by Dorien Grey
“Senior or Junior?”
There are two of them?
“Senior, please.” I hoped I sounded as though I had known all along.
“May I tell him who’s calling?”
“My name is Hardesty. Dick Hardesty.”
“And may I ask what company you are with?”
“Hardesty Investigations.”
“One moment, Mr. Hardesty.” There was a click and then the sounds of Vivaldi’s “Four Seasons.”
Well, the place has class, I decided.
A moment later, another click and a male voice, “Donald Bernadine.”
I introduced myself as a private investigator and explained that I would like to speak with him about one of his authors, Tony T. Tunderew. I didn’t mention I was working for Tunderew. I could do that later.
“I do not discuss our professional associations,” he said, politely but firmly.
“I understand. But this is a matter of some importance which might affect Bernadine Press, and I would really appreciate it if we could talk in person for a few minutes.”
After a moment of silence, he said, “Tomorrow at ten thirty? I have a meeting at eleven, so it will have to be brief.”
“Ten thirty will be fine, Mr. Bernadine. Thank you. I’ll see you then.”
*
At home, right after dinner, while Jonathan sat cross-legged on the floor studying, I called Larry Fletcher. I hoped he was in, since I really wanted to talk to him before I went to see Donald Bernadine.
Luck was with me.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Fletcher, it’s Dick Hardesty. I had another question I wonder if you could answer for me?”
“Will it help Tony find out who is blackmailing him?”
“I hope so. I understand you were nice enough to run some errands for Mr. Tunderew during your lunch hours.”
“Oh, yes. I was glad to do it. I don’t eat lunch very often anyway. And Tony was always so busy…”
Uh huh, I thought.
“Did he by any chance ever have you go by Bernadine Press for him?”
There was no hesitation. “Yes, a couple of times Tony asked me to take things over to them. Mr. Bernadine is a very nice man, very friendly.”
I found it a little odd that Tunderew would be so brazen as to keep anything having to do with Dirty Little Minds at work.
“So he would just hand you a package and ask you to deliver it to Bernadine Press?”
“Oh, no, not during working hours. Tony is very conscientious about not taking up company time for his personal affairs.”
Right. Why should he when he can sucker some naive kid into doing it for him?
Unaware of my thoughts, Fletcher kept on talking. “Whenever he’d have something he’d like me to take over to them, he’d ask me to meet him in the parking lot before work. I’d put it in the trunk of my car, and then deliver it during my lunch hour.”
Sigh.
“Did you by any chance mention to Mr. Bernadine that Tony had helped you get your new apartment?”
“I don’t think I…wait, yes I did. I stopped by to drop off an envelope on my way to the apartment management company with the check. I was so touched by Tony’s kindness I’m sure I told Mr. Bernadine about it. Tony’d made me promise not to tell anyone at work, but I had to tell someone! Why do you ask?”
“I was just curious,” I said, only half truthfully. “And I was wondering, were there any rumors around work about Tony and any of the women he worked with?”
I sensed the question bothered him a bit. “There are always rumors. Tony’s a very, very handsome man. Every girl in the office had a crush on him, I think.”
And at least one of the guys, I mentally added.
“Any one in particular?”
“Well, maybe Judith. She was a temp and worked for Tony on a project he was doing. She was only there a month or so, but she really liked Tony. He was just being nice, as he is with everyone, but I think she thought he liked her…well, you know.”
I knew.
“Do you know Judith’s last name, or the temp agency she worked for?”
He paused. “Her last name was Francini. I remember that because our next-door neighbors when I was growing up were Francinis. I asked her if she might be related, but she didn’t think so. And Craylaw and Collier uses Manpower for all their temps. But she left about halfway through the project and they got someone else.”
“Any idea why?”
“Not really. You know temps…they come and they go.”
I wondered if the reason this particular temp went might have anything to do with the charming Mr. Tunderew.
“Well, thanks again for your help, Mr. Fletcher.”
“I’m always glad to help Tony.”
