38. Back to Ligonier

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!”

_____________________________________________________________________

So yesterday I drove to my hometown of Ligonier (PA).

I parked on the Diamond and purposely walked over to a specific street corner.  I paused where Joey Freeman had stood, back when this blog was crazily disrupted, and the friends of a lifetime ended up scaring the shit out of me.  I should have worn my snug letterman’s jacket.

I looked up East Main Street and waved to the Ligonier webcam.  It’s mounted on the roof of a small, friendly, and perhaps better-than-the-town-deserves bookstore, Second Chapter Books.

Joey was grabbed next to the stop sign, Second Chapter Books

I walked to the store to see if its owner, Laurie, was there.  She always keeps a few of my books in stock. 

And holy smokes, she had three generation of Brallier books in there. Seriously!

There are my son’s (Max’s) two bestselling series, Galactic Hot Dogs and Last Kids on Earth. My most recent picture book, The Olphabet. And, unexpected, a book about the birth of professional football. On its cover is a photo of my grandfather, John K. Brallier, Sr., who for decades was considered the first professional football player.

While at the store, a customer bought two copies of my book (personalized and autographed!), and two of Max’s. It was great to help make the sale for Laurie.

As always, Laurie was delighted to see me.  She actually had five more copies of Olphabet on order and they were due in by end of day. She asked if I might come by first thing the next day to autograph them. “For sure.” You gotta love a hometown bookstore.

I walked over to Joe’s Bar to meet an old friend, thinking about how that was my first (and probably last) books-and-three-generations moment ever.

Tomorrow (speaking of Joe’s Bar): Three guys are sitting at a bar.

Joe’s Bar, Ligonier (PA)

37. I shift careers. To technology.

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!”

_____________________________________________________________________

It sucks to be the marketing guy at a publishing house.

I could never do enough, always being yelled at about books published two years ago, a week ago, next week and six months out. Editors, sales reps, agents, authors, the mailroom, always yelling at me.  “These plans are embarrassing!  I worked a lifetime on this book! You used the wrong label!” 

At Little Brown I was truly burned out. 

We had just published Tracy Kidder’s huge bestseller, The Soul of a New Machine.  Clearly, technology was the future.  And I lived and worked within Route 128 – “American’s Technology Highway.” 

So I quit my job, got a headhunter, and chased after my digital dream.

My first interview was with a tech company headquartered in one of those one-story office park buildings with a big parking lot and lots of grass.

The company had a timecards technology.  

Back in the day, workers punched in and punched out. Payroll staff then collected the cards weekly, and manually entered the information.  But instead, this company had the technology to make the timecards information directly feed (by some digital miracle) to payroll.  They needed somebody to market that product.  I might be that guy!

I wore a suit, carried a brand-new briefcase, and interviewed in the most boring office with the most boring guy in the world.  It was awful.  I was sweating, feeling claustrophobic, and thinking, “What the hell have I done?!”

The guy went to check if his boss wanted to meet with me. “Hold on,” he slipped out of his office.

I looked out the open window—it was just two feet off the ground—across the grass to the parking lot, where I could see my car. 

I went out the window.   

At first, I casually walked toward my car.  Just in case anybody was watching and saw me in my suit with my briefcase climb out of a window, they’d know it was a perfectly normal thing to do.  Then I started to walk more quickly.  What if that guy was back in his office? What if his boss was with him?  Then I walked even faster. Were they looking for me under his desk or in his closet?  What if they saw me rushing across the grass? 

An hour later the headhunter called me at home.  He was pissed.  Really pissed.  He screamed at me, using the F-word in all sorts of ways.  It was like being back at Little Brown.

Tomorrow:  Back to Ligonier

36. One more old white guy – James Doyle

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!”

_____________________________________________________________________

I know, I know.  This stretch of this blog seems to be all about old white guys.  But hey, they were big back then! 

One of the old white guy authors went seriously off the tracks. Although James Doyle wasn’t that old back in those days. Which was all part of the tragedy.

Doyle was a rising star.  Handsome, talented, charming, worldly, and refreshingly spiritual.  The full package!  His first book, Like a Prayer (1976), was widely reviewed and a wonderfully unexpected commercial success.  The reviews were terrific:

“A superb political executioner sets his sights on D.C.”

“One of my favorite thrillers, simply great.”

“Very clever set up, deftly told.“

Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy.

Then his next book, Deadly Enemies (1978), jumped to the bestseller list and stayed here for nearly a year.  Wow!

And in Spring, 1982, we were ready to publish his third book, Under the Rose.  Expectations were high.  We slotted it for a spring publication.  It would hit the bestseller list and stay there all the way to the end of the year.  In a New York Times piece entitled “The Books of Spring ’82,” the influential Herbert Mitgang called out the most eagerly awaited books:  Prizzi’s Honor by Richard Condon, Southern Discomfort by Rita Mae Brown, Pinball by Jerzy Kosinski, Dinner at the Homesick Restaurant by Anne Tyler, and Doyle’s Under the Rose.  Woo-hoo!  We had a sure winner!

We purposely published it in the Spring when, surely, it would quickly hit the bestseller lists.  And stay there for month after month of income!  Better yet, it didn’t look like there were going to be big books that Fall which could push Under the Rose off the list once it got on there. 

Under the Rose meant everything to the 1982 budget.  Without it, we’d have a huge gap in our numbers that couldn’t be closed.  Staff lay-offs, suspending all T&E, and stripping the marketing from every other title, would only blunt the damage if Under the Rose missed its pub date.

Yet when Doyle delivered the manuscript, it wasn’t in good shape.  It needed a LOT more work.  Uh-oh.

Doyle and his editor (I hated his editor—he called Bloom County “childish and silly” then took full credit after it became a huge bestseller) wanted to push its publication back a year.  Doyle needed the time to get it right. 

Holy shit!  That would be the end of our 1982 budget.  The sales director, the publisher, the editor-in-chief, and the head of subsidiary rights argued to hold the pub date.  Little Brown needed the income.  I got on a high horse of some sort and with great passion argued that a good and enduring publisher puts out its authors’ best work, the hell with budgets, we’ll take the hit. 

