet. And, unexpected, a book about the birth of professional football. On its cover is a photo of my grandfather, John K. Brallier, Sr., who for decades was considered the first professional football player.

While at the store, a customer bought two copies of my book (personalized and autographed!), and two of Max’s. It was great to help make the sale for Laurie.

As always, Laurie was delighted to see me.  She actually had five more copies of Olphabet on order and they were due in by end of day. She asked if I might come by first thing the next day to autograph them. “For sure.” You gotta love a hometown bookstore.

I walked over to Joe’s Bar to meet an old friend, thinking about how that was my first (and probably last) books-and-three-generations moment ever.

Tomorrow (speaking of Joe’s Bar): Three guys are sitting at a bar.

Joe’s Bar, Ligonier (PA)

37. I shift careers. To technology.

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It sucks to be the marketing guy at a publishing house.

I could never do enough, always being yelled at about books published two years ago, a week ago, next week and six months out. Editors, sales reps, agents, authors, the mailroom, always yelling at me.  “These plans are embarrassing!  I worked a lifetime on this book! You used the wrong label!” 

At Little Brown I was truly burned out. 

We had just published Tracy Kidder’s huge bestseller, The Soul of a New Machine.  Clearly, technology was the future.  And I lived and worked within Route 128 – “American’s Technology Highway.” 

So I quit my job, got a headhunter, and chased after my digital dream.

My first interview was with a tech company headquartered in one of those one-story office park buildings with a big parking lot and lots of grass.

The company had a timecards technology.  

Back in the day, workers punched in and punched out. Payroll staff then collected the cards weekly, and manually entered the information.  But instead, this company had the technology to make the timecards information directly feed (by some digital miracle) to payroll.  They needed somebody to market that product.  I might be that guy!

I wore a suit, carried a brand-new briefcase, and interviewed in the most boring office with the most boring guy in the world.  It was awful.  I was sweating, feeling claustrophobic, and thinking, “What the hell have I done?!”

The guy went to check if his boss wanted to meet with me. “Hold on,” he slipped out of his office.

I looked out the open window—it was just two feet off the ground—across the grass to the parking lot, where I could see my car. 

I went out the window.   

At first, I casually walked toward my car.  Just in case anybody was watching and saw me in my suit with my briefcase climb out of a window, they’d know it was a perfectly normal thing to do.  Then I started to walk more quickly.  What if that guy was back in his office? What if his boss was with him?  Then I walked even faster. Were they looking for me under his desk or in his closet?  What if they saw me rushing across the grass? 

An hour later the headhunter called me at home.  He was pissed.  Really pissed.  He screamed at me, using the F-word in all sorts of ways.  It was like being back at Little Brown.

Tomorrow:  Back to Ligonier

36. One more old white guy – James Doyle

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I know, I know.  This stretch of this blog seems to be all about old white guys.  But hey, they were big back then! 

One of the old white guy authors went seriously off the tracks. Although James Doyle wasn’t that old back in those days. Which was all part of the tragedy.

Doyle was a rising star.  Handsome, talented, charming, worldly, and refreshingly spiritual.  The full package!  His first book, Like a Prayer (1976), was widely reviewed and a wonderfully unexpected commercial success.  The reviews were terrific:

“A superb political executioner sets his sights on D.C.”

“One of my favorite thrillers, simply great.”

“Very clever set up, deftly told.“

Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy.

Then his next book, Deadly Enemies (1978), jumped to the bestseller list and stayed here for nearly a year.  Wow!

And in Spring, 1982, we were ready to publish his third book, Under the Rose.  Expectations were high.  We slotted it for a spring publication.  It would hit the bestseller list and stay there all the way to the end of the year.  In a New York Times piece entitled “The Books of Spring ’82,” the influential Herbert Mitgang called out the most eagerly awaited books:  Prizzi’s Honor by Richard Condon, Southern Discomfort by Rita Mae Brown, Pinball by Jerzy Kosinski, Dinner at the Homesick Restaurant by Anne Tyler, and Doyle’s Under the Rose.  Woo-hoo!  We had a sure winner!

