BESTSELLERS & BEST FRIENDS
My book publishing blog, with murder mysteries woven through it.
If this is your first visit, be sure to start with “1. Let’s do it!”
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Yesterday’s post was difficult to do.
Reading Randy’s note. Then reading it yet again as I typed it into the template for this blog.
I thought it best to skip on including any photos. You know me, the photo of the open window would be something stupid like a random product shot from the Anderson Windows site.
Honestly, it was probably too personal a note to post. Yet Randy was a daily reader of this blog and I’m guessing he assumed I’d be jerk enough to share it with you 17 readers.
What I did learn, was that there’s no murder mystery here. Nothing conniving or evil caused Randy to be dead. It was just about him making a decision. Thank God, I can just stick to the publishing stuff.
Meanwhile, though, my stomach can’t calm. I’m hurting.
Walks seem to help. So today I walked longer than usual. Heading for places that made me think of Randy.
I first walked to 37 West 8th Street. I bumped into this place when doing research for my Albert Einstein book for kids. Yep, the book that caused me annoying threats which turned fatal for innocent booksellers.
The fifth floor here at 37 West 8th Street was once Russian sculptor Sergel Konenkov’s studio. There, in 1935, Albert Einstein sat for him. The resulting bronze bust is now at the Institute for Advanced Study at Princeton.
37 West 8th Street Sergel Konenkov’s Einstein bust
Always a guy with a wandering eye, Einstein was soon having an affair with Konenkov’s wife, Margarita. What Einstein didn’t know was that Margarita was a Soviet military intelligence officer code-named LUKAS. Oops!
LUKAS soon introduced Einstein to Pavel Mikhailov (code-named MOLIÈRE), head of the Soviet’s intelligence/spy operations in the United States. Double oops!
During my mess (which I blogged about a couple of months ago) with James Doyle, Bill Franks, dead booksellers, and threatening Einstein emails, texts, and deliveries, Randy would smile and blame it all on Lukas and Molière. I had to laugh.
I then walked over to 14 West 10th Street. If you’re in a funk, it’s known at The House of Death.
If you’re feeling literary, it’s also known as The Mark Twain House. And hey, just like me, Mark Twain was a writer and a book publisher.
Me at 14 West 10th Street, the House of Death. Twain dressed in white
Although Twain lived here for just a short time, according to many residents in the years since, his ghost remains. When seen, Twain’s ghost is usually wearing a white suit. I looked in the front door and street-level windows but had no luck spotting him.
Over the years, 22 people have died here. Which sounds about right for something called The Haunted House. But given the age of the place, it’s not such a mighty number.
Sadly, there was one real demon at this address: Joel Steinberg. Steinberg and his partner, Hedda Nussbaum—a children’s books editor at Random House—lived here with two illegally adopted children. Steinberg beat and tortured them, eventually killing six-year-old Lisa. My only very faint connection to that horror is that I’m good friends with the woman whose first job in book publishing was the departing Hedda’s position at Random House.
On Halloweens in Manhattan, Sally and I like to walk around, enjoy the decorations, the many dogs dressed up, the excited kids, and the dads with their eye on what candy bars to steal from their child’s loot.
One year we walked past the House of Death and suddenly Mark Twain, dressed all in white, jumped out and scared the shit out of me. It was Randy! He’d been doing Mark Twain here for years at Halloween. Never knew it.
I then headed back home to our Chelsea neighborhood where the Food Network studios are also located. Remember (the post) when I promoted my (well, John Heinz’s) Hot Dog Cookbook on “Regis and Kathie Lee” and Regis called me Charlie so I called him Ralph?
That night my brother phoned from West Virginia, laughed, and like Regis, called me “Charlie.” I went to the office the next day and co-workers laughed and called me “Charlie.” The joke was on.
The next week I was back in Manhattan doing more hot dog media. I traveled around the city, by taxi, with my (Heinz’s) book’s greatest dish, Crown Roast of Dogs, in a portable cake carrier. As I went from show to show, the Crown Roast started smelling and wilting.
I was booked for Donna Hanover’s show on Food Network. She was then married to Rudy Giuliani. I sat in the waiting room of the studios in Chelsea. Mrs. Giuliani came through a door, looked at me, and smiled, “Charlie?” I laughed, now used to the joke (she must have looked at a tape of the Regis and Kathie Lee show), and said, “Yep, that’s me.”
Donna Hanover with neither Charlie nor me
Mrs. Giuliani seemed so pleased and thrilled to meet me. She said, “I just adore your place Charlie, the décor is stunning, and last week, I loved that venison dish you served.”
Décor? Venison? Holy shit, there must be, like, some chef out there named Charlie. And he’s also scheduled to be a guest on her show.
“Excuse me,” I interrupted, “hold on, I’m sorry, I’m actually Jess.”
She gave me a WTF look, “But you said you were Charlie.”
“Oh, that’s because—”
“Just who are you?”
“I’m the hot dog man.” I took off the cake basket’s top, revealing the smelly Crown Roast of Dogs.
She turned around and slammed the door behind her. I ended up doing a two-minute segment with the Food Network receptionist.
Crown Roast of Dogs and carrier
Those annuals dinners with Randy in Bologna? Every year he made the restaurant reservation in the name of Charlie. He loved that Donna Hanover story and laughed about it every year after our toast to Gen.
Miss you, buddy.
Tomorrow: Sally’s out of town