“I hope he’s available tonight,” Scarne said. “Starting tomorrow I’ll be tied up with Quimper.”
***
“Where will you live?”
Noah Sealth had just told Scarne that he had retired from Seattle Homicide after 20 years and was moving to New York. They were sitting at the famous ‘Bar 21’ in The 21 Club on 52nd Street waiting for their table. Above them, hanging from the ceilings, were hundreds of toys and model airplanes, ships and cars donated by the corporate chieftains and power brokers who made the restaurant their New York home away from home over the years.
“I’m sharing an apartment with a woman on 82nd Street.”
“Jesus, Noah. That’s quick work, even for a West Coast hotshot like you.”
“Not really. Do you remember that French policewoman, the one who was assigned to Interpol in Paris when I was doing some liaison work?”
“Don’t tell me.”
“Yes. She’s moved to New York on an assignment with the United Nations. Minimum of two years.”
“As I recall, you were merely exchanging Christmas cards.”
“Yeah. And in the last one she included a note about her divorce.”
“I’m happy for you, Noah. That calls for another martini.” Scarne signaled the waiter, who reached for the Grey Goose bottle. “I’d like to meet her. ”
“You will, soon as I’m settled in. How’s your love life?”
Scarne smiled.
“Well, it’s just taken a turn for the worse, but I’m always hopeful.”
Scarne told him about Emma’s move and the Quimper assignment.
“So, Randolph doesn’t want his daughter anywhere near you when the bomb goes off.”
“Gee, Noah, I hadn’t thought about it that way. Thanks.”
“How serious do you think the threat is?”
“I’d say somebody really wants to make a run at Quimper. And if the hit in Pennsylvania is any indication, the bad guys know what they are doing. Whether anything will happen during the Killerfest is the question. It may be too obvious; too similar to the Arhaut murder. A potential assassin would have to figure that security will be tight. It would be better to wait a while until Quimper lets his guard down. Or maybe they just want to keep him, and other writers, intimidated. Remember how long Salman Rushdie had to lay low. But the threats you ignore always seem to be the ones that bite you in the ass.”
Their table was ready. Scarne ordered a bottle of Château Vieux Maillet bordeaux and they politely listened to the specials before both deciding on Caesar salads to be followed by “Chef Greeley’s Signature Mixed Grill of Game (elk, chocolate-rubbed venison, rabbit sausage, bacon-wrapped wild boar) with sauerkraut and apple purée.”
“How come every time we have dinner together,” Sealth said, “we endanger a few species. A wolverine would love this menu.”
“It’s our Indian genes. I almost asked for everything raw.”
They spent the next hour eating and catching up.
“This food is exceptional,” Sealth said at one point. “I thought the 21 Club was a cliché.”
“A cliché with a solid kitchen,” Scarne said.
“I’m thinking about going into your racket.”
“Private investigation?”
“Yeah. You’ve made a go of it. How hard can it be?”
Scarne laughed, thinking about his last two major cases, during which he was almost consumed by an crocodile and thrown off a skyscraper.
“Got to find something to do,” Sealth continued. “Carry my weight. The pension won’t cut it. How long would it take to get licensed?”
“With your background, a few weeks. You can work out of my office, in the conference room. The paperwork is a bitch. But Evelyn knows all about the process, the bonding, the permits. You’ll need references from your old life, and some from people here, but I can help with that.” Scarne smiled. “I might even give you one myself.”
“I appreciate that, Jake.”
“Forget it. Least I can do for my new partner.”
“Partner?”
“Sure. Do you think I want some Seattle super sleuth setting up as a rival stealing all my clients? I have to be able to keep an eye on you.”
“You probably want to meet your quota for hiring minorities. With me you get African-American and Native-American.”
“I don’t suppose you cross-dress or anything?”
“Sorry.”
“Damn. That would fill three slots. Well, let’s give it time. This is New York, after all.”
