And this was from whom Howard was to ask for a raise.
He took Harrison’s suggestions and prepped himself well (he thought) and met with Sperry, giving him a concise review of his list of books, his contribution to G & G and the reasons why he felt he deserved a raise—and soon.
It was not without difficulty that he got through his presentation. Howard had never cared to look at Sperry up close, but now, sitting here one on one, he had no choice. And it was distracting. First there was the business of Sperry’s marine-style haircut, which was enough to throw anyone—including a marine—since few wished to retain the look of boot camp as the mainstay of their personal style. But what was worse—much, much worse was Sperry’s habit, while listening, of lifting his upper lip in a half sneer every five seconds or so. It made Howard feel as though he was trying to talk to a saber-toothed goldfish.
And then there were the guns. All over Sperry’s office were replicas of handguns (or maybe they were real, Howard certainly wouldn’t have known). Some were mounted on wall plaques; some were on stands in the bookshelves; three were just lying on their sides along the windowsill behind Sperry’s desk. After standing up to adjust one of the window blinds, Sperry picked up one of these guns and started spinning the barrel, again and again. Then he stopped spinning it, pulled the barrel out to the side, and held the gun up to look through it. Then, in one motion, he clapped the barrel back into place and took aim out the window, arms outstretched. Suddenly he pivoted and swung his aim at Howard’s head.
Click.
“You’ve talked long enough,” Sperry said.
“So I gather,” Howard said, touching his glasses.
Sperry put the gun down on his desk and sat down in his chair. “I’ll be straight with you, Stewart,” he said, frowning, opening a folder and scanning the top sheet. “I hadn’t looked at the numbers on you and now that I have...” He pushed the file away and looked at Howard. “Frankly, I don’t think you’re worth keeping at your present salary.”
Howard rubbed his chin, feeling oddly like laughing. “In my opinion, I think your contribution to the company stinks and your attitude sucks.”
“I had two bestsellers—”
“And you have the biggest loss leader for the fiscal year with that computer book.”
“I did?” Howard said, jerking forward. “I didn’t even sign it up! As you might recall,” he said, settling back, trying to calm down, “the editor was fired and I was assigned to see it through. As a matter of fact,” he added, hand tightening, “after the author failed to make the revisions on it, I wrote several memos recommending that the book be canceled.”
Sperry’s hand was on the gun again, but he didn’t pick it up. “What are you saying, Stewart?”
“I’m not saying anything. I’m just reminding you that I wanted that book to be canceled and that your department refused to and” —he took a breath; oh, what the hell—”he seemed to think all it needed was a snappy title and a hundred thousand first printing to make a go of it.” Howard sighed. “Look, Mr. Sperry, I admit it, I’ve made some errors of judgment on some books, but I can’t sit here and be blamed for something I know I am not responsible for.”
“You’re fired,” Sperry said.
Howard blinked.
Sperry closed the folder and threw it over his shoulder, sending papers flying. “Get the fuck out of here.” Howard continued to sit there. After several moments Sperry narrowed his eyes, leaned back in his chair, and knitted his fingers together on his stomach. “You can learn how to do your job or you can pack up your crap and get out of here. Which is it going to be?”
I could always throw you out the window, Howard thought. “I’ll listen to what you have to say,” Howard said carefully, “and then I’ll see if I can do the job you want me to do.”
“All right then.” Sperry stood up. “Pick up your papers and then I’ll explain it to you.”
“What?”
Sperry moved around his desk and sat in the chair next to Howard. He pointed to where he had been sitting before. “Get your file,” he said. Howard paused and then got up, went around the desk, and picked up the folder and papers. He brought them back and sat down.
Sperry grabbed them, rifled through them to the sheet he wanted, and jammed them into Howard’s lap. “Look,” he said, mashing his finger on the sheet.
Howard felt ill and loosened his tie.
“Are you paying attention, Stewart?” Sperry demanded.
“Yeah.”
“Okay then.”
And then Sperry launched into a very complicated explanation of the new “accounting” and “list planning” procedures at Gardiner & Grayson. Howard might not have been a wizard at numbers like Sperry, but he did know enough about math and publishing to know that what Sperry was doing had lots to do with paper and little to do with reality. In fact, the more Sperry ripped apart Howard’s list, the more he realized that Sperry was testing him—did Howard understand that a game was being played, and was Howard going to play it?
“Now wait a minute,” he said when Sperry started saying how Howard better hope like hell a spy novel was going to be as good as he had said it was. “The sales estimate here says twenty thousand copies.” Howard looked at Sperry. “I only signed it up five months ago and the sales estimate, confirmed by your—the business office—was thirty thousand. Who changed it?”
Sperry mumbled something about a “planning” meeting at which enthusiasm for the book had dropped.
“How can enthusiasm drop for a book that hasn’t been finished yet? The sales estimate was based on the author’s track record of twenty-eight thousand copies on his last book.” He looked back down at the paper in front him and ran his finger down the advance sales estimates. “And you’ve reduced Gertrude’s advance sales too—from eighty to—to fifty-five.” His head flew up to look at Sperry.