There are none so blind…my mind-voice sighed, as I reached for the pencil and notepad beside the phone to write down “Judith Francini/Manpower.”
*
The offices of Bernadine Press were in an older, seen-better-days office building much like my own. The last door to the left of a long hall was a windowless solid brown slab with cracked lacquer and a wooden engraved sign that announced Bernadine Press. I turned the brass knob and entered a twelve-by-twelve room, at one end of which, directly in front of me, was a short hallway to a single venetian blind window, beside which stood a water cooler. I could see three doors on either side of the hall. The room I had entered had a secretary/reception area to the left, and one door on the right, on which was a brass plate with the words “D. Bernadine, Publisher.”
The receptionist/secretary was a comfortable-looking heavyset woman in her early fifties who reminded me of my aunt Ethel, and I immediately sensed she’d probably been with the company since she got out of secretarial school. As I walked over to her desk, she smiled and said, “May I help you?” in a voice I recognized from my phone call the day before.
“I’m Dick Hardesty. I have a ten thirty appointment with Mr. Bernadine…Senior.”
“Please have a seat. He’ll be with you in a moment.”
I took one of the three chairs against the wall and sat down as she returned to whatever it was she’d been doing. The walls in the reception area, including the one behind my chair, were hung with framed dust jackets of Bernadine Press books, and photos I assumed to be of authors. I didn’t recognize any of the titles, or any of the people in the pictures. Surprisingly, Tony T. Tunderew and Dirty Little Minds were not among them.
My curiosity about the rest of the place got the best of me, so I got up from the chair and said, “Could I get a glass of water, please?”
“Of course,” she said, and started to get up.
“Don’t bother. I noticed the cooler at the end of the hall. I can just get it myself if that’s all right.”
She smiled and nodded, and I headed down the hall. The first door to my right, next to Bernadine’s office, was closed with no indication of what may be behind it. Directly opposite it was a closed door with a sign saying “Bookkeeping.” The next door on the right was an open door with a small sign on the wall beside it saying “Art Department.” As I passed I glanced in to see a crowded room cluttered with drafting tables, file cabinets, two windows, and two desks. A young man with a white dress shirt rolled up to his elbows sat with his back to me at one of the drafting tables. There was the faint smell of rubber cement.
In the hall across from the Art Department was another open door showing a small lunch room with a table, several chairs, a coffee maker, and an older refrigerator. The last door to the left had a sign saying “S. Evans, Editor,” and across from it an identical door and a sign saying “P. Bernadine, Editor.” Interesting.
My curiosity satisfied, I poured myself a cup of water from the cooler, observing the somehow satisfying blurrrrurp and the accompanying large bubble of water rise from bottom to top.
I returned to the reception area just as the door to Bernadine’s office opened and an elderly gentleman with white hair in a crumpled-looking brown
suit emerged. I was still in the hallway and, apparently expecting me to be in the reception area, he looked at the secretary with a puzzled expression. She gave a subtle jerk of her head in my direction, and he turned to me. He did not smile.
“Mr. Hardesty,” he said as we shook hands. “Please, come into my office.”
He stood aside while I entered, then closed the door beside me and motioned me to a seat.
The office was…well, old…but a comfortable old. There was a sense of having stepped back in time. The furniture was solid, practical, rather worn, and comfortable. That everything in the room was in shades of brown, including the brown drapes flanking the window—when is the last time you’ve seen drapes in an office?—undoubtedly contributed to the effect. Bookcases lined one wall, filled with books, which all showed the letters “BP” at the bottom of the spine. On one side of his desk was a stack of what I assumed to be manuscripts.
“Now,” he said, as he moved behind the desk and sat down, “just what is this ‘important matter’ you wanted to discuss?”
His tone and his posture did not suggest hostility, but there was no casualness in it either—strictly business.
I decided to get right to the point. “Were you aware that Tony Tunderew is being blackmailed?”
The mention of Tunderew’s name caused his eyes to narrow slightly, but other than that there was no reaction.
