“You got something against getting laid, Bartholomew” Huber said.
“Au contraire. I just disliked the obvious contempt those agents had for the poor schmucks paying for their cosmos.” Cobb smiled at Scarne. “Speaking of getting laid, if you succeed in passing as a book critic, you will have to beat some agents and writers off with a stick. Some of them are dynamite looking, both women and men.”
“He’s straighter than a hundred-yard dash,” Huber said.
“Nothing wrong with that,” Cobb said. “But a bisexual would have a fucking field day. No pun intended.”
“Doubles the chance of getting a date on Saturday night,” Scarne said.
“That’s a Woody Allen line,” Huber said.
“I only steal from the best. What else can you tell me, Bart?”
“The publishing industry model is broken. Amazon and other providers of digital books will soon dominate the market. The Times now ranks e-book sales and I’m starting to review self-published authors, as are some other critics. Only a trickle now, but someday it will be a flood. The number of people reading print books is declining. Something like a quarter of all Americans now read e-books.”
“I thought the sale of e-readers has slowed.”
“It has. At least the sale of so-called dedicated e-readers has calmed somewhat. But that’s because more people are buying tablets, which are more versatile than simple Kindles and Nooks and the like. Not that I think that won’t slow, either. The market may become temporarily saturated. There are so many electronic innovations people are probably pausing to see where it’s all going.”
“Aren’t some traditional publishers embracing the new publishing paradigm?”
“My God. You actually sound like a book critic. Sure. They have to if they want to survive. And the really smart ones realize that there may be advantages to chucking the old system. For one thing, they can almost instantly adjust prices to reflect changing trends or a changing marketplace. They can test price points on books. It’s like the airlines, which change prices moment-to-moment, depending upon demand. Some publishers change the prices on their e-books weekly. They can also release books more quickly. No more waiting a year for a book to appear on shelves after they decide to publish it. With e-books, there are no built-in problems like deciding how many books to initially print or where and how to distribute them.”
“What are the downsides?”
“Quality may suffer. In the old days, and I’m talking pre-1970, the really good agents and editors knew talent, and the old system, while blatantly elitist, did produce some marvelous works of literature. Great writers were discovered and nurtured by men and women who could afford to live in Manhattan on $20,000 a year, which is all that the best editors earned. But in recent years, as the price of living in New York has gone through the roof, the industry has become dominated by a younger generation looking for the big score that will enable them to afford their 400-square-foot studio apartments. The new literary gatekeepers could care less about finding the next great writer. They need the next great seller. It’s driving the good writers nuts. I know one frustrated author who sent out a chapter of Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen under a new title. She was rejected by dozens of agents and editors. And even if a new writer can get published traditionally, sales better be good, or they will be dumped, never to be heard again. It’s no surprise that many of them self-publish and do their own marketing.”
The restaurant was filling up and they had to pause while a couple of people came over to say hello to Cobb and Huber.
“Explain the economics of self-publishing to me,” Scarne said when they were again alone.
“Say an author is lucky enough to land a traditional publisher,” Cobb said, “who provides editors to whip the book into shape and copy editors to find and correct mistakes. That’s overhead. Then there is the marketing of the book, commissioning a good cover, trade ads and the like. Printing the book also costs money, although P.O.D., print on demand technology, has mitigated that somewhat. Arranging distribution also cuts into the pie. It costs dough to get good space on shelves in the few big booksellers left, which includes warehouse stores. I’m not sure, but there may be some payola involved. Bottom line, a hardcover book priced at, say, $24.95, is sliced and diced to the point that the author, the poor slob who poured heart, soul and sweat into the masterpiece, is lucky to get a $2 royalty per book, which will probably only sell a few thousand copies unless it’s written by a Swede or a Norwegian with an unpronounceable name. The author might even earn his or her surely pitiful advance. But someone who self-publishes a book and puts it on Amazon for $2.99 gets to keep 70 percent of that, the same $2-a-book royalty without all the aggravation. Of course, I’m afraid it will be harder to get noticed among the diarrhea of self-published books going digital. Everyone wants to be an author. I mean, do the math. At $3.99, the author gets almost $3. And a few of them hit home runs and can get $9.99 for their e-books.”