We purposely published it in the Spring when, surely, it would quickly hit the bestseller lists.  And stay there for month after month of income!  Better yet, it didn’t look like there were going to be big books that Fall which could push Under the Rose off the list once it got on there. 

Under the Rose meant everything to the 1982 budget.  Without it, we’d have a huge gap in our numbers that couldn’t be closed.  Staff lay-offs, suspending all T&E, and stripping the marketing from every other title, would only blunt the damage if Under the Rose missed its pub date.

Yet when Doyle delivered the manuscript, it wasn’t in good shape.  It needed a LOT more work.  Uh-oh.

Doyle and his editor (I hated his editor—he called Bloom County “childish and silly” then took full credit after it became a huge bestseller) wanted to push its publication back a year.  Doyle needed the time to get it right. 

Holy shit!  That would be the end of our 1982 budget.  The sales director, the publisher, the editor-in-chief, and the head of subsidiary rights argued to hold the pub date.  Little Brown needed the income.  I got on a high horse of some sort and with great passion argued that a good and enduring publisher puts out its authors’ best work, the hell with budgets, we’ll take the hit. 

I lost.  Little Brown published it in the Spring.  And the book got slammed.  It didn’t sell at all.  After all, it did sort of suck.  Huge disappointment.  Doyle was devastated.  The failure miserably threw him off course in every way.  He drank, he got messy, he wore his anger loudly. 

One day I ran into him outside the front door of Little Brown.  He looked crazed and hopeless.  He jammed his finger into my chest, “Fuck you Brallier!  Bill [his editor] told me you’re the one who made me publish too soon.  You marketing whores!  You and your Mailers and Wouks and Shirers—I’m better than all those bastards!”  Doyle caught his breath.  “You’ll fucking get yours! Some day!”  He stormed away. 

That damn Bill, what a jerk, to lie and blame it on me, the one executive who had argued for Doyle to get his manuscript right. 

My assistant, Jackie, was with me.  We watched Doyle rant his way down Beacon Street.  It was Jackie’s first day on the job.  I was taking her out to lunch. She was shaking, her eyes wet, then she started sobbing.  Great, just great.  So I introduced her to the industry’s tradition of a liquid lunch (The Parker House bar).  We both needed it.

I soon left Little Brown in search of riches in the technology industry. Jackie took over my marketing slot and was a lot better at it than me. And Doyle went from teaching writing at Ivy League schools to teaching at state universities (never getting tenure) to teaching at community colleges.  He never published another book.  Rumors over the years were that he was working on his final draft of Under the Rose, the manuscript that should have been published.

Tomorrow:  I shift careers. To technology.

35. Lunch, and The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich

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At Little Brown, we often took authors to lunch at Locke-Ober’s. The restaurant was a short walk across Boston Common, down Summer Street, and onto Winter Place (which was really an alley).

We enjoyed showing off the unexpected place with its intricately carved mahogany paneling, brass fixtures, huge plate glass mirrors, paintings, and stained glass. It felt and smelled of old Boston, secretly tucked away, with a deep tradition of serving the city’s influential and powerful men. (Women weren’t allowed until 1970. WTF, right?)

Best of all, on Locke-Ober’s second and third floors, were the private dining rooms which accommodated four to ten guests.  We often grabbed John F. Kennedy’s favorite room on the third floor where, during his presidential run, he met with Harvard sorts to hash out policy positions. The room was a good conversation starter and just the right size for an author and two or three of us.

For me, the best thing about Locke-Ober’s private dining rooms were the red velvet ropes you’d pull for service.  We’d be seated, the waiter would take an initial order (such as drinks) and leave. If you needed another drink or when ready to order your meal, you’d pull that red velvet rope and the waiter quietly showed up.  I loved it, and so I was always looking for some reason to pull the rope.  “Hey, want another drink?”  “How about some milk with that coffee?”  “Who’s thinking desert right now?”