I lost.  Little Brown published it in the Spring.  And the book got slammed.  It didn’t sell at all.  After all, it did sort of suck.  Huge disappointment.  Doyle was devastated.  The failure miserably threw him off course in every way.  He drank, he got messy, he wore his anger loudly. 

One day I ran into him outside the front door of Little Brown.  He looked crazed and hopeless.  He jammed his finger into my chest, “Fuck you Brallier!  Bill [his editor] told me you’re the one who made me publish too soon.  You marketing whores!  You and your Mailers and Wouks and Shirers—I’m better than all those bastards!”  Doyle caught his breath.  “You’ll fucking get yours! Some day!”  He stormed away. 

That damn Bill, what a jerk, to lie and blame it on me, the one executive who had argued for Doyle to get his manuscript right. 

My assistant, Jackie, was with me.  We watched Doyle rant his way down Beacon Street.  It was Jackie’s first day on the job.  I was taking her out to lunch. She was shaking, her eyes wet, then she started sobbing.  Great, just great.  So I introduced her to the industry’s tradition of a liquid lunch (The Parker House bar).  We both needed it.

I soon left Little Brown in search of riches in the technology industry. Jackie took over my marketing slot and was a lot better at it than me. And Doyle went from teaching writing at Ivy League schools to teaching at state universities (never getting tenure) to teaching at community colleges.  He never published another book.  Rumors over the years were that he was working on his final draft of Under the Rose, the manuscript that should have been published.

Tomorrow:  I shift careers. To technology.

35. Lunch, and The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich

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!”

_____________________________________________________________________

At Little Brown, we often took authors to lunch at Locke-Ober’s. The restaurant was a short walk across Boston Common, down Summer Street, and onto Winter Place (which was really an alley).

We enjoyed showing off the unexpected place with its intricately carved mahogany paneling, brass fixtures, huge plate glass mirrors, paintings, and stained glass. It felt and smelled of old Boston, secretly tucked away, with a deep tradition of serving the city’s influential and powerful men. (Women weren’t allowed until 1970. WTF, right?)

Best of all, on Locke-Ober’s second and third floors, were the private dining rooms which accommodated four to ten guests.  We often grabbed John F. Kennedy’s favorite room on the third floor where, during his presidential run, he met with Harvard sorts to hash out policy positions. The room was a good conversation starter and just the right size for an author and two or three of us.

For me, the best thing about Locke-Ober’s private dining rooms were the red velvet ropes you’d pull for service.  We’d be seated, the waiter would take an initial order (such as drinks) and leave. If you needed another drink or when ready to order your meal, you’d pull that red velvet rope and the waiter quietly showed up.  I loved it, and so I was always looking for some reason to pull the rope.  “Hey, want another drink?”  “How about some milk with that coffee?”  “Who’s thinking desert right now?”

My most enjoyable lunch at Locke-Ober’s was with William Shirer, best known for his book, The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich.  At the time we were publishing his The Nightmare Years, recounting his pre-World War II years as a journalist in Nazi Germany.

Good god, to be sitting there with this guy who was smack in the middle of the rise of Nazi Germany, who knew all the players, and who had me on the edge of my seat as he told of how in December 1940, he smuggled his notes and diaries out of Germany in a trunk’s fake bottom. 

Absolutely mesmerizing, he was such a great storyteller and was witness to the greatest story of the 20th century. 

William L. Shirer

When war broke out in 1940, Shirer moved forward with the German troops, and reported firsthand on the German Blitzkrieg, then the invasion of Denmark and Norway in April, and the invasion of the Netherlands, Luxembourg, Belgium, and France in May.  As the Nazis closed in on Paris, he was there.  Now he was here at Locke-Ober’s telling me all about those days in intimate detail.  And I asked him if he wanted another drink, so that I could pull on the red velvet rope.

The Nazis increasingly harassed Shirer to report their “official” accounts that he knew were lies. He pushed back.  Then he was tipped off that the Gestapo had built an espionage case against him, one which carried the death penalty. He quickly slipped out of Germany with his hidden notes and journals.

By the way, when listening to him from across the table, one didn’t look him in the eyes.  You looked him in the eye.  His right eye was dead, lost of sight due to a 1932 skiing accident in the Alps.

With Shirer was a quiet and attractive young woman.  I think she become his third wife.  I kept asking her if she wanted anything so that I could pull the red velvet rope.

David Goehring, Little Brown’s Sales Director, was also there.  Who else sat around that table, I don’t recall.  But I remember David for sure because either he or Shirer referred to Hermann Göring (also spelled Goering) as David’s “Uncle Hermann.”  What an odd thing to stick with me nearly 40 years later.

It was without doubt the most fascinating conversation of my life.  Spellbinding.  An honor.  I do recall looking at my watch for a first time since we had sat down to our noon lunch.  It was 4 p.m.  

Like I keep saying, I’ve been a lucky guy.  This publishing stuff allowed me a life beyond what I ever could have imagined in my dorky high school years. 

Speaking of high school, I’m getting itchy for a visit to my hometown of Ligonier (PA).  To see my brother and a couple of good friends from high school.  After all, my college buddies didn’t turn out to be all that great.  But Brad and Keith, I can trust them for sure.  I’ll skip the train and drive this time.

I like to get off the Pennsylvania Turnpike at Bedford and take Route 30 over the mountain and into Ligonier.  It’s a pretty and calming drive. My childhood vacations most often started on that road, early in the morning, and it reminds me of even more personal blessings—my parents.

It’s only right to mention them today. It’s my dad’s birthday. He’d be 108. Happy birthday to a really, really good guy. I miss you like crazy.

Tomorrow:  One more old white guy – James Doyle 

34. Road Trip!

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!”

____________________________________________________________

It wasn’t just the authors that made working at Little Brown a great experience, it was also going out on the road with Alan Fairbanks, the New England sales rep. 

Alan had the best territory!  The quality of bookstores throughout New England was unmatched.  As was the beauty of its geography.

