The Way of All Fish

by Martha Grimes

  Before Bass could answer, the door to the outer office opened, and footsteps proceeded to the inner. Bunny Fogg looked in and smiled. “Sorry I’m late.”

  “Bunny, come in.” Bobby said to Hess, “Your new secretary. We know you’ll want to send out rejection letters to most of these.” He waved his arm at the shelves. “Bunny is very good; she takes dictation at the speed of light. She might even agree to look at some of these manuscripts herself.”

  Hess was staring at Bunny Fogg. It was the narrowed look of a suspicious man.

  Paul had told Bunny to make sure she wore white today. (“Today and every day. White. If you need more white outfits, go to Saks and Bloomingdale’s and send me the bill.”)

  “Don’t I know you?” said Bass, narrow-eyed. “You look familiar.”

  “I’ve been with Mackenzie-Haack for years. Probably you’ve seen me there, Mr. Hess.”

  Bobby said, “Bunny will keep you on your toes. You know, in case you get distracted.” His smile was wolfish.

  “So she’s the watchdog, is that it?”

  Bunny’s expression was one of innocence; hurt, almost. “Not me, Mr. Hess. But I can probably help you prioritize those manuscripts.”

  Bass let out a contemptuous sniff.

  “You guys ready?” said Bobby.

  They all got up.

  Except Candy, who was already up, and to whom L. Bass was paying no attention, as he had been simply hanging around the aquarium. He was not engaged in threats or knife-throwing. “Never knew there was so many kinds of angelfish,” he said to no one in particular. “You got some nice fish in there, Bass.”

  Bass threw him a lethal look and said nothing. He had nothing more to say. As they filed out, each gave Bass a smile and a thumbs-up. Candy patted the side of the tank, dribbled his fingers along it in a good-bye wave.

  Oscar did not favor him with a good-bye fin.

  THE REST IS (ALMOST) SILENCE

  One week later

  The FWS burst into the paper-strewn offices of the Hess Literary Agency and presented L. Bass with a warrant, claiming he was in possession of the endangered peppermint angelfish.

  Agent Pasco (the redhead) deftly removed the so-called peppermint angelfish from the aquarium and deposited him into a cute little fish hotel.

  They left with L. Bass Hess in custody.

  Hess, without legal counsel, sat in the Fish and Wildlife Service’s office on Houston Street with Agents Pasco, Morton, and Graeme, voicing his outrage about the illegality of all of this, claiming the fish had been placed in his office without his knowledge—

  Whereupon Agent Pasco gave a snort of derision while she placed the rescued fish in her large tote bag. “They always say that, don’t they?”

  Within the hour, another FWS agent, Agent Molloy, came to the door and was admitted together with a dark-haired woman in red, who lit up a thin brown cigarette and looked at L. Bass Hess. She nodded. “Yes, this is the one. This is Miles Mutton.”

  One month later

  Clive Esterhaus paid a visit to Simone Simmons and learned that her nephew, L. Bass, had been rushed to the ER to get twenty-five stitches in his hand following Jasper’s attack after Bass thrust his hand into the birdcage.

  “God knows what the man was doing.”

  “God knows,” said Clive.

  Simone was making fresh changes to her will, leaving the bulk of her money to Friends of the Everglades and the Everglades Foundation, and her cottage to her houseboy, Bolly. “I can’t trust Bass to take care of anything. He seems completely mad.”

  As they drove toward Naples and the same little restaurant, Clive told her the disposition of her fortune sounded like an excellent idea, with Clive earnestly hoping he had not walked himself into the sequel of Some Like It Hot.

  “Incidentally, Simone, just what does that L stand for? What’s Bass’s first name?”

  “His father was a bass fisherman, after all.”

  Clive waited. Nothing further. “And?” he prompted.

  “You mean you haven’t worked that out?” She gave a sniffy laugh over the top of her commuter-cup martini.

  One year later

  1.

  Robot Redux was fast-tracked through publication by the venerable house of Swinedale and became a TBR instant bestseller. This took the publishing world by storm and left speechless a dozen publishers who had turned down the submission. Sam Driscoll, Swinedale’s publicity director, laughed. “This wasn’t exactly searching for a bestselling book in a dark alley on a moonless night, was it? I mean, not if you know the market.”