“What about those who price their books at 99 cents? How can they make money?”
“Volume, baby, volume. A couple of them sell a million books a year. At 99 cents they get a 35 percent royalty, because the 70 percent payout only kicks in at $2.99 on Amazon, but that’s still serious loot.”
“This all sounds too easy.”
“It isn’t. The typical e-book only sells a couple of hundred copies a year. It’s the rare self-published author who is any good, either at writing or marketing. But there are so many of them out there that they are blowing up the traditional publishing industry. There are little old ladies in Iowa churning out thousands of erotic novels featuring prose that would peel the paint off a Subaru. But hell, that’s democracy, right?”
Cobb looked at his watch.
“Jeez. I have to run. I’m backed up on my reviews. Thanks for lunch, Mr. Scarne. I hope I’ve helped. If anyone at the Killerfest gives you any trouble, just wave a Kindle or an iPad in their face. It will work like a crucifix against a vampire.”
“Bright kid,” Scarne said as the book reviewer walked away.
“He’s ambitious,” Huber said. “He wants someone’s job.”
“What’s your take on the Schuster-Albatross merger, Bob? Will it go through?”
“Don’t see why not. The only other likely suitor for Albatross would be Chandra Khan at Bengal, but Schuster House brings more to the table.”
“Meaning Quimper.”
“Yes. He’s a deal breaker for Shields.”
“I saw Khan’s name on the conference schedule,” Scarne said. “He’s speaking at one of the forums and sponsoring one of the lunches.”
“You might want to hear him,” Huber said. “He’s a dynamic speaker and he’s one of the new wave who is really shaking up the publishing industry. He’ll probably lose this round to Randy Shields, but I think he’s a comer. Well, thanks for the lunch, even if it was overdue.”
***
“What is the purpose of your visit to the United States?” The Customs agent at JFK looked at the passport. “Ms. Fini.”
Just once, Vendela Noss mused, she would love to answer, “murder.”
“Pleasure,” she replied, which, she realized, wasn’t all that far from the truth.
She gave the agent such a dazzling smile that he was momentarily at a loss for words.
“And how long will you be staying in the United States,” he finally managed to blurt out.
“Just a few days, a week at most.”
“Enjoy your stay,” the man said, stamping the passport of “Eleanora Fini.”
“Thank you. I’m sure I will.”
She wheeled her luggage out to the cab stand outside the Alitalia terminal. A turbaned driver put her bag in his trunk.
“Where you going, Miss?”
“Manhattan. The Bascombe Hotel. You know it? It’s fairly new.”
“Oh yes, the Bascombe. Wonderful hotel. Everyone wants to stay there now.”
That may soon change, Vendela mu
sed. But she shoved that thought to the back of her mind and started planning some of her leisure time. She always liked returning to the United States and, particularly, New York. Next to Paris, it was her favorite city in the world. She had all of Friday afternoon to unwind. Sebastian Quimper wasn’t scheduled to make his appearance until Saturday, when he would give the keynote address at the Killerfest.
I love that name, she thought.
CHAPTER 13 - SNAKE OIL
The Bascombe was on Central Park South. According to the information supplied to Scarne by Safeguard Security, it had 20 common rooms with almost 12,000 square feet of total meeting space. The organizers of the Killerfest had reserved the 4,000-square-foot Grand Salon, which had a seating capacity of 650, for the conference’s larger functions, as well as eight “breakout” meeting rooms for seminars, agent pitch sessions and various receptions hosted by publishers. All were located on the mezzanine level, and were accessible by stairs, escalators and elevators.
Scarne arrived at 3:30 P.M., just as the Thursday registration for the event began. Killerfest conference staffers were checking people in at several large desks outside the Grand Salon. He identified himself as the book critic of Shields Inc. He was dressed much the way Cobb suggested, and felt ridiculous.