Sperry’s mouth started in on the goldfish—sneer maneuver again.
Howard was horrified. Absolutely horrified. Looking down at the “revised” sales estimates on some of his other promising books, he realized that Sperry was using them as insurance to make sure that if he did not actually increase profits in the first two years of his presidency he would at least appear to have done so. It was a plan of hocus-pocus paper magic: on the titles most likely to succeed, like the spy novel, cut the sales estimates by one third. The budget would then plan on revenues from a twenty-thousand-copy sale, so when the book came out and sold thirty thousand, there would be windfall income on an “unanticipated” extra sale of ten thousand books.
In other words, feed the G & G board a budget that said the company was holding two pairs, and then miraculously come forth with a full house —Ahhh! Our new president! Miracle worker! The job is his!
Oh, God, whatever happened to the excitement and discovery of book publishing? Howard wondered. What ever happened to writers? To books? All these new games were about computer printouts and MBA mind-masturbation. How was Howard supposed to protect the interests of his authors under a system like this? When time of publication came, what if Sperry forgot he had deflated the advance sales figure? The first printing, the promotion budget, everything on the book would be reduced to fit the advance sales projection. What was Howard supposed to do then, say, “Psst—Mack—you rigged the numbers on this one, remember? The first printing should be twenty thousand, not fifteen. Because we know it’s probably going to sell thirty—remember?”
“Even though these numbers have been changed,” Howard said, “you know I am a profitable editor and deserve a raise, Mr. Sperry.”
Sperry grabbed the papers from Howard. “You goddam prima donna editors think you know everything,” he said, sifting through the papers. He stopped at a sheet and slammed it down on Howard’s leg. “Look at this. Just look at this. Look at the overhead on you. Your office. Your salary. Your department expenses. Your expense account, phone bills, copying and look at your secretary’s salary—”
“Come on,�
� Howard said, “he barely makes fourteen thousand a year—”
“You come on!” Sperry cried, throwing the papers in the air again. “You’re the one who came in here asking for a raise. A raise!” He vaulted out of the chair and went around to the other side of the desk. He leaned over it, raising a hand to point a finger at Howard. “Unless your attitude changes, Stewart, unless you join the team around here, I’m gonna kick your ass outta here so fast it’s going to make your head spin.” He started rifling through papers on his desk. “I am so goddam sick and tired of you fucking shithead editors—” His head jerked up. “Do you need your job, Stewart—or are you the rich kid everyone says you are?”
Howard stood up. He cleared his throat. “I need my job like everyone else,” he said. He paused. “Thank you for listening to me, Mr. Sperry, and I appreciate your explaining how things stand.” He turned for the door and then stopped. He turned around. “I can’t get a raise, right?”
Sperry gave him three goldfish—sneers and then abruptly sat down in his chair. “We’ll see,” he muttered, pushing his gun to the side of his desk.
Howard sat in his office, looking out the window, refusing to take or make phone calls.
Sigh.
He got up to close the door. He came back to the desk, pulled a sheet of white bond out of a drawer, smoothed it over the blotter and picked up a pen. He thought a moment and then wrote:
Dear Amanda,
I need you. Everything is
He ripped it up, threw it away, and started again.
Dearest Amanda,
What you said about us was right, I realize now. And I want to change. And I will try to change, but please
He started again.
Dearest Amanda,
If there’s any hope at all for us, I need to know now.
That got torn up too. Then, after five minutes:
Amanda,
You’ll be pleased to know that you’ve destroyed my entire
Howard threw that into the trash too.
30
THE UNDOING
OF CASSY COCHRAN
Cassy arrived at WST at five in the morning. On the comer of West 60th Street and West End Avenue, the windows of her office overlooked the old railroad tracks, a battered section of the West Side Highway, abandoned docking facilities and the beautiful waters of the Hudson River. On normal mornings, at eight, she would swing her chair around to face the windows, sip coffee, scan the Times, the Washington Post and the Wall Street Journal, periodically gazing outside to view the progress of the morning sky. But not today.
It was waiting for her with the security guard downstairs. Carrying it up the elevator, she nearly ran to her office. Once there, she threw down her briefcase, ripped open the package and unfolded the copy of Conolly’s.
CASWELL ZANDER, ELECTRONIKA EXECS ARRESTED
Wall Street Reels in Anticipation of
Massive Insider Trading Scandal
by Paul Levitz
“Good, you’re here,” Sid Freeman said, charging into her office. “I’ve got our copy for the six o’clock.” Cassy tucked Conolly’s under her arm to accept the script from Sid.
Cassy was holding out the copy, reading, nodding, making her way over to her desk. “This is great,” she murmured, going on to the next page. She eased herself down into her chair. “Good, good,” she murmured, opening her center drawer, feeling around and extracting her glasses. She put them on and drew the copy closer.
“Chester and Pam are all set downstairs,” Sid reported, fidgeting. “They’ll start the 6 A.M. and run through the day. Bill’s coming in at nine as backup, Lydia at ten.”
“Hmmm.” Next page. “Anything from Washington yet?”
“Not yet. We should hear around noon.”
“How does the tape look?” she asked, still reading.