  “Sure. Everybody knows the market after it happens,” said Mackenzie-Haack’s publisher, Bobby Mackenzie.

  Suzie Moon, Swinedale’s executive publisher, was, according to Publishers Weekly, “a visionary who predicted the collapse of vampire-themed books and the rise of robots. Said Ms. Moon with a wicked smile, ‘Bots are big.’ ”

  Bub Biggins, the author of Robot Redux, is at work on the next book in his Robot series and is still employed at Gio’s Auto Salvage. He has no plans to quit. According to Gio Beauchamp, owner of the auto salvage yard, his business has quadrupled since the publication of Robot. “This is one real guy; Bub ain’t changed one friggin’ bit in spite of all his success.”

  2.

  L. Bass Hess sued Bub Biggins for the commission he claimed was owing for Robot Redux. Biggins’s attorneys stated in a countersuit that, since Hess did not agent the book, he would not be entitled to a commission.

  Judge Owen Oglethorpe ruled in Biggins’s favor.

  “I will appeal,” said Hess.

  3.

  Another surprise success, this in the nonfiction field, was the e-book Silence, All: Where Shakespeare Went Wrong, by Shirlee Murphee. One of the new Basic Classics line, Silence has gained a surprisingly hefty readership among high school students, explaining, as it does, in simple prose exactly how Shakespeare failed to establish the reason for Hamlet’s delay. (Ms. Murphee generously acknowledged a debt to T. S. Eliot in this regard. She was also quick to point out “where Eliot went wrong.”)

  4.

  L. Bass Hess sued Shirlee Murphee for a finder’s fee for Silence, All, claiming that the so-called nonfiction book was a thinly disguised work of fiction by this author originally titled How (Very) Happy We (Never) Were, that title having been changed to The Rest Is (Almost) Silence. This former fictional treatment had been “found” by the Hess Agency.

  Judge Carolee Menekee ruled in favor of Shirlee Murphee, saying that in her judgment, even if the agency were correct, Ms. Murphee had every right to turn her fiction into nonfiction and that, as nonfiction, it was a completely new book with which the Hess Agency had no connection.

  5.

  The real surprise of the publishing season, hitting stores fast on the heels of Robbie (a name affectionately applied to the Bub Biggins bestseller), was The Skunk Ape Trilogy by Donny Thugz. Skunk Ape was published by the new and forward-looking Humpback House publishers, whose innovative CEO took the book on and turned it into three dioramas with more than two hundred moving parts.

  The most popular volume of the three-part book is Volume II, which features an alligator cave where the Skunk Ape (as legend has it) likes to rest. The player can move into the cave a number of little cardboard tourists who are searching for the Skunk Ape. Whether the tourists come out of the cave, or in what condition they exit, is up to the player. (To assist the players, extra little tourists are supplied in various stages of dismemberment.)

  The Skunk Ape Trilogy has been a complete and utter smash with children of all ages. When Donny Thugz did his book signing at Barnes & Noble, the store was mobbed. All of the bookstores where Donny appeared on his whirlwind tour were bursting at the seams with wildly enthusiastic kids.

  For the first time in Barnes & Noble’s book-signing history, there were protestors—also children—out on the pavement, most carrying placards put out by the recently formed SKUNKBUNK movement. A number of children were
interviewed, both Donny devotees and SKUNKBUNKers. “Terrific,” “awesome,” “coolest of the cool,” “hugs to Thugz,” raved Mr. Thugz’s fans. “Crap,” “derivative,” “godawful,” “stink-o” were comments coming from the SKUNKBUNKers.

  Two of these children were definitely neither fans of the trilogy nor members of the SKUNKBUNK movement. The Hollander-Trump brothers were leaning against the B&N window watching the procedure. Nodding toward the enormous window display, the twelve-year-old said, “Flash in the pan.” He added wryly, “Like life.” He was carrying a much thumbed and dog-eared copy of DeLillo’s White Noise.

  The younger of the Hollander-Trump brothers claimed to have “read” (air quotes his) this three-part “phenome,” or, as he sardonically put it, “Tried passing it off as my one-book-per-week assignment. Three volumes? That should have been good for three weeks. Dad didn’t buy it.” He rocked his hand by way of illustrating his comment: “But I’ll work it, no sweat.” Under his arm was The Art of the Deal.

