78. Pat Picciarelli

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I told Pat what I was thinking. 

I said maybe the bicycle courier with the second and only remaining copy of the “fatal” manuscript was not followed.  Maybe no creepy spy from either side trailed Gen home.  Maybe it was as simple as Tim Cory assaulting and killing Gen.  Then Tim grabbed the manuscript of Gen’s weird step-mother’s erotic novel.  That son of a bitch probably enjoyed it.  And what if—

“Jess!”  Pat interrupted my ranting.  “I know that murder well.  I was the guy who worked it for half an hour before the feds, state, and city — and probably even INTERPOL — shut us down.”

“Wow!  So what do you—”

“And guess who kept a piece of clothing with semen on it.”

Oh god. “She was raped?”

“Sorry buddy.  Very sorry.”

Neither of us said anything.  I didn’t want to think about it...I had to think about it.  And I’m guessing Pat understood that. 

Then he continued, “And guess who’s got a nephew working at Attica who can grab Cory’s toothbrush?”

 Holy shit, I thought.

“You up for paying for a DNA test?”

I was.

Tomorrow:  Well?

77. Princeton's Tim Cory

BESTSELLERS & BEST FRIENDS

My book publishing blog, with murder mysteries woven through it.

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My publishing roots go back over a half a century.  Things weren't fair for women back then. It was a privileged gentleman's industry, nearly a hobby for wealthy Princeton men.  (And yes, even though I was an un-wealthy hick from Western Pennsylvania, I benefitted from my gender.  I participated in the wrongness, innocently or naively or however so.  It haunts me.)

Tim Cory was a charming Princeton graduate.  Just like his father and grandfather.  He showed up to book publishing and quickly turned out to be a bad guy, although it took way too long for that to be known.

On his first job, he made life miserable for several young women, including the receptionist and two editorial assistants.  “Miserable?”  Nah, not the right word.  ‘He sexually assaulted them.” Yep, that’s the right wording.

The publishing house was run by a Princeton graduate.  Tim’s criminal behavior was not reported.  He ended up at another house where its Editorial Director was a Princeton graduate.  Although only an editorial assistant, Tim pretended to be an acquiring editor.  He convinced pretty and aspiring writers to visit New York and rent a hotel room in expectation of meeting him for a manuscript discussion and a potential acquisition.  But all that happened in those hotel rooms was sexual assault.  Tim ended up at a third house and kept up the same shit.  But this time, when he raped a colleague, his victim told her parents, her father a graduate of Harvard law school and her mother a graduate of Yale law school, both prosecutors.  Tim’s Princeton network meant nothing this time.

I Googled Tim Cory. He’s at Attica Correctional Facility. If you’re somehow reading this blog, Tim, GO TO HELL!  I’m posting your name.  Period.

I continue to look at my search results for Tim. And holy smokes, he was in the same year of the Columbia University Publishing Course as was Gen.

I click to the New York Post article regarding his arrest.  Good god, he lived across the street from her. What the hell?  Is this what Randy had also bumped into? 

I didn’t waste time.  I called Patrick Picciarelli. When it comes to memoirs written by the toughest of New York City cops, Pat was the king of ghostwriters.  I had worked with him on two of his books. 

Tomorrow:  Pat Picciarelli

76. Sally's out of town

BESTSELLERS & BEST FRIENDS

My book publishing blog, with murder mysteries woven through it.

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Sally left this afternoon to visit with college friends on Cape Cod.  Which was perfect timing.

I wanted to think too much, drink too much, then crash at Randy’s.

I packed an overnight bag and returned to the loft after a dinner with Bob and Holly.  When this is all over, I’m going to miss them.  Sad as it is to be in that space to wind down Randy’s business, it’s a joy to be with Bob and Holly.  Bob’s humor is subtle, Holly’s laughter is boisterous, and the combination is delightful.