Alan was calm and smart. He drove at the speed limit, unlike Sandor who was always behind schedule because he talked too much and was always stopping to buy smokes. 

Alan and I could head west from Boston, pause at the Concord Bookstore in Concord, then onto Amherst (home to the University of Massachusetts, Hampshire College, and Amherst College), call on three stores in Northampton (home to Smith College), then head for the Berkshires. That western Massachusetts trip was a one- or two-nighter. 

Northampton (MA) bookstores

Or we could head along the coast north of Boston with a quick stop in New Hampshire than several in Maine.  Remember, this was pre-cable, pre-Internet, pre-streaming, and pre-mobile.  Consumers had a few newspapers and four TV stations (CBS, ABC, NBC, PBS) which went off the air at midnight. 

So Mainers read a lot of books, especially in the winter.  In those pre-Amazon days, those books had to be gotten at the library or a bookstore.  Back then, one could actually make a decent living and enjoy a good life owning a bookstore in Maine.  The Maine trips were also one- or two-nighters.

Or best of all, I could join Alan on a call to the Grapes of Wrath bookstore on Martha’s Vineyard, the calming island an hour’s ferry ride off the coast of Cape Cod.  No book rep actually had to call on Grapes of Wrath.  Sales could really be done by phone and mail in those days.  But the Vineyard was a bonus that went with the New England territory and the book reps grabbed it. 

Martha’s Vineyard ferry

Bill Franks and his wife, Barbara, ran Grapes of Wrath.  Bill was a terrifically likeable and charming guy who was active in regional and national bookseller associations. 

Whenever I was calling on an account with a sales rep, I kept my mouth shut.  This was the rep’s show, his or her moment, one not to be messed with by some jerk from the home office.  So while Alan did his stuff, I listened and looked around. 

The tiny office in which Alan sold the list to Bill was tight.  I sat on an overturned wastebasket.  A bust of Albert Einstein on a shelf next to my shoulder, seemingly kept an eye on Alan. And my sore ass begged me to stand and excuse myself.  I did. 

I slipped out of the office and watched Barbara at work.  It was soon obvious that Barbara was the brains behind the store’s success.  Always moving – on the phone, behind the counter, with a customer in the stacks.  And I had to smile, she always corrected Bill’s frontlist buy as he’d take too many of too many titles for too many wrong reasons.

Barack Obama hanging out near the Grapes of Wrath

Over the decades, celebrities flocked to the Vineyard.  Jackie Kennedy, Mike Wallace, Oprah Winfrey, Larry David, Bill Gates, Meg Ryan, Reese Witherspoon, Bill and Hillary Clinton, James Taylor, Diane Sawyer, Bill Murray, Spike Lee, Barack and Michelle Obama, David Letterman, Mike Nichols, Michael J. Fox, Carly Simon, etc. 

Barbara always kept her eyes open for a new book by any of those folks. 

The celebs wouldn’t do any sort of event, but they were all customers of the store and would happily autograph 20 or so books.  It wasn’t long before Barbara had built up an amazing stock of autographed books.  Eventually, customers from around the world learned that they could call her and order an autographed book to be sent by mail.  She even had an autographed copy (oh boy) of Matt’s Reinventing Justice.

Those autographed books kept her busy during the winter off-season, especially prior to Christmas.  She had minimal costs (no staff and short hours) during the winter. But she mailed up to 40 autographed books a day, clearing $15 per book.  No other store in New England did business like that in the cold of winter.  She was so smart.

Meanwhile, every time a Little Brown sales director left, or was fired, rumor was that Alan would come in-house and take the gig. After all, he was the only rep who lived in the Boston area.  Sort of made sense.  But Alan knew better.  He always talked as if it was a possibility, but that in-house position was a hot seat.  You’d burn out or take the fall.  And you’d sure not spend your days driving through the beautiful Berkshires, or up along the Maine coast, or onto a ferry for a night on Martha’s Vineyard.

Sadly, as happens, over on Martha’s Vineyard charming Bill Franks started sleeping around.  It was ugly and embarrassing.  (Sleeping around is best done in a large city, not in a small town where EVERYBODY knows you.)

The Franks eventually divorced and Barbara got the store in a settlement. Under her guidance, the Grapes of Wrath wisely jumped on the promise of technology—hers was one of the first stores to have a profitable website.  Bill disappeared from the Vineyard and the book conventions and started showing up in bars.  Soon, nobody had anything good to say about the once beloved bookseller.

Meanwhile, I got an envelope in the mail today. Inside, cut to pieces, was the cover of my Einstein book.  Pissed-off-Einstein guy is so annoying.

Tomorrow: Lunch, and The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich

33. Reassuring Herman Wouk

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!”

_____________________________________________________________

Herman Wouk

Back in the Mailer years, Little Brown also published Herman Wouk.

There had been changes in Little Brown’s management, including me.  Wouk lived outside of D.C., so when I went there to visit accounts with sales rep, Sandor Szatmari, we thought it would be a good idea to swing by Wouk’s home, to show ourselves off and reassure Wouk that he continued to be in good hands at Little Brown.

Sandor was a terrific sales rep, and a remarkable person.  

Born in Hungary, Sandor escaped during the 1956 Hungarian Revolution, crossing the Austrian border while hiding in a cart full of onions. He told me how the border guards shoved bayonets into the onions, just missing him several times.  Sandor arrived here as a refugee and soon earned his B. A. in History from Monmouth College. He then served in the United States Army for three years.

Sandor Szatmari

While continuing his education at Columbia University, he got a job in the university’s bookstore. As often happens, he went from bookstore staff to a publisher’s sales team.  He would be at Little Brown for 37 years.

The thing about Sandor was that he was short, the sort of guy when he sat on a sofa, his feet didn’t reach the floor.  He also smoked constantly, the sort of guy with spilled cigarette ash on his shirt and suit coat.

Sandor and I arrived to Wouk’s home.  We were asked to wait in a room with a large sofa and two reading chairs.  I sat in one of the chairs, Sandor on the sofa, his feet not touching the floor.  He lit a cigarette.