  6.

  The Hess Agency sued Donny Thugz for a discovery fee, claiming that Mr. Hess had spent a great deal of time on The Skunk Ape Trilogy and was himself responsible for it being brought to the attention of Humpback House.

  In a surprising move by Judge Owen Oglethorpe, the case was not merely dismissed but banished. Judge Oglethorpe was heard to say in chambers with the plaintiff, “This better be the last ******* time I see you, Hess.”

  7.

  Paul Giverney was sitting rather listlessly in his office when Hannah walked in and placed a document on his desk. She said, “It’s still part of The Hunted Gardens. It’s got a different title because it’s a squidway.” Hannah walked out.

  Paul thought he had misheard. “What in hell’s a squidway?” he asked Molly, who had appeared in the doorway in her apron.

  “She asked me what you called it when your story went off on another path. I said that’s called a ‘segue.’ Dinner’s ready in five minutes.” Molly walked off.

  Paul picked up the squidway. It was seven pages long. The title page read:

  THE RHINESTONE

  By Hannah W. Collins

  The First Dragon Mystery Ever Written

  “You go, girl,” said Paul, turning to the first page.

  8.

  The book that did not make it to the New York Times bestseller list was You Had Me at Good-bye. The novel was published, however, to great critical acclaim and rave reviews.

  Cindy Sella, who had never expected her novel to sell even as well as it did, was perfectly content. Her contentment was owing less to the great reviews than to the miniature pig she had purchased from a sleazy sidewalk pet vendor. She had bought the pig to take to upstate New York but had found it increasingly difficult to part with. She named it Herman and marveled at its ability to use a litter box. Herman sat with Gus on the bench and watched the (still nameless) clown fish lounge on their bed of pink anemone.

  Cindy goes often to the Clownfish Café and talks to Frankie and eats the same spaghetti dish she was eating when two hoods came in, hidden in coats, and shot up the aquarium.

  She does not need to text or tweet or take pictures.

  Cindy remembers.

  9.

  Candy talks about maybe entering Oscar in a contest.

  “Contest? Fuck’s sake. What kind of contest is there for fish?”

  “There ought to be some endurance contest, something like that. After what he’s been through.”

  Karl shakes his head and tries to snap Publishers Weekly to show his impatience. “So you line up a bunch of fish, shoot a gun in the air, and shout, ‘Go!’ ”

  “You think you know everything about fish, right? The way of all fish, you think you know all that?”

  Karl snaps Publishers Weekly again, or tries to. “I just know the way of that fuckin’ fish, is all.”

  Oscar hangs out in his little Hotel W.

  Oscar endures.

  Click through for a sneak peek at Martha Grimes's new novel

  Vertigo 42

  Vertigo 42, the City

  Monday, 6:00 P.M.

  1

  It was far too high to see Old Broad Street down below, but the windows that traveled all the way around the lozenge-shaped room gave as great a view of London as he’d ever seen. The Thames, Westminster, St. Paul’s, Southwark, everything miniaturized. He was so high up he fancied he’d almost had an attack of vertigo on the fast elevator that made only one stop, and that one at the top of Tower 42: Vertigo.

  Jury was looking down at the Thames, moving off in one direction toward Gravesend and Gallions Reach, which he couldn’t of course see; in the other direction, the Isle of Dogs, Richmond, and Hampton Court. He tried to picture all of those ships that had once steamed toward London’s docks, toward Rotherhithe and the Blackwall Basin in the not-so-distant past, and in just such light as Jury was seeing now, the sun setting on St Paul’s. In the deep sunset hovering over buildings, the outlines blurred. They might have been dark hills.

  He was looking toward Docklands, an area that used to comprise the West India Docks and beyond to the Blackwell Basin, one thing that remained after the docks closed. Eighty-some acres of what was now the Canary Wharf estate. Hundreds of dockers had once lived and worked there; now it was office workers, glass buildings, and converted warehouses.