My most enjoyable lunch at Locke-Ober’s was with William Shirer, best known for his book, The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich.  At the time we were publishing his The Nightmare Years, recounting his pre-World War II years as a journalist in Nazi Germany.

Good god, to be sitting there with this guy who was smack in the middle of the rise of Nazi Germany, who knew all the players, and who had me on the edge of my seat as he told of how in December 1940, he smuggled his notes and diaries out of Germany in a trunk’s fake bottom. 

Absolutely mesmerizing, he was such a great storyteller and was witness to the greatest story of the 20th century. 

William L. Shirer

When war broke out in 1940, Shirer moved forward with the German troops, and reported firsthand on the German Blitzkrieg, then the invasion of Denmark and Norway in April, and the invasion of the Netherlands, Luxembourg, Belgium, and France in May.  As the Nazis closed in on Paris, he was there.  Now he was here at Locke-Ober’s telling me all about those days in intimate detail.  And I asked him if he wanted another drink, so that I could pull on the red velvet rope.

The Nazis increasingly harassed Shirer to report their “official” accounts that he knew were lies. He pushed back.  Then he was tipped off that the Gestapo had built an espionage case against him, one which carried the death penalty. He quickly slipped out of Germany with his hidden notes and journals.

By the way, when listening to him from across the table, one didn’t look him in the eyes.  You looked him in the eye.  His right eye was dead, lost of sight due to a 1932 skiing accident in the Alps.

With Shirer was a quiet and attractive young woman.  I think she become his third wife.  I kept asking her if she wanted anything so that I could pull the red velvet rope.

David Goehring, Little Brown’s Sales Director, was also there.  Who else sat around that table, I don’t recall.  But I remember David for sure because either he or Shirer referred to Hermann Göring (also spelled Goering) as David’s “Uncle Hermann.”  What an odd thing to stick with me nearly 40 years later.

It was without doubt the most fascinating conversation of my life.  Spellbinding.  An honor.  I do recall looking at my watch for a first time since we had sat down to our noon lunch.  It was 4 p.m.  

Like I keep saying, I’ve been a lucky guy.  This publishing stuff allowed me a life beyond what I ever could have imagined in my dorky high school years. 

Speaking of high school, I’m getting itchy for a visit to my hometown of Ligonier (PA).  To see my brother and a couple of good friends from high school.  After all, my college buddies didn’t turn out to be all that great.  But Brad and Keith, I can trust them for sure.  I’ll skip the train and drive this time.

I like to get off the Pennsylvania Turnpike at Bedford and take Route 30 over the mountain and into Ligonier.  It’s a pretty and calming drive. My childhood vacations most often started on that road, early in the morning, and it reminds me of even more personal blessings—my parents.

It’s only right to mention them today. It’s my dad’s birthday. He’d be 108. Happy birthday to a really, really good guy. I miss you like crazy.

Tomorrow:  One more old white guy – James Doyle 

34. Road Trip!

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It wasn’t just the authors that made working at Little Brown a great experience, it was also going out on the road with Alan Fairbanks, the New England sales rep. 

Alan had the best territory!  The quality of bookstores throughout New England was unmatched.  As was the beauty of its geography.

Alan was calm and smart. He drove at the speed limit, unlike Sandor who was always behind schedule because he talked too much and was always stopping to buy smokes. 

Alan and I could head west from Boston, pause at the Concord Bookstore in Concord, then onto Amherst (home to the University of Massachusetts, Hampshire College, and Amherst College), call on three stores in Northampton (home to Smith College), then head for the Berkshires. That western Massachusetts trip was a one- or two-nighter. 

Northampton (MA) bookstores

Or we could head along the coast north of Boston with a quick stop in New Hampshire than several in Maine.  Remember, this was pre-cable, pre-Internet, pre-streaming, and pre-mobile.  Consumers had a few newspapers and four TV stations (CBS, ABC, NBC, PBS) which went off the air at midnight. 