CHAPTER 11 – BOOK LEARNING
The next morning Sealth met Scarne at his office to get the paperwork started on his new career. Noah and Evelyn had spoken several times on the phone but had only met once, when the Seattle detective and the F.B.I. questioned Scarne after he killed a West Coast mobster during the Ballantrae investigation. She greeted him warmly.
“You two have come a long way since you called Jake a dickwad, Noah.”
“I may have been hasty.”
Within the hour she had Sealth well in hand, finally dispatching him to the local office of State Licensing Division on William Street to start the process of becoming a private investigator in New York. He and Scarne shared a cab downtown, with Scarne jumping out at the Shields headquarters building at Fifth Avenue and 12th Street in Greenwich Village where he had a meeting with Nigel Blue.
“I’ll be tied up with this Killerfest deal for a few days,” Scarne said as he got out of the taxi. “Evelyn knows the ropes. If you have any problems, she can reach me on my cell. I think the P.I. test is given every month. It’s just over two hours and you’ll have to bone up on local laws, but you could probably pass it even now. Evelyn has some old tests you can study. I’ll make some calls to line up some New York references. Of course, I may have to lie about your abilities.”
“Just don’t get aced protecting Quimper. We haven’t even signed any partnership agreement.”
“Spoken like a true New Yorker. You’ll fit right in.”
***
“We got you credentialed as a book reviewer for our magazine,” Nigel Blue said. “That will give you unfettered access to all the meetings, speeches, seminars, book signings and all the rest. It also will make you very popular with everyone from the wannabe writers to the people who work in the publishing industry, especially the agents and editors.”
“Unfettered?”
“I went to Princeton.”
Nigel Blue was a trim black man with an easy smile. Even when Scarne’s relations with his boss were strained — Randolph Shields tried to ruin Scarne — Blue had always been professional. His office was on the third floor of the nine-story stone-and-brick Shields Building, which had recently been given landmarked status by the City of New York. It was just down the hall from Emma’s office, where Scarne had been a frequent visitor, their affair facilitated by the fact that he only lived four blocks away.
“What happens if I run into a real book reviewer.”
“You can say ‘unfettered’ a lot, if that will help.” Blue said. “Hell, just tell them you are a new hire at Shields. Make something up. The turnover in book critics is like that in a Marine combat platoon, especially now, with the industry in such disarray.”
“I guess I shouldn’t go around asking for autographs from John Grisham or Janet Evanovich.”
“Probably not a good idea.” Blue passed an envelope across to Scarne. In it were a press pass good for all four days of the Killerfest and a schedule of events. “I got you a room on the concierge level, a floor below the penthouses where Quimper and the Safeguard people will be. Friday through Sunday. The conference starts Thursday afternoon at 3:30 P.M. with registration and there is an opening reception at 6:30, but Quimper’s advance security team won’t be arriving until late Friday, and he won’t show up until Saturday. I mean, it’s your call. You don’t have to stay at the Bascombe at all.”
“I was planning on staying in the hotel. Three nights shoul
d be fine. I don’t know how late the mingling goes on after the meetings, or if people hang out elsewhere, but I want to be around.” Scarne thought of something. “Does Shields have a real book reviewer?”
“Not per se. We have a couple of writers and columnists who occasionally review financial books. But you could always say that we’re starting a regular review.”
“That’s not what I was thinking. I’d like to talk to a legitimate book reviewer, someone privy to current trends in thriller writing and crime fiction.”
Blue smiled.
“Most of the books our people review nowadays concern financial crime. You can’t make some of the stuff up that Wall Street has pulled recently. But I see your point. I’m afraid I can’t help you there. Your pal, Bob Huber over at the Times, must know someone you can talk to.”
Scarne smiled.
“Damn. You did go to Princeton.”
***
After leaving Blue’s office, Scarne called Robert Huber at The New York Times. Huber, an old-school business reporter who was often a thorn in the side of his editors, who he thought were too cozy to Wall Street, was, as usual, delighted to hear from him.