“Great—I want you to come down now and look at it.”
Cassy looked up, thinking. She smiled then, and took off her glasses. She held the copy out to him. He looked confused. “Take it,” she said.
Sid took the copy from her.
“It’s terrific. Run with it.”
“Cassy, it was your—”
“Uh-uh,” she said, shaking her head. “Go on—go!” she said, shooing him out.
He laughed. “Oh, Cass—” He poked his head back in. “I’m not going to be able to make the Handervilles tonight—could you fill in for me?”
She nodded. “I was going anyway.”
“Great,” he said, slapping the frame of the door.
Sam Wyatt called Cassy from a pay phone at six forty-five.
“We just saw the news,” he said. “Man, it’s just so hard to believe.”
Cassy laughed, turning down her monitor of the broadcast with a remote control, and swung her chair around to look out the window. “Disappointed?”
“Hardly! Ten million dollars of options? It’s unbelievable.”
“The SEC’s frozen trading on Electronika.”
“Fifty-three million dollars those guys would have made?” He coughed slightly. “Well, I’m on my way to the office now. There’s a board meeting at eight.”
“Minus a few, I should think.”
Sam laughed. “Did you see Canley take a swing at your reporter?”
They talked for a while longer; Sam promised to let Cassy know how he made out at the office; Cassy reminded him he could give up phone booths as a hobby.
WST was a madhouse all day. Cassy spent most of it on the phone with the independent stations in Washington, Chicago, Los Angeles, San Francisco and London that WST was beaming their “Caswell Zandergate” coverage to by satellite. As the day progressed, so did the scope of the story. Seven other executives at five other New York-based companies were indicted in connection with other Caswell Zander stock and option transactions of the past. And then, at noon, WST was fed live reports from Washington as two congressmen and one senator were indicted concerning government contracts that had been awarded to another Caswell Zander “client”—Linnolare Motors—whose CEO happened to be Walter Brennan’s brother-in-law.
The networks of course were on the story now, but WST’s head start was serving them well. (That was the thrill; knowing that at CBS, NBC and ABC today they were writing their own bulletins largely from what was being aired on WST.) WST’s lead would not last longer than, perhaps, the evening news, but who cared? For today, the story was theirs alone and it felt marvelous.
Cassy left the office at five, feeling a mixture of elation and longing. Perhaps today, more than any other day, she felt the acute loss of having left the newsroom. It made her feel lonely. Left behind.
When she arrived home and saw herself in the front hall mirror, Cassy decided that she definitely qualified for Rent-A-Wreck. Good Lord, what the lack of sleep did to her now. Funny, how she looked in the mirror and could still be surprised by the face that looked back at her...
Oh, well. She supposed being forty-one was better than forty-two. She poured herself a glass of Perrier and grapefruit juice and carried it back to the bedroom. First, a hot bath, then Operation Face.
Michael.
As soon as she walked in the door, she knew he was there. She smelled him, smelled it, the stench of stale liquor.
He was lying face down across the bed, apparently asleep. Or dead.
No, he was not dead. He was breathing.
Cassy stood there, mind racing. Was he home for good? Was he passed out? Was he here—what was he here for? What should she do? Call Sam? Just talk to him? Pretend everything was all right? Should she go to the dinner? Should she wake him up and ask him if he wanted to go to the dinner?
Oh, Lord, what was she thinking of?
Okay, now, a plan of action. Just go about my business. Do what I would do if he were not here.
So Cassy went into the bathroom and started her bath. She came back out to the bedroom. Michael had not moved. She stripped off her clothes, closed the door to the bathroom and got in the bath. She k
new, lying there, feeling the heat of the water, that she should be thinking and yet her mind seemed to have closed down. So she closed her eyes and decided that paralysis of the brain was probably a blessing.
She got out of the bath, flipped the drain, and toweled herself dry. She opened the door, went into the bedroom, and stood there, watching Michael. The drain made a ghastly gurgling sound and Michael stirred, turning over onto his back, arm over his face, coughed once, and then started to snore. His face was awful-looking; it was bloated and shades darker. In fact, all of Michael was bloated. She looked at the fingers of his hand and scarcely recognized them as his. His wedding band was gone too, she noticed.
Suddenly Cassy was terrified he would wake up. Fear shot up the back of her spine, into her neck, and then she was trembling. God, please, God, don’t let him wake up while I’m here.
She crept back to the bathroom and flipped the drain over.
Now what?
She slipped on Michael’s robe, quietly opened the medicine cabinet, and stuffed her makeup, cotton swabs and toothbrush in the pockets. She left the medicine cabinet open. She peered out into the bedroom.
He was still snoring.
Her stomach clenched, her breath short and ragged, she tiptoed out. It took nearly ten minutes of agonizing care to get her underwear and stockings out of the dresser drawers, her dress and shoes out of the closet and then—problem. She was running out of hands and pockets. Back to the bathroom she crept for a towel. Spreading it out on the floor, she put her deodorant, hairpins, hair spray, necklace, brooch, bracelets, earrings, brush, comb and slip on it, bundled it all up, and then sneaked out of the bedroom.
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