Which is when Wouk’s two huge Irish Wolfhounds came into the room.  They went straight to Sandor, sniffing him, crowding him. 

Sandor held his cigarette overhead, so the dogs wouldn’t knock it out of his hand. Ashes fell on Sandor and the sofa.  The dogs were in his face.  Sandor pulled up his feet, his shoes on the sofa, his butt on the sofa’s arm.  The dogs kept after him, sniffing Sandor, his cigarette held high.

Which is when Wouk walked into the room. 

And all I could think of was, “We’re here to reassure you.”

Tomorrow:  Road Trip!

Some guy, and two wolfhounds

32. Norman Mailer and me

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!”

_____________________________________________________________________

At one point I headed up marketing for the book publisher Little Brown back in the day when it was Boston-based, housed at 34 Beacon Street, in an elegant building on Beacon Hill, first built as a home in 1825 on land belonging to John Hancock.

34 Beacon Street, Bosotn

Our big Spring 1983 title was Norman Mailer’s Ancient Evenings, his long-awaited novel. A lot of money was riding on it.  And Mailer was behind schedule. 

So, it was agreed that he’d come into our offices for a couple of weeks.  To write, and not do any of the other nonsense he was known for.  Like running for mayor of New York City, jumping in the boxing ring, stabbing his wife, and getting into fist fights.

We put him in the office next to mine. I was a nervous wreck.  What if he didn’t like me?  What if he wanted to punch me?  What if in the faded light of late afternoon he mistook me for his wife?  And really, if the two of us got into a fight, who’s side would Little Brown’s ownership take—the world’s bestselling author’s or the dorky marketing director’s?

Norman showed up.  He started typing.  Hour after hour.  The guy was disciplined and a hell of a typist.  Should I offer to get him coffee?  Maybe a drink?  But then I’d have to interrupt him.  What if that caused him to lose focus just when he was about to write the greatest sentence ever?  I sat at my desk not at all sure what to do.  I coughed nervously.  Hold on!  What if my cough bothered him?

Which was when there was a knock on my door.

I turned.  There he was!  Oh lord, it’s over.

“Excuse me,” he said.

“Yes?”

“Just wanted to check,” he hesitated.

“Yes?”

“If the noise of my typing bothers you.  If so, I do apologize.”

Which goes to show that one can wet his pants for no good reason.

Tomorrow:  Reassuring Herman Wouk

31. Saying good-bye, for real

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!”

_____________________________________________________________________

Joey and I again stood along the Monongahela River in Pittsburgh. This time just the two of us. 

Joey tossed his dad’s ashes into the river. We both cried a bit.  And didn’t care that we did.

Freeman turned out to be my one good friend.  And now he was gone.  I nodded toward the river, “He’ll be in Ohio by this time tomorrow.”

Joey said, “Maybe he’ll catch up to Spanky.  They’d enjoy New Orleans together.”  We both smiled at the thought.

Tomorrow’s the big day.  The embargo on Joey’s book will lift.  It’ll go on sale in bookstores.  Reviews will run.  A sample chapter will be in The Washington Post.  And I’ll release the blog postings you’re now reading.  

Simon & Schuster is certain Joey’s book will quickly hit the bestseller list.  And far outsell Matt’s (Reinventing Justice) and Rich’s bestselling books (Crises Management). 

Amazing.  Four young knuckleheads—writing majors, best buddies, and housemates. 

Decades later they account for three bestselling books, nearly a senate seat (and maybe a run at the White House) missed by the narrow poke of a pin, and me doing my publishing thing.

Maybe there’s a book in there—Deadly Promise: 113 Chesterfield Road.

It so sucks that two of those young knuckleheads also turned out to be pricks.  I struggle, still, to believe it.

But hold on! You just saw it, right?  Two paragraphs ago? 

113 Chesterfield Road, Pittsburgh

The thought’s in my head.  I’m thinking about a possible book, even its title, while standing along the Monongahela River, Freeman’s ashes still floating on its surface.  That’s sick of me, right? 

But damn it, book publishing gets under your skin and sometimes its itch overcomes.  It’s like a drug.  Unexpected bestsellers are its best highs.

Enough!

Joey took a deep breath.  “Bye dad.  Thanks for everything,” his voice cracked, “I love you.”

I too said good-bye, “You did well, buddy.  Your story and your kid are headed for the bestseller list.”

Tomorrow:  Back to the publishing stuff.  Norman Mailer and me.

30. Joey’s book

So here we go.  In short form, this is what I turned over to Joey. 

It’s all so unbelievable. 

Is this really my life?

I know...

• ...Matt poked holes in Ace’s condoms (Blog 2).  Only Matt, Rich, Freeman, and I knew that.  And we all kept our mouths shut about it all these years.  It was so stupid. 

• ...Ace and Kathy had a son nine months later.

• ...that son, Tony, drove the car that killed John Heinz (Blog 14).   Yep, I discovered that when I followed up on Freeman’s coded message hidden in my letterman’s jacket:  “name of ace son” (Blog 25).

• ...Freeman was going to report that the U.S. Senate seat Matt was running for, was open because Heinz was killed by somebody who may only exist because of that same Matt’s drunken irresponsibility. What are the odds, right?

• ...Freeman was killed, poisoned.  Yep, that’s what the coroner told Joey (Blog 26).

• ...Freeman’s office (dining room table) was searched.  Somebody was looking for something (Blog 23).

• ....they kept looking.  That included shoving Joey into a car and threatening him.  And the car they drove was owned by Rich’s company.  Yep, Chesterfield Enterprises, registered out of Alexandria, Virginia, is Rich’s (Blog 26). (By the way, “Chesterfield?” As in “113 Chesterfield Road.” Come on Rich!”)

• ... Joey truly knew nothing about what his dad was working on.  That was hidden in code (along with a handful of Pearl’s fur) inside my letterman’s jacket (Blog 25).

• ...Freeman’s death had nothing to with the obvious –- pissed-off coal miners or corrupt cops.

I suspect...