I sat at Randy’s desk, which was placed where Tom Hanks had his basketball hoop. I sipped a first martini.  I looked around.  So many books!  Yet they were just a sampling of the thousands of books bound-on-the-right-for-the-left-handed reader which Randy had put into the market. They were shelved alphabetically by author’s last name.  And within the author, by pub date.

I walked through the loft.  The books started in the bedroom, authors A-F.  Into the kitchen, G-I.  J, in the bathroom, then K-Z throughout the loft’s large room that had a dining area, living room, and office, and in which Hanks and his buddy played basketball.

The shelves caused me powerful memories.  I mixed another martini.  Dangerous.  I was sliding into melancholy, looking back on life and the work I once did. Just like this blog.

There was Mailer’s Ancient Evenings, Wouk’s Winds of War, Kidder’s Soul of a New Machine, Ken Gormley’s Archibald Cox biography, several Bloom County’s, Matt Wilson’s Reinventing Justice, Heat-Moon’s Blue Highways, James Doyle’s Under the Rose, Shirer’s The Nightmare Years, my son’s Last Kids on Earth and Galactic Hot Dogs (the full series for both of them), Rick Wilson’s Crisis Management, and on and on.  All in alphabetical order, and by pub date within the author.  Not one of them out of place. Randy was, perhaps, excessively anal.

I went back into the bedroom to look for my own books.  The BR (as in Brallier) books were on a top shelf, where the wall met the 16-foot-high ceiling. I grabbed one of the three step ladders Randy had about the loft, set it firmly on the floor and somewhat dangerously, as I now had two martinis in me, climbed to its top. 

There I was.  Who Was Albert Einstein, Olphabet, Cocktail Hour, Lawyers & Other Reptiles, This Book Sucks, What Was the Bombing of Hiroshima, Really, Really Classy Donald Trump Quiz Book, Medical Wit & Wisdom, Tess’s Tree, Pessimist’s Journal, Y2Kids, Instant Creature, Presidential Wit and Wisdom, and so on and so on, even the Hot Dog Cookbook (I wouldn’t have been surprised if Randy had put it under H for Heinz).

I backed down the ladder.  Man, no wonder I’m tired. All those decades, always writing those books in the evenings and over weekends while also working my exhausting publishing jobs.

My glass was empty.  I lifted Lefty, the bookcase door opened to the secret room, I mixed a final martini, and sat in the recliner.

Which is when it hit me!

Every author’s books here are shelved in pub date order.  But mine, way up by the ceiling in the bedroom, they’re sitting there in no order at all!

I grabbed my mobile phone, walked a bit dizzily back to the bedroom, slowly climbed up the ladder, and took a photo of the shelf with my books.  Back at Randy’s desk, I grabbed a notepad and listed the titles in the order they were shelved.

Tess’s Tree

Instant Creature

Medical Wit & Wisdom

Cocktail Hour

Olphabet

Really, Really Classy Donald Trump Quiz Book

Y2Kids

Pessimist’s Journal

Lawyers & Other Reptiles

Hot Dog Cookbook

Presidential Wit and Wisdom

This Book Sucks

Who Was Albert Einstein?

What was the Bombing of Hiroshima? 

Only the first seven were out of order. Randy has the rest shelved by pub date. What the hell?  This entire loft, thousands of books, and the only ones shelved out of order are seven of mine.

I stared at the list.  I was looking for something.  I was trying to remember.  I had looked for something before in a bunch of letters.  My damn memor—

That’s it!  Freeman! My murdered good buddy who used to slip simple codes into his college writing assignments.  If you don’t recall, see this blog post.

Randy got such a kick out of those Freeman postings. 

I circled the first letter of each book title. And there it was, immediately.

T-I-M-C-O-R-Y

Fucking Tim Cory!

I’m drunk.  I’m flipping out. Which is not a good combination.

I’m going to type three more words then collapse into Randy’s bed.

1) Tomorrow: 2) Tim 3) Cory

75. Another tough day, so another walk

BESTSELLERS & BEST FRIENDS

My book publishing blog, with murder mysteries woven through 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

74. A "Dear Jess" note

BESTSELLERS & BEST FRIENDS

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Hey buddy! 