So Mainers read a lot of books, especially in the winter.  In those pre-Amazon days, those books had to be gotten at the library or a bookstore.  Back then, one could actually make a decent living and enjoy a good life owning a bookstore in Maine.  The Maine trips were also one- or two-nighters.

Or best of all, I could join Alan on a call to the Grapes of Wrath bookstore on Martha’s Vineyard, the calming island an hour’s ferry ride off the coast of Cape Cod.  No book rep actually had to call on Grapes of Wrath.  Sales could really be done by phone and mail in those days.  But the Vineyard was a bonus that went with the New England territory and the book reps grabbed it. 

Martha’s Vineyard ferry

Bill Franks and his wife, Barbara, ran Grapes of Wrath.  Bill was a terrifically likeable and charming guy who was active in regional and national bookseller associations. 

Whenever I was calling on an account with a sales rep, I kept my mouth shut.  This was the rep’s show, his or her moment, one not to be messed with by some jerk from the home office.  So while Alan did his stuff, I listened and looked around. 

The tiny office in which Alan sold the list to Bill was tight.  I sat on an overturned wastebasket.  A bust of Albert Einstein on a shelf next to my shoulder, seemingly kept an eye on Alan. And my sore ass begged me to stand and excuse myself.  I did. 

I slipped out of the office and watched Barbara at work.  It was soon obvious that Barbara was the brains behind the store’s success.  Always moving – on the phone, behind the counter, with a customer in the stacks.  And I had to smile, she always corrected Bill’s frontlist buy as he’d take too many of too many titles for too many wrong reasons.

Barack Obama hanging out near the Grapes of Wrath

Over the decades, celebrities flocked to the Vineyard.  Jackie Kennedy, Mike Wallace, Oprah Winfrey, Larry David, Bill Gates, Meg Ryan, Reese Witherspoon, Bill and Hillary Clinton, James Taylor, Diane Sawyer, Bill Murray, Spike Lee, Barack and Michelle Obama, David Letterman, Mike Nichols, Michael J. Fox, Carly Simon, etc. 

Barbara always kept her eyes open for a new book by any of those folks. 

The celebs wouldn’t do any sort of event, but they were all customers of the store and would happily autograph 20 or so books.  It wasn’t long before Barbara had built up an amazing stock of autographed books.  Eventually, customers from around the world learned that they could call her and order an autographed book to be sent by mail.  She even had an autographed copy (oh boy) of Matt’s Reinventing Justice.

Those autographed books kept her busy during the winter off-season, especially prior to Christmas.  She had minimal costs (no staff and short hours) during the winter. But she mailed up to 40 autographed books a day, clearing $15 per book.  No other store in New England did business like that in the cold of winter.  She was so smart.

Meanwhile, every time a Little Brown sales director left, or was fired, rumor was that Alan would come in-house and take the gig. After all, he was the only rep who lived in the Boston area.  Sort of made sense.  But Alan knew better.  He always talked as if it was a possibility, but that in-house position was a hot seat.  You’d burn out or take the fall.  And you’d sure not spend your days driving through the beautiful Berkshires, or up along the Maine coast, or onto a ferry for a night on Martha’s Vineyard.

Sadly, as happens, over on Martha’s Vineyard charming Bill Franks started sleeping around.  It was ugly and embarrassing.  (Sleeping around is best done in a large city, not in a small town where EVERYBODY knows you.)

The Franks eventually divorced and Barbara got the store in a settlement. Under her guidance, the Grapes of Wrath wisely jumped on the promise of technology—hers was one of the first stores to have a profitable website.  Bill disappeared from the Vineyard and the book conventions and started showing up in bars.  Soon, nobody had anything good to say about the once beloved bookseller.

Meanwhile, I got an envelope in the mail today. Inside, cut to pieces, was the cover of my Einstein book.  Pissed-off-Einstein guy is so annoying.