“What do you want? I’m busy.”
“You heard about the threat to Sebastian Quimper?”
“Of course. Who hasn’t? Another Rushdie deal.”
“I’ve been asked to help protect him.”
“Who asked? The people trying to kill him? Based on what I read in the Post, a lot of people die around you.”
“That’s an exaggeration. Wait a minute. You read the Post?”
“Of course. We only run crime stories if the criminals have socially redeeming qualities. I read the Post to see what’s really happening out there. Plus, John Crudele’s business column is a must. Now, what’s in this for me? Did Randolph Shields kiss and make up and wants you to protect his investment in Schuster House because of the proposed Albatross merger?”
Say what you will about “The Old Grey Lady,” Scarne thought, but its reporters were top-notch and wired in everywhere. And none were more wired in than Robert Emmet Huber.
“Would that be a story?”
“Nah. It’s a smart move. Everyone expects Quimper’s security has been beefed up, anyway. I’ve already got plenty of stuff on the merger deal, no matter which way it goes.”
“Then why bust my chops?”
“Because you want something, as usual. What is it?”
Scarne told him.
“I might have someone for you. But it might help if you said the magic word.”
“Magic word?”
“Don’t you have a watch?
It was just past noon. Scarne got it.
“Lunch?”
“I’ll call you right back, Jake”
He did.
“Make a reservation for three at Joe Allen’s,” Huber said. “Say, one o’clock.”
***
Joe Allen’s is one of a group of eateries on “Restaurant Row” on West 46th Street between Eighth and Ninth Avenues. It is a favorite of both the lunch and theater crowds that flock to Broadway. Scarne was already at the bar nursing a beer when Huber showed up with a much younger man in tow. Huber was in his regular uniform: gray three-piece suit, maroon tie and cordovan wingtips. His white hair was buzz cut and though his build was stocky he wasn’t carrying much fat. Scarne guessed the kid with him was in his late 20’s. He was a head taller than Huber and was wearing jeans with a red corduroy shirt under a leather jacket. That was probably a uniform, as well. But he had a sharp, intelligent face and his hair wasn’t too long, so Scarne was prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt.
“Jake Scarne, this is Batholomew Cobb, one of our book reviewers. New to the paper.”
From the way that Huber drew out the syllables in ‘Bartholomew’ Scarne knew he liked to ride Cobb.
“Call me Bart,” Cobb said, sticking out his hand.
“Glad to see the Times is still hiring,” Scarne said. “I thought they were cutting back.”
“Just the dead wood,” Huber said. “Present company excepted, of course. We always have room for new blood, even if it is wet behind the ears.”
“That sentence may hold a record for mixed metaphors,” Scarne said.
None of them had much time, so they sat and ordered. Beers, burgers and fries for everyone.
“Don’t you want the Cobb Salad,” Huber asked. “Or maybe some corn on the cob?”
“Ignore him,” Scarne said.
“That doesn’t work,” the kid said. “Our only chance is a buyout. We’re thinking about taking up a collection if the Times can’t come up with enough money to get rid of him.”
CHAPTER 12 - COBB
“You don’t look like a book critic, Mr. Scarne,” Cobb said.
“What does a book critic look like?”
“Me. Bookish. Slightly unkempt, with an undeserved air of superiority.”
Cobb apparently didn’t take himself too seriously. Scarne liked that.
“Other than the fact that I may be too ‘kempt,’ what can I do to pass as one?”
“Well, there is nothing you can do about your build. You are obviously in terrific shape. Do you have a corduroy jacket with elbow patches?
“I’m ashamed to say I do.”
“That will help. Jeans are good. And chukka boots. A Meerschaum pipe would be a nice touch.”
“The only place you can smoke in this city is in the shower.”
“Just chew on the stem.”
“I’ll pass.”