• ...that Matt figured out what Freeman was about to report.

• ...so Matt reached out to old friend and crisis management mastermind Rich.  Over the years, maybe inspired by the CIA agents using Rich’s global offices for who-knows-what, Rich’s services went darker (Blog 16).  By order or implication, one of the dark operations inside of Rich’s company silenced Freeman. 

• ...Matt and Rich figured that with Matt in the senate, they’d have immense power and influence. Directing trillions in tax-funded investments, making the government work for Rich’s clients (his fees would go through the roof), living the good life, etc. –- all of that stuff which I don’t “get” but which drives seemingly normal people to do the worst of things,

• ·...that Rich and Matt were certain that Matt’s poking-the-condom story would destroy Matt’s chance to become a United States Senator.  If I were Matt, I would have stopped there and moved on in life to something else.  But not Matt, he wanted that Senate seat. And ironically, Rich turned out be the worst crisis manager ever.

Phew!

Tomorrow:  The end

29. Good old book publishing!

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!”

_____________________________________________________________________

So, here’s the thing. Rich knows the print and broadcast press. Thoroughly. And his job is to control it to the benefit of his clients.  Nobody does it better than Rich. 

I cannot trust the media.

Nor the police or prosecutors.  After all, Matt is the bestselling author of Reinventing Justice.  He knows all the players—who’s corrupt, who’s not.  He holds powerful influence over who gets funded and/or promoted.  His best buddy and law school roommate is the powerful head of the U.S. Senate’s judiciary committee.  So when it comes to law enforcement, I don’t know the good guys from the bad guys. 

Nah, neither the police or the judicial system is going to work.

But I do know book publishers.  Them I trust.  And the big ones never give into the pressure to not publish a book.  Think about it (because Rich obviously did not).  Presidents, ex-Presidents, major political parties, and really rich pricks try to stop books. But quiet and unknown book publishers just plow ahead.  I understand that.  It gets in your blood.  You don’t publish books to get wealthy or famous.  You publish books because it’s a blast and satisfies the hell out of you.  And it makes a difference in this crazy world.

I turned over my notes and the drafts of these blog postings to Joey Freeman.  He then quickly wrote a terrific (his dad would be so stinkin’ proud of him!) book about a guy name Ace, some condoms he had 30 years ago, a dead senator,  Spanky’s ashes, my old letterman’s jacket, a corrupt coroner, and a Steelers license plate.

I got Joey the perfect book agent.  I even offered to co-write the book, you know, to get a proven and commercial name on the cover.  But the agent laughed, “You?  A proven and commercial writer?  Hell, it turns out that you didn’t even write The Hot Dog Cookbook.”  That hurt.

Simon & Schuster (S&S) grabbed Joey’s book in a confidential (NDA enforced) seven-figure auction.  (While in a meeting at the publisher’s offices, I sniffed around for any lingering smell of hot dogs, but alas, nothing.). S&S would crash the book, getting it to market ASAP, at least two months before the special election for the Heinz Senate seat. 

And S&S would embargo the book until pub date (as the longtime publisher of Bob Woodward, S&S was master of the book embargo), meaning nobody would see the book coming until it was already out there. 

Oh, and I got this comment on yesterday’s posting:  E=MC²=Dead/Brallier.

Pissed-off-Einstein guy is still out there.

Tomorrow:  Joey’s book

28. The good old Fourth Estate

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!”

_____________________________________________________________________

I’ll find a top-notch reporter who works for a major newspaper and tell her or him about a guy name Ace, some condoms he had 30 years ago, a dead senator, Spanky’s ashes, my old letterman’s jacket, a corrupt coroner, and a Steelers license plate.

Oh god, that sounds so stupid when I type it.  Really!  Just read it.  Argh!

And which newspaper and what reporter? I don’t know anybody. 

I’d have no better luck getting pass security at the New York Times than I would sneaking into Buckingham Palace to tell the Queen all about a guy name Ace, some condoms he had 30 years ago...  “What’s that Your Majesty?  You’re asking what a Steeler is?”

Seriously, the only reporter I know is Freeman and he’s dead. 

Nah, newspapers aren’t going to work.

Or TV news networks.  Because what I now know (more on that later), is that I’d soon be in big trouble. Just like Freeman.

I have a drink.  Then another.  I’m hearing something in the back of my head.  Can’t quite remember. Something Rich once said. 

I look back over these blogs.  Found it!  My “Crisis Management – Round Two” blog posted on January 22.

I wrote: 

Rich burst out laughing.  After a minute, he just shook his head. “Sorry, buddy, but nobody gives a fuck about book publishing.  It’s slow, it’s old, it publishes history, annoyingly high-brow literature, and celebrities who come and go in the time it takes you guys to make a book and find a couple of readers.

How sweet the revenge will be.

Tomorrow:  Good old book publishing!

27. It’s time to go to the police

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!”

_____________________________________________________________________

New York City Police Department - 10th Precinct, W 20th Street, New York, NY

So how’s this work? 

I live in the Chelsea neighborhood of Manhattan. Do I walk over to the police station on West 20th and the tell the officer behind the counter about a guy name Ace, some condoms he had 30 years ago, a dead senator, Spanky’s ashes, my old letterman’s jacket, a corrupt coroner, and a Steelers license plate?

Yeah, right.

And just what if some New York City cop did hear me out, does what I know have anything to do with New York City?  Other than I happen to sit there when writing this blog. 

Nah, the police-in-my-neighborhood thing is not going to work.

So do I take a train back to Pittsburgh, walk into a random police station there, and tell a Pittsburgh police officer about a guy name Ace, some condoms he had 30 years ago, a dead senator, Spanky’s ashes, my old letterman’s jacket, a corrupt coroner, and a Steelers license plate?

Maybe. 

But knowing what I now know (more on that later), nothing would happen.  It turns out that I can’t trust the Pittsburgh police or prosecutors.  I might even be the next dead old buddy.

Nah, I gotta stay away from the Pittsburgh police.

Do I go see small town Police Chief Jim and tell him about a guy name Ace, some condoms he had 30 years ago....