Tomorrow: Lunch, and The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich

33. Reassuring Herman Wouk

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Herman Wouk

Back in the Mailer years, Little Brown also published Herman Wouk.

There had been changes in Little Brown’s management, including me.  Wouk lived outside of D.C., so when I went there to visit accounts with sales rep, Sandor Szatmari, we thought it would be a good idea to swing by Wouk’s home, to show ourselves off and reassure Wouk that he continued to be in good hands at Little Brown.

Sandor was a terrific sales rep, and a remarkable person.  

Born in Hungary, Sandor escaped during the 1956 Hungarian Revolution, crossing the Austrian border while hiding in a cart full of onions. He told me how the border guards shoved bayonets into the onions, just missing him several times.  Sandor arrived here as a refugee and soon earned his B. A. in History from Monmouth College. He then served in the United States Army for three years.

Sandor Szatmari

While continuing his education at Columbia University, he got a job in the university’s bookstore. As often happens, he went from bookstore staff to a publisher’s sales team.  He would be at Little Brown for 37 years.

The thing about Sandor was that he was short, the sort of guy when he sat on a sofa, his feet didn’t reach the floor.  He also smoked constantly, the sort of guy with spilled cigarette ash on his shirt and suit coat.

Sandor and I arrived to Wouk’s home.  We were asked to wait in a room with a large sofa and two reading chairs.  I sat in one of the chairs, Sandor on the sofa, his feet not touching the floor.  He lit a cigarette.

Which is when Wouk’s two huge Irish Wolfhounds came into the room.  They went straight to Sandor, sniffing him, crowding him. 

Sandor held his cigarette overhead, so the dogs wouldn’t knock it out of his hand. Ashes fell on Sandor and the sofa.  The dogs were in his face.  Sandor pulled up his feet, his shoes on the sofa, his butt on the sofa’s arm.  The dogs kept after him, sniffing Sandor, his cigarette held high.

Which is when Wouk walked into the room. 

And all I could think of was, “We’re here to reassure you.”

Tomorrow:  Road Trip!

Some guy, and two wolfhounds

32. Norman Mailer and me

BESTSELLERS & BEST FRIENDS

My book publishing blog, with murder mysteries woven through it.

If this is your first visit, be sure to start with “1. Let’s do it!”

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At one point I headed up marketing for the book publisher Little Brown back in the day when it was Boston-based, housed at 34 Beacon Street, in an elegant building on Beacon Hill, first built as a home in 1825 on land belonging to John Hancock.

34 Beacon Street, Bosotn

Our big Spring 1983 title was Norman Mailer’s Ancient Evenings, his long-awaited novel. A lot of money was riding on it.  And Mailer was behind schedule. 

So, it was agreed that he’d come into our offices for a couple of weeks.  To write, and not do any of the other nonsense he was known for.  Like running for mayor of New York City, jumping in the boxing ring, stabbing his wife, and getting into fist fights.

We put him in the office next to mine. I was a nervous wreck.  What if he didn’t like me?  What if he wanted to punch me?  What if in the faded light of late afternoon he mistook me for his wife?  And really, if the two of us got into a fight, who’s side would Little Brown’s ownership take—the world’s bestselling author’s or the dorky marketing director’s?

Norman showed up.  He started typing.  Hour after hour.  The guy was disciplined and a hell of a typist.  Should I offer to get him coffee?  Maybe a drink?  But then I’d have to interrupt him.  What if that caused him to lose focus just when he was about to write the greatest sentence ever?  I sat at my desk not at all sure what to do.  I coughed nervously.  Hold on!  What if my cough bothered him?

Which was when there was a knock on my door.

I turned.  There he was!  Oh lord, it’s over.

“Excuse me,” he said.

“Yes?”

“Just wanted to check,” he hesitated.

“Yes?”

“If the noise of my typing bothers you.  If so, I do apologize.”

Which goes to show that one can wet his pants for no good reason.

Tomorrow:  Reassuring Herman Wouk