“No, I was not, though I’m neither surprised nor, I must admit, particularly sorry to hear it. Though I take offense at the implication that Bernadine Press might somehow be involved.”
“I apologize; there was no implication intended. I was mainly concerned with what you might know of an associate of Mr. Tunderew—a young man named Larry Fletcher. I understand you met him on a couple occasions.”
He shook his head. “Not that I can recall.”
“Mr. Tunderew sent him over a couple of times, and…”
He nodded. “Ah, then he probably spoke with my son, Peter. Peter is Tunderew’s editor. I personally have had almost no contact with Tunderew at all. To be frank, I had serious hesitation about becoming involved with someone of Mr. Tunderew’s ilk. It turns out I was right.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t think I understand. Why did you agree to publish Dirty Little Minds, then? I’m sure it has been very profitable for Bernadine Press.”
He shook his head slowly and his face, for the first time, broke into a small, wry smile.
“Bernadine Press was started by my father nearly fifty years ago. We are, and always have been, associated with offering quality books of high literary merit…until now.” He picked up a pencil, sharpened to a needle point, and began to tap it on the desk top.
“In recent years, things have gotten tight for the entire publishing industry, and for Bernadine Press in particular. Reading habits have changed, and reading itself is becoming something of a lost art. We were, to be brutally honest, in a very precarious financial position. It was my son, Peter, who brought Tunderew to my attention. He knew Tunderew casually, and when Tunderew approached him with his book, Peter asked for a synopsis and outline.”
He sighed and then went on.
“Under normal circumstances, I would have rejected it out of hand, but Peter convinced me that if Bernadine Press was to survive, it must make accommodations with literary trends—though by no stretch of the imagination would I consider Dirty Little Minds ‘literature.’ He felt very strongly that Tunderew’s book would be a great financial success.
“Peter’s instincts proved to be correct, and ironically it is Dirty Little Minds that has given Bernadine Press a chance for survival. We are, as a result, in negotiations with our bank to completely modernize and expand our operations. If his second book turns out to be as profitable as his first, we will be in a solid financial position to explore new avenues, which will allow us to continue publishing what we set out to publish—quality books of high literary merit.”
We were both quiet for a moment, until I said, “I understand you are suing Mr. Tunderew for breach of contract.”
He nodded.
“The contract for Dirty Little Minds stipulated that we were to have first rights on his second book, which he had begun working on even before Dirty Little Minds was completed, and first refusal rights on his third—if there was to be a third.”
“Is it customary to, in effect, tie a writer down like that?”
Bernadine shrugged. “No one held a gun to his head. He was perfectly free to say ‘no.’ We were, after all, taking a huge risk with this project. We knew full well he had few options if he wanted to see the book published at all. And if it did turn out to be the success Peter predicted, well…neither Peter nor I had the slightest doubt that ‘loyalty’ is not a concept familiar to Mr. Tunderew, and that he would try to dump us the instant he became successful and thought he could make more money with another publisher. We felt it only natural to protect our interests.”
“Do you know what the subject of this second book is to be?” I was genuinely curious.
Bernadine shook his head. “Peter knows more than I. Another potentially explosive scandal involving another well-known national figure, but that’s all I can say. Peter thinks it will be even a bigger seller than Dirty Little Minds. I’m letting Peter handle it. Frankly, I would be just as happy to let Tunderew break the contract, but I must think of the survival of Bernadine Press. I’ll be retiring in a year or so, but I want Peter—and the company—to have a future, even though it may be a very different future from one I would have chosen. So yes, we are suing Mr. Tunderew. A contract is a contract, and since Mr. Tunderew so obviously lacks any sense of moral obligation, he might be made to understand that legal obligations are not so easily dismissed.”
He glanced at his watch. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a few things to do before my eleven o’clock meeting.”
“Of course. I very much appreciate your having taken the time to talk with me. But do you suppose I could talk with your son for a few minutes? I would like to find out more about this Larry Fletcher matter.”
Bernadine nodded and reached for the phone hidden behind the stack of manuscripts. “I’ll see if he’s available.”