Ligonier (PA) police headquarters

Nah.  Same situation as Pittsburgh. I would soon be dead.

So the police are out.

I have a drink. 

I know! I’ll go to the press!  It’ll be dramatic.  I’ll have my Woodward and Bernstein and Deep Throat moment. 

Tomorrow:  The good old Fourth Estate

26. The Steelers license plate

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!”

_____________________________________________________________________

Last night, as I drank and thought about Matt and Freeman and Ace’s son and Senator Heinz, Ligonier Police Chief Jim called.  He had an owner for the car.

“The car’s owned,” he said, “by Chesterfield Enterprises on Duke Street in Alexandria, Virginia.”

I quickly thanked Jim, cutting him off in the middle of his telling me that one of the Weimer boys, the one who played quarterback and married the Clark girl, was in the hospital.

I Googled Chesterfield Enterprises.  Oh boy! I did not expect THAT!

Then my cell rang again.  It was Joey.

“The coroner called me.  I didn’t understand the big words but—”

“Hold on!” I opened up a Word document and started taking notes. 

And now I’ve figured it out.

Freeman was killed.

And I know why.

Tomorrow:  It’s time to go to the police.

25. I call Ligonier Police Chief Jim

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!”

_____________________________________________________________________

Police Chief Jim was surprised to hear that I had a license plate number for the mysterious person-jacking.  He wasn’t pushy about how I got it.  I think he was sort of getting into this one.  He promised to track down the car’s owner and call me back. 

It was time to find out who had it out for Freeman—a still pissed-off and crazed miner, or a killer cop who hung around with a corrupt coroner?

I slipped into the bathroom where Sally couldn’t see me and tried on my old letterman’s jacket.  Snug, real snug.  Yet it was somehow wonderfully amazing that I was wearing it again after three decades. 

It cracks me up how letterman jackets use leather to sort of puff up the arm sleeves, as if all lettermen have muscles under there. I felt the leather section of the left sleeve.  Is it just air that puffs it up, or is some sort of stuffing used?  I felt it again.  Hmm, that’s weird.  I took off the jacket. 

There was something in the sleeve.  I got out a razor—geez, after decades I finally have the jacket back for five minutes and here I am slicing it open.  I opened the seams a bit and pulled out an envelope.

The envelope was addressed to Freeman, from me. It was the envelope I sent to Freeman with the handful of fur from Robert Parker’s dog, Pearl (Blog 18).  The fur was still in there. Along with a sheet of paper.

On the paper was typed a nonsensical little story with the title, “The Happy Mechanic,” the same title of that piece Freeman wrote back in college (Blog 3). The one that had three things going on at once:  one, a story about an auto mechanic at work when narrative and dialog were included; two, a couple having sex when the narrative was removed; and three, a hidden sentence when the second letter of each sentence were run together. I sat at my desk with the piece of paper and a note pad.

I tried removing the narrative.  No sex.  Nothing.

I wrote down the second word in each sentence.  Nothing.

I mixed a martini.  That’s something.

I tried the first letter of each sentence.  Nothing.

Then the last letter of each sentence.  Bingo!

N A M E O F A C E S O N

“Name of aces on?”

No, no, that makes no sense.

I try it again.  And there it is!  “Name of Ace son.”  Ace?  What are the odds?  That can’t be coincidental. You remember Ace. Freshman year. His girlfriend got pregnant. Blog 2.

Ok, let’s see.  Ace’s real name was Theodore Valentine.  His wife’s first name was Kathy.  Their kid was born in Pittsburgh.  Ace graduated from Pitt.  I started to Google.

I found it. Ace’s son’s name is Anthony “Tony” Valentine.

Then I found Tony’s name in the news.

Holy shit!

I mixed another martini.

I needed it.

Tomorrow:  The Steelers license plate

24. Joey and Spanky the dead dog

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!”

_____________________________________________________________________

After about ten minutes, Joey came back and again sat next to me.

“So what happened when you were jumped in Ligonier,” I asked.

“Those guys put a hood over my head.  They didn’t drive far, maybe just out of town.”

“They kept saying they were going to burn me.  They lit a match.  And I swear I smelled gas.  Pretty fucking scary!  Sorry, sir.” I waved away his apology for swearing. 

He continued, “They wanted to know what dad was writing.  I honestly didn’t know.  They asked who he was talking to.  I honestly didn’t know.  They demanded to know where he kept his writing and notes.  On his desk, our dining room table, I told them. 

They demanded to know where his computer was.  I told them he just used a typewriter.  They didn’t believe me—”

“Hold on!  No computer?”

“Never.  Dad didn’t trust computers.” 

“Amazing…a typewriter.”

“He’d mail typed stories to magazines. And the last pieces he did for the Pittsburgh newspapers, he took a bus downtown and hand-delivered them.”

I shook my head.  Unbelievable.

He used to say, ‘It’s the world that’s gone wacky, not me. There’s just no place for me.’”  Freeman was probably right. 

“Then those guys drove me back into town and pushed me out of the car.  Next day I took a bus back to Pittsburgh.” 

I nodded. He closed his eyes. I did the same. 

And we both slept the rest of the way to Penn Station.

Joey stayed that night with Sally and me.  We talked about good old times.  About when Sally first met Freeman, and how Freeman tried to pick up the minister’s wife at our wedding. 

I made Joey promise to send me samples of his writing. Anything—journal entries, class assignments, poetry, whatever—as I’ve always thought the promise of good writing can be spotted in the most unexpected of genres and moments. And like I said earlier, if he was half the writer his dad was....

The next morning I walked Joey up to Penn Station and bought him an Amtrak ticket back to Pittsburgh.  As we waited for the train, I asked him, “Anything else you can remember from when those guys grabbed you in Ligonier? You know, like did they use each other’s names (Joey shook his head “no”), or smoke a clove cigarette?”

Joey looked at me, about to laugh, “A clove cigarette?  You really watch too many British mysteries.”  He smiled, closed his eyes, obviously trying one last time to remember that night.  “No sir, nothing except for the license plate.”