“Oh, yes, Mr. Scarne, we’ve been expecting you,” gushed a sweet young thing who began to shower him with a “V.I.P.” I.D. tag, free pens, pads, brochures, promotional material and goodie bags full of bookmarks, candy bars, water bottles, key rings and God knew what else. “It’s such an honor.”
“Does everyone get one of these bags,” he asked. It was very heavy.
“Yes. But I put some extra stuff in yours I thought you might like.” She gave him a conspiratorial smile. “And if you want more, just ask. Did anyone ever tell you that you look like Sebastian Junger?”
Her name tag said, “Wendy Wasser,” and from the adoring look she gave him, Scarne was pretty sure she would be glad to provide him with her own “goodies.” Bart Cobb had been right. Maybe the clothes weren’t that bad.
“All the time,” Scarne replied absently, thinking that the plethora of goodie bags would be a security nightmare.
He spent the next two hours checking every Killerfest meeting room and the bar areas. Fortunately, his I.D. tag didn’t identify his alleged occupation, so he was able to mingle with arriving attendees. None of the women slipped him their room key. He quickly gave up profiling people, since it appeared that every nationality and race was represented. It would be like profiling at a reception in the U.N. No one rode up on a camel or walked in carrying an RPG.
Scarne’s canvassing attracted the attention of a beefy man in a brown suit that didn’t quite cover the bulge of the gun on his right hip. The man sidled up to him.
“How you doin’, bud? Looking for someone.”
The man’s eyes ran up and down Scarne’s frame. It wasn’t a comment on how he was dressed. He was looking for a telltale bulge himself.
“You’re the house dick,” Scarne said. “Spotted me pretty quickly.”
“You don’t look like a writer,” the man said.
“Neither does Sebastian Junger.”
The hotel cop smiled, but his eyes were still wary.
“The Perfect Storm guy? You got a point. But you still don’t fit.”
The man’s eyes flicked past Scarne. Backup.
“I’m supposed to be a book critic.”
“Supposed to be?”
Scarne felt another man behind him.
“How about we go to my office,” the first man said.
“Got coffee?”
***
The house detective’s name was Cisneros and he was a retired N.Y.P.D. cop. The other guy was named McKean and he went back on patrol as soon as they had established Scarne’s credentials.
“You expect trouble,” Cisneros asked.
“Be stupid not to,” Scarne replied. “You’ve spoken to the Safeguard people?”
“Yeah. And to the cops. They’ll have some plainclothes guys roamin’ around. And maybe even a bomb-sniffing dog.”
“Won’t that be bad for business?”
“It’s going to be disguised, if that’s the word, as a service dog. The handler is supposed to wear dark glasses and stumble a bit. Waste of time, in my opinion, but who knows?”
“Yeah. I don’t figure a bomb. But the goodie bags worry me.”
“We’ll keep an eye on anyone carrying one after the first day. Most people leave them home or in their rooms. But they don’t need a bag to sneak in a gun. By the way, you’re not packing, are you?”
“Not now. But I will be, starting tomorrow. You might want to let your guys know.”
“Sure thing.”
“Can I leave this damn bag with you,” Scarne said, hefting it on the house cop’s desk. “I think it’s got a bowling ball in it.”
Cisneros looked in the bag and started pulling out books. He held one up for Scarne to see.
“Fifty Shades of Gray?”
Wendy was obviously trying to prime the pump.
“Don’t ask,” Scarne said.
***
By the time Scarne finished with hotel security, it was time for the conference’s 6:30 P.M. opening reception in the Grand Salon. It was hosted by Bengal Publishing and featured a short presentation by Bengal’s dynamic chairman, Chandra Kahn, which was to be followed by a cocktail hour with cash bars. The ever-helpful Wendy tried to take him in tow to introduce him around but he forcefully discouraged the attempt.
“I want to remain as anonymous as I can,” he told her.
“I understand,” she said, and squeezed his bicep.