“Well, then, can you spout nonsense?”
“That won’t be a problem,” Huber interjected.
“Then you should be fine,” Cobb said. “Just remember to drop Raymond Chandler’s name a lot. A couple of references to Dashiell Hammett wouldn’t hurt, either. His first name was Samuel, by the way. That should seal the deal.”
“I’ve actually read some of their books,” Scarne said.
“You will be in the minority,” Cobb said. “But it still impresses people.”
Their food came.
“Enjoy your burger, Jake,” Huber said. “From now on you have to order quiche whenever you’re with the literary crowd.”
“Bart is eating a burger.”
“I’m not with a literary crowd. No offense.”
“Warren Buffet lives on burgers,” Huber said. “I’d rather be a billionaire than literate.”
“He would never have accumulated his money if his burgers cost as much as these,” Scarne said. “Now, Bart, tell me about these conferences. What can I expect? Am I likely to run into a real book critic?”
“Probably not. At least not one from a major media organization. Maybe a blogger looking for some free eats. Legitimate, and I use that word advisedly, book critics won’t be caught dead at one of those things, which are basically just ways of generating extra revenue for whoever is sponsoring them and for already published authors, who will get speaking fees and can also make some dough signing and selling books. Also gives them great exposure. Some agents and editors will attend, of course, because they get to eat and drink for free and schmooze with other agents and editors. I went to the one last year. Never again. Mind you, I’m not a snob. But I found the whole scene, especially the agent pitching and the after-hours hook-up bar scene, distasteful.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, for many nascent authors the highlight of one of these conferences, the reason they shell out upwards of a grand to attend, is the chance to meet and impress an agent or editor. They hone their story pitches into sound bites, which usually come in two forms: the two-minute synopsis they can give an agent across a table at a so-called pitch session, where the writers are rotated through like cattle, or the 30-second elevator pitch. That’s for use when you bump into an agent or editor on the elevator and they are a captive audience, at least for a few floors. Can you see Margaret Mitchell pitching Gone With the Wind in an elevator!”
“Aren’t you
being a little harsh, Bartholomew,” Huber said. “Those people are pitching 70,000-word thrillers. Somebody gets chopped up or boiled in acid, there’s a beautiful babe in danger and the hero comes to the rescue.”
“I was being facetious. But just for the record, most thriller writers are women, so you might want to reverse your sexual stereotypes. Anyway, my point is still valid. There are so many thrillers out there, in print and digital, that a plot has to be really off the wall. And the characters have to stand out. I was in an elevator once with an agent when this guy got on and described his new thriller. Something about a gay jockey who discovered a Taliban plot to infect all the entrants in the Kentucky Derby with hoof-and-mouth disease. The goddamn agent actually wanted to see a few chapters!”
“Where do I get that book,” Scarne said.
“The other hurdle that most new authors face is the fact that agents and editors want to find a literary vein that no one else has mined, in the hope that they can start a series franchise, where the real money is. And as soon as someone does break new ground, there is what I call the ‘lemming’ effect. All the publishers want to find the next Scandinavian author, hoping to duplicate the success of Larsson or Nesbϕ. For a couple of years they ignore everything else until the well goes dry.”
“So, you’re saying that most people who go to these conferences have no chance,” Scarne said.
“Yes. But maybe Bob is right and I am being too harsh. There are some terrific agents and editors attending, who are actually looking for new talent. And, of course, there is nothing wrong with hobnobbing with colleagues and keeping up with industry trends. As for the writers, I suppose rubbing shoulders with authors who have made it can be inspiring. Some of the seminars run by successful writers might provide useful tips. I guess the big turnoff for me was the bar scene after the meetings were finished, where the younger agents gathered. A real meat market. Bunch of 20 and 30 year olds trying to sound literary while trying to get laid. It was like a singles bar. They were all huddled, heads together, while people attending the conference bought them drinks and not too subtly made story pitches.”
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