Freeman at our wedding

“License plate?!  You saw it?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“And remember it?”

“Sure, it was easy.  It’s Joe Greene, L.C. Greenwood, Dwight White, and S for Steelers.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m my dad’s son.  I grew up in a bedroom with a big poster of the Steelers’ Steel Curtain.  Last thing I saw before I fell asleep, first thing I saw when I woke up. Dwight White, number 78, Ernie Holmes, number 63, Joe Greene, number 75, and L.C. Greenwood, number 68.”

I’m shaking my head in amazement, but also with fondness for those dominating Steelers teams that once were.  And how Matt, Rich, Freeman, and I enjoyed those great years of Pittsburgh football.

Joey continued, “So this license plate was Joe Greene, L.C. Greenwood, and Dwight White, with an S for Steelers.  Pennsylvania plate 756878-S.”

Joey caught his train.

And I had someone to call, and a letterman’s jacket to try on.

Tomorrow:  I call Ligonier Police Chief Jim

23. Riding the rails (continued)

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!”

_____________________________________________________________________

“Joey!”

He was as stunned to see me as I was to see him. He sat next to me, and we talked our way across Pennsylvania.

It turned out that Joey was on the train to New York to see me. His dad told him that if anything happened, “Go see Brallier. And be sure to get his jacket back to him.  You got to do that.”

Wow, Freeman felt that bad about stealing my jacket?

Joey continued, “Something’s not right.  I had to see you.  Dad was nervous.  He had a story.  It was going to piss off people.”

“Your dad pissed off a lot of people over the years.  Whatever it was, why didn’t he just run the story?”

“Where?  There’s one newspaper left in Pittsburgh and it’s owned by a right-wing wacko my dad hated, and certainly didn’t trust.’”

“But Joey, your dad,” I choked up a bit, “It’s not like he got killed, it’s—”

“I think he was.”

What?

“Joey, I’m just a book publisher, but I watch a lot of TV mysteries and it’s clear that if you’re going to talk murder, you have to have an autopsy.  And yesterday, I saw your dad’s ashes start off for New Orleans. Even if there was something funky going on, it’s too late.”

“That wasn’t dad.  That was Spanky.”

“What?  Who?”

“Spanky, our dog. He died last year, we kept his ashes.  Dad’s body is actually at the coroner’s.”

“How the hell did—”

“Remember dad broke the big story about the corrupt Pittsburgh coroner?  Dad’s key source for the story was this woman at the coroner’s office back then.  She used to come over for dinner. And for drinks.  I got to know her.  She’s a good person and is now the coroner, a nice job she’d never have if it wasn’t for dad.  So when I called her—”

“She grabbed your dad’s body,” I interrupted, “and you substituted Sparky’s—”

“Spanky.”

“Whoever’s ashes.”  I paused.  “Unbelievable.”

“Dad was feeling good.  Sure, nervous like I said, but he was never happier than when working on a big story.  Then suddenly, boom, he’s dead at his desk.  And Mr. Gibson showed up right away. You know, that Matt guy…Matt Gibson.  Meanwhile, dad said to ONLY trust you.  Why not Matt, who lives in Pittsburgh?  Or Mr. Wilson, uh, Rich Wilson, who’s got all sorts of money?

Dad told me to keep my ears and eyes open.  If things aren’t adding up, just shut up, be careful, don’t pass GO, wear this stupid jacket—he insisted on returning the jacket—and go see you.”

What the hell?!

“But hold on, Joey.  What happened in Ligonier? I saw you abducted—”

“You did?  How?”

“There’s a Ligonier webcam, I was watching it.”

Joey looked at me like I was from Mars.  “You sit around and watch a webcam?  Of a town that has, like, two people?”

“It’s better than smoking. Long story,” my hand dismissed the webcam and smoking stuff.  “So, Joey, what happened?  Why?”

“I got nervous after, well, stashing dad’s body.  He had been so excited yet that last week his nervousness sort of shifted into fear.  Then the day after he died, I came home and somebody had been in our apartment.  Dad’s papers were all over the place, shelves emptied. I was getting scared.  And I had just lost dad who told me not to trust anybody.  I was all alone,” Joey hesitated, rubbed his hands.  “Hold on.”

He took several deep breaths.  I did the same.

Then he continued, “So anyway, remember when dad was working on that coal miners union story years ago and people threatened to kill him? Well, he had to go into hiding. He remembered when you guys, back in college, popped out to Ligonier for a weekend. It seemed the perfect place to lay low.  He rented a cottage that was back behind some big swimming pool called Ligonier Beach.”  I nodded my head yes, I know it well.  “So I grabbed a bus to Ligonier, thought I’d do what dad did.  I then went to some place called Joe’s Bar.” I nodded my head yes, I know Joe’s very well.  “Then Joe’s closed and I started walking to the place I rented when BLAM—I get jumped.”

Joe’s and Ligonier Beach

Joey paused again.  More deep breathes.  “I gotta take a break, sir. I gotta walk a couple of cars, you know?”

And I too needed to pause.

Tomorrow: Joey, Spanky the dog, and riding the rails (continued)

22. Riding the rails!

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!”

_____________________________________________________________________

I decided to take a train back to New York City from the Ligonier writers conference.  Service between Pittsburgh and New York is limited and always way behind schedule. But I have a fondness for trains, even the not-so-reliable ones.

I spent large chunks of my life traveling between Boston and New York.  Publishing will do that, as I often managed staff in both cities.

First was when I was Marketing Director for Little Brown, based out of Boston, with our publicity staff in New York City. 

Day trips back then were frequent and easy.  At either end, you’d just go to the airport and walk onto the Eastern Shuttle. 

Eastern shuttle

That’s right, kids, you just walked onto the airplane!  No security.  All pre-9/11.  Open seating.  When the last seat was taken, the door closed and the plane took off.  Then a few minutes later, they’d bring another plane over from a hanger and start loading up that one.

You’d buy your ticket from the flight attendant once the plane was in the air.  With cash if you wanted to.  Seemed so run-of-the-mill in the day.  Now I miss it like crazy.