  Vertigo 42, this bar at the top of one of the financial towers in the “square mile” that made up the City of London—London’s financial district—might have been designed to create the illusion of a city down there. Or perhaps that thought was merely brought on by the champagne Jury was drinking. Champagne was something he never drank and wasn’t used to; but that’s what you got up here, that’s why people came here—to drink champagne.

  The champagne had been brought by a waiter “at the request of Mr. Williamson, sir.” The waiter set down two glasses and poured into one of them. Jury drank. He had forgotten champagne; he had certainly forgotten great champagne, if he’d ever known it at all. This lot (he had checked the wine list) was costing Mr. Williamson in the vicinity of 385 quid. One bottle. That much. It was Krug. Was wine this expensive meant to be swallowed? Or just held in the mouth as the eye held on to the barges streaked with orange light there on the river.

  The waiter returned with a dish of incandescent green olives, big ones; he placed them on the counter that ran beneath the window and between the rather trendy-looking but very comfortable chairs.

  Jury was there to meet not an old friend, but a friend of an old friend, Sir Oswald Maples. The friend of the friend was Williamson, who had ordered the champagne. Oswald Maples had asked Jury if he could spare some time to talk to Tom Williamson, and Jury said, “Of course. Why?” To which Oswald had said, “You’ll see.” Jury filled his glass again before he moved to another window and another view of the Thames.

  “My favorite view,” said a voice behind him. Jury turned.

  “Superintendent Jury? I’m Tom Williamson. I’m very sorry I’m late.”

  “I’m not,” said Jury, lifting the Krug from its ice bed. “You will notice this is considerably below the waterline.”

  Tom Williamson laughed and poured a measure into his own glass. He was a tall man, taller by an inch than Jury himself. “Fortunately, there’s a lot more sea.” He raised his glass, tipped it toward Jury’s. “You like ships, Superintendent?”

  “I don’t know anything about them, except there’s a waterline on the hull.”

  Tom smiled. “I love them. My grandfather was in the shipping business. Down there used to be steamships of the East India Company loaded with stuff—tea, spices, as many as a thousand ships going toward the docks. And barges. Now we’ve got tourist cruisers and speedboats. Still a lot of river traffic, just not the same traffic. Thanks for meeting me.”

  The thanks came without a pause between it and the river traffic. The way he talked, the directness, as if he didn’t want to waste any time, made Jury smile. Williamson had yet to remove his coat,
which he now did, and tossed it over one of the coolly blue amoeba-shaped chairs.

  “An interesting bar to choose,” said Jury. “Light-years above the ones I frequent down there.” He nodded toward the window and approaching dark. “Do you work in the City?”

  “No. I know nothing about finance. You wonder why I chose it?”

  Jury laughed. “I’m not complaining, believe me. It must have the best views of anyplace in London.”

  “Yes. I don’t come here often.” He sat back. “Perhaps I chose it because up here is quite literally above it all.” He sipped some champagne.

  Jury smiled. “What’s the ‘all’?”

  Williamson looked perplexed.

  “That you want to be above?”

  Williamson picked up an olive but didn’t eat it. He put it on one of the small paper napkins the waiter had supplied. “You know a man with the Devon-Cornwall police. A Commander Macalvie?”

  Jury was so surprised by this sudden segue he spilled his champagne, fortunately only on himself. “Sorry.” He brushed at the spill with a napkin. “Brian Macalvie? I certainly do. But it was Sir Oswald Maples who spoke to me about you—”

  “Of course. I’m sorry. I’m tossing too many balls in the air.” He plucked the bottle from its stand and poured more for each of them. “I don’t know how much Oswald told you . . .”

  “Nothing, other than that you worked for the Government Code and Cipher School, GC and CS. Not when he was there, but after it changed to GC Headquarters and got moved to Cheltenham.”

  Tom Williamson nodded.

  Jury went on: “Sir Oswald knows I’m a sucker for that stuff. I stopped at Bletchley Park to see the Enigma machine. It was incredible work they did, Alan Turing and the others.”

  Williamson said, “Oswald was at Bletchley Park during the war. He was really into it, very high up. I wasn’t so much; my work was small potatoes by comparison. Your name came up—that is, he thought of you when I was visiting him one evening in Chelsea. It’s about my wife, Tess.”