*
I waited in the reception area for another few minutes until the intercom on the secretary’s desk buzzed.
“Mr. Bernadine will see you now,” she said. “The end of the hall, on your right.”
I remembered.
When I reached the door, I knocked—again reflecting on our odd social customs, since I knew he was expecting me and I doubted he’d be doing anything that would require advance notice.
“Come in,” a surprisingly deep voice responded, and I turned the knob and entered. Peter Bernadine’s office was smaller than his father’s—the same depth, but narrower. It was also considerably brighter, mainly due to there being fewer dark bookcases, and the walls had several large, colorful paintings. There were no drapes on the window.
Peter Bernadine himself was, I noticed as he stood up to greet me, pretty much a physical carbon copy of his father, though more casually dressed. And whereas the elder Bernadine had pure white hair, his son’s was pitch black and slicked down to the point of almost glistening. He also sported a small mustache that reminded me of Adolph Hitler’s.
I reached his desk and we shook hands. “Have a seat, please,” he said. His deep voice seemed somehow incongruous with the rest of him.
“My father tells me you’re looking for information on an associate of Tony Tunderew’s?” he asked as I sat down.
He and his father must have talked while I was waiting in the reception area.
“Uh, yes. Larry Fletcher. Do you know anything about him?”
Bernadine smiled. “Not really, other than the fact that I gather he’s Tony’s…uh, shall we say ‘special friend’?”
Now that one caught me a little by surprise.
“What makes you think that?”
Bernadine sat back in his chair and r
eached into his shirt pocket for a pack of cigarettes. He made a gesturing offer to me, and I shook my head. He waited until he had lit up and blew a long stream of smoke into the room before continuing:
“I only spoke with him twice, I think, but he made it pretty obvious. All he talked about was how excited he was for Tony, writing a real book that was sure to make him famous. And the last time he was in, he was telling me about how Tony had given him the money to get a new apartment.”
“So you think Tunderew is gay?”
Bernadine shrugged and took another long drag from his cigarette. “It doesn’t matter to me whether he is or isn’t, but I wouldn’t put anything past him. I’m sure if he saw some benefit in it, he’d probably screw a dead baby.” He flicked his cigarette over the almost full ashtray on the corner of his desk, and smiled. “As you may gather, he’s not one of my favorite people.”
“But you published his book. Why?”
He kept the smile as he said, “You’re working for him, aren’t you? Why?”
He made a quick nod to indicate he didn’t expect an answer. “Money is a pretty strong incentive for doing things we might prefer not to do. I knew when he came to me with Dirty Little Minds that it could be a runaway best-seller. I knew, too, that he wouldn’t have come to Bernadine Press unless he’d been turned down by every other mainstream publisher first. I must say his timing was perfect. The Governor Keene scandal—not that there is any direct relationship between it and Dirty Little Minds, of course—was just breaking. He was obviously desperate, and when he said he was already working on another book that would be even more explosive than Dirty Little Minds, I decided to get him to commit to a multiple-book deal. If Dirty Little Minds tanked, we wouldn’t be out all that much. If it caught on, which it did, we had every right to demand something in return for our having taken the chance with him. He agreed.”
“I was a bit curious about that. Why three books?”
Bernadine stared at the end of his cigarette for a moment before answering.
“A little unusual, perhaps, but just as my instinct told me Dirty Little Minds would be a goldmine, it also told me Tunderew couldn’t be trusted any further than I could throw him. We’re a small house, and we can’t afford to offer six-figure advances. I knew if Dirty Little Minds was as big a hit as I expected it to be, other publishers would be throwing money at him for his next book. Our having refusal rights only on a second book would encourage him to dash off some piece of crap—not that Dirty Little Minds is exactly War and Peace—just to meet the terms of the contract. Then he’d be free to peddle the big one to somebody else—which, it turns out, is exactly what he did. He was apparently stupid enough, or arrogant enough, not to think we’d get wind of it. So by writing in first refusal rights on the next two books, we were covering our ass.”