Second, when I had my Planet Dexter imprint with Penguin, I worked in Boston; and I had a knucklehead boss in New York City.  Trips were necessary.

Then 9/11 happened, along with the resulting and unbearable airport security.  Acela, Amtrak’s higher speed train service between Boston and New York, also showed up. I never again flew between the two cities.

Amtrak Acela

I enjoyed the hours of quiet on the train.  They were good for thinking.  And now, realizing that it was Joey Freeman wearing my letterman’s jacket who got shoved into the back seat of a car at 1:45 a.m. in my hometown, I needed to think. 

I got over to Latrobe, the closest Amtrak station to Ligonier, at 8:20 a.m. and got on the Pittsburgh-to-New York train.

I found a good seat.  I checked my messages. The pissed-off-Einstein guy had texted me ten times: I KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE.

The train was nearly empty.  I got out a pad of paper just in case my thinking came up with anything.  I took a deep breath.

And that’s when I saw my letterman’s jacket walking back from the café car.

What the hell?!

Tomorrow: (To be continued.)

21. Ligonier webcam — surprise, surprise!

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!”

_____________________________________________________________________

Ligonier’s Police Chief Jim and I looked at the tape. 

Jim zoomed in.

The guy shoved into the backseat was a young man, a kid, maybe in his early 20s.

Jim zoomed in on the faces of the two shovers, “I don’t know them.”

“So not locals?” I asked, “Not a drunk cousin thing?”

“Nope.”

There was something about the kid’s jacket.  I asked Jim to focus on it.

Holy shit! 

It was my letterman’s jacket!  Blue and white with three stripes for three years of lettering.   Across the left chest pocket, my initials sewn in cursive: JMB.  The very jacket somebody stole 25 years ago from the house Rich, Freeman, Matt, and I shared in Pittsburgh.

What the fuck?

I asked Jim to focus on the kid’s face.

He did.  Then he said, “I don’t know the kid either.”

But I did.  And something in my gut told me not to tell Police Chief Jim.

It was Joey, Freeman’s son. 

What the hell?

Tomorrow: Riding the rails

20. The Ligonier Writers Conference (and that webcam)

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!”

_____________________________________________________________________

Breaking news this morning! It’s announced!  Matt is running in the special election for John Heinz’s former senate seat.   

So how about that! My college housemate, my Boston buddy while at Harvard Law, and my bestselling Reinventing Justice author, might be a United States senator!

113 Chesterfield Road, Harvard Law School, U.S. Senate

I emailed Matt my congratulations.  And suggested he update and re-issue his bestselling Reinventing Justice.  He quickly wrote back.  “Yep, let’s talk.  As soon as I get through interviews with CNN, New York Times, and a round of Pennsylvania and D.C. media.  Busy!”

So there’s Matt on the major media circuit.  WOW!

And me on a minor writers conference circuit.  Yawn...

Writers conferences show up in many sizes and far-flung locations, and with varying agendas and talent.  I’ve spoken at large conferences with hundreds of hopeful writers at various hotels and conference complexes.  And at smaller venues with no more than 20 hopeful writers.

Writers conference, Ligonier Ramada Inn

Like the one I’m speaking at next week.  To be held in the Sir Ligonier Room at the Ramada Inn in my hometown of Ligonier.

Sir Lord Ligonier Room

This was my chance.  I called Jim, Ligonier’s Police Chief.   When I was a kid, Jim’s father, Jack, lived five houses below ours.  Jim’s grandfather had the hardware store in town, and my dad was the town’s dentist. 

Jim: 

Jess!  Hey man, how you doing?  I see that the Stouffer girl bought your parents’ house.  Not sure I like that blue paint.

Me: 

I’m with you on the paint but listen, I saw something a few nights ago, wanted to talk to you about it. You know, you as a police officer.

My parents’ (my childhood) home before the new owners painted it blue

I explained. Jim confirmed that the webcam is recorded. I gave him the date and time. He’d get the footage.  I told him I’d be in town for a conference in two days, and asked, “Might I swing by the police station and look at the video with you?”

“Sure!  I’ll grab us some coffee and chicken salad sandwiches from Abigail’s.  Best sandwich in town.  Abigail’s a Weimer girl, she must had been about two years behind you in school, ran around with the Hoffer and Swank cousins before— 

“Oops, gotta go.  Call coming in. See you soon.” 

Also today, I got seventeen texts from an unknown number.  Each text was just the same 17 letters:

E I N S T E I N R O Y A L T I E S.

Tomorrow: Ligonier webcam

19. Saying good-bye

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!”

_____________________________________________________________________

It’s late.  I’m just back from Pittsburgh. 

I was there for Freeman’s services. They were simple.  Freeman wasn’t a religious guy. 

About 12 of us gathered along the Monongahela River.  A mile further down from where we stood, the Monongahela joins with the Allegheny River to form the Ohio River. 

Monongahela River, Pittsburgh

I stood with Rich and Matt, the three remaining writing buddies and apartment mates. Sad that one-fourth of us would never be again.

Good-bye, and here’s to New Orleans

The only family there was Joey, Freeman’s son.   A couple of drinking buddies from Freeman’s favorite bar stood with a few of his newspaper colleagues.  One of the reporters gave a eulogy. It was funny and irreverent.  Freeman would have liked it.

Joey said a few words then tossed the ashes of a terrific writer and my best friend into the river.

Freeman always wanted to go to New Orleans, but never made it.  Eight beers in and he’d imagine pushing off from Pittsburgh in a small boat with a cooler of beer.

He’d mosey down the Monongahela, into the Ohio, through Cincinnati (“I’d boo those damn Reds fans”), into the Mississippi, and down to New Orleans.

So, I thought Joey’s notion of tossing his dad’s ashes into the river was perfect.  The kid was impressive.  No siblings, now no parents, and seemingly no other family.  He told us he’d keep the apartment, stick with college, and take it from there.  Rich handed him an envelope; I assumed it contained a very generous check.

 Tomorrow: The Ligonier Writers Conference (and Webcam)