“I thought this would be more crowded,” he observed.
“About half the attendees come in tomorrow morning,” Wendy explained. “But we have almost 300 signed up for this. Oh, there’s Mr. Khan. Isn’t he gorgeous. Don’t you want to meet him?”
Scarne decided that he did.
“Wonderful,” Wendy said. “As soon as he’s finished speaking come to the stairs on the right side of the dais.”
She flitted away.
Scarne had no trouble spotting Khan, who was much taller than anyone around him. He had entered the salon by the side door, accompanied by a squat but powerfully built dark-skinned man bursting out of an ill-fitting suit. The man’s eyes scanned the crowd. After greeting Wendy, Khan bounded up the stairs, the girl in his wake. Scarne took an end seat about half way back from the dais and studied that man who had come in with Khan. He was standing at the foot of the dais, still scanning. He had “bodyguard” all but written on his broad, flat forehead. Scarne looked for the telltale bulge of a gun but couldn’t see one. The man looked like a blockhouse; maybe he didn’t need one. But why, Scarne wondered, did Khan need a bodyguard? Perhaps the threat to Quimper was making everyone nervous. The bodyguard’s eyes locked on Scarne. I don’t fit in, so he’s marked me as a potential problem, Scarne thought. He’s good.
Wendy was holding a microphone, urging everyone in the audience to take their seats. After they did, she thanked them all for coming and Bengal Publishing for hosting the reception. There was a nice round of applause. Then, reading from a small piece of paper, she began reciting the background of the man she was about to introduce, who was standing off to the side of the dais. She hadn’t gone two sentences when the man shouted, “Stop!” and took the mike from her.
“Thank you, Wendy,” Chandra Khan said, nodding to the startled girl, who quickly moved off the stage. “But I can’t stand to see you tell all these lies about me, even if I wrote them.”
There was a burst of laughter from the crowd, which he now had in the palm of his hand, as was undoubtedly his intention, Scarne knew. Wendy went down the stairs
“How Bengal Publishing got to where we are today is much less interesting than where we, and the industry, are going. And we are going where you are going. For you, the authors of tomorrow, are the future of publishing, in both print and di
gital. Look at the person sitting next to you. He or she could be a best-selling author by this time next year! If there is no one sitting next to you, just look in the mirror when you get to your room.” More laughter. “And, hopefully, Bengal will be your partner in that success.”
The crowd ate it up. Scarne smiled. A snake oil salesman couldn’t have done it any better. Khan then went into a concise, but detailed, explanation of how the publishing industry was being revolutionized. He didn’t say anything Scarne didn’t already know, but that didn’t matter to his listeners. Scarne took the time to study the man. Khan was tall and obviously well-muscled beneath his form-fitting black turtleneck. Dark complexioned with startling blue eyes and a full head of jet black hair, he was ruggedly handsome and cut an imposing figures. His deep voice and cultured British accent commanded respect and he strode around the dais with both grace and assurance.
“Tomorrow you will start meeting people who are already successful authors. Many of them, I am proud to say, are in Bengal’s literary stable. You will get a lot of great advice and have the chance to pitch your books. Don’t be shy. You’ve paid good money to be here. Get all you can out of it. Now, for a little surprise. I know what this conference costs, so I’ve decided to make your stay a little easier. There is a cocktail hour now, with a cash bar. Well, let’s make it my cash. Your drinks are on me!”
Needless to say, that got the loudest round of applause and quite a bit of cheering.
Scarne had to admit that the whole 10-minute speech was a bravura performance. He made his way to the front, where Wendy was talking to Khan near the door. As he approached the bodyguard moved to block him.
“Oh, there you are,” Wendy said. “Mr. Khan was anxious to meet you.”
The guard didn’t budge until Khan barked something in a language Scarne didn’t recognize. Then he slowly moved aside. His and Scarne’s eyes met and they both recognized what they saw. He knows I’m no book critic, Scarne thought. And he’s no mere bodyguard. Killers always know each other.
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