If you’re reading this, you’ve done as I expected.  You showed up, you figured out there must be a hidden room (pretty cool, right?), you spotted Lefty, you found the room and what we called “the fatal manuscript” (awful writing, right?) and now, this note.

If one can smile from the other side, I’m grinning like crazy.

Having just read the stupid manuscript for a last time, it sure wasn’t worth the trouble. 

I’ll never get over Gen’s death.  What you just read is not even worth a rat’s death.

Maybe her death had nothing to do with it.  But how would anybody ever know? Everything related to what you just read was shut down by the government. 

I’ve got a — faint as it might be — alternative theory.  Poke around enough, you’ll too find it.

I’m guessing you’re sitting in my chair. Look to your right at the fatal window.  (I hope it was fatal!  Eight floors!  Onto cement. Come on! Please don’t tell me that I’m in some damn coma in some damn facility!)

So we’re getting old, buddy.  Unlike you, I have no family.  Being around is increasingly not making sense.

Like me, my business has about run its life cycle.  With all those ebooks and audio books nowadays. not enough readers want my silly format for it to still make financial success.  I realized I could no longer afford to pay even my long-standing internship position.  Holly has to be the last one.  I had such joy mentoring all those young men and women.  To no longer do that, would leave me with a crushing emptiness.

I now take medicine for an enlarged prostate. And medicine to help me pee.  And more medicine for my high cholesterol.  I’ve got both a hip and knee replacement waiting for me in the near future.  I get dizzy once in a while.  I have no idea why.  And I can barely bend over to tie my shoes.  I hate that.

And my damn urinary tract infections. They come out of nowhere and hurt like hell.  A burning pain that makes me scream. I’m afraid to get on a plane.  What if that stuff starts up as I’m sitting on a runway at JFK? So, travel must now be out of my life. And that’s crushing.

My father had dementia.  No reason it won’t also visit me.  So, if I’m going to be in control of my life, it better be now.

Remember also that my father ended up having that horrific stroke.  He spent seven years in a bed with a beating heart, not knowing who he was, where he was, all the while shitting into diapers.  Those years burned though every penny he worked a lifetime to save and enjoy.  So much for that plan. 

Unlike my father, I don’t have a son, or daughter, to watch out for me.  And I’m sure you’re not up for seven years of changing my diapers.

So, sitting here, thinking about all that, looking at that window, knowing that there will be nobody down in the courtyard to traumatize when I jump, well, it just makes sense.  Clean, efficient.

I’ve always been taken with those who jumped from the Trade Center windows on 9/11.  What absolute clarity that had upon that decision.  Something that eludes most of us for a lifetime.  I don’t want to rot away, unsure, confused, without control.  It’s dirty and messy and wrong.  I want those few seconds of pure and absolute clarity that those jumpers must have had at that horrifically tragic moment. 

I’m going to finish this note, have a last martini (might even skip the vermouth), a final smoke (I’ll be sure that the cigarette is safely out in the ashtray), count my blessings, and call it a lifetime.  We’re all just passing through.

And at Bologna this year, add me to the Gen toast.

With fondness and great love,

Randy

Tomorrow:  I don’t know

73. The Fatal Manuscript, again

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After Bob and Holly left for the day, I stuck around at Randy’s. I had decided to look at the fatal manuscript, no matter how dangerous a decision that might be.

I again lifted the copy of Lefty, the bookcase door opened, and I went into the secret room. 

I took a very deep breath, sat in Randy’s chair, and started to read.

The writing was lousy. 

(See that? Immediately I do the publisher thing.  Instead of first focusing on, say, the attempted overthrow of the United States or figuring out why Gen and Randy are dead.  Really, for those who catch the virus, publishing is like a disease.)

And honestly, the manuscript was boring as hell.  Yep, lots of names of people who ought not to be named.  I played around with dates and these guys (and a few women) have got to be dead by now.  I tried to Google several names, but really, most of these folks were dead before the Internet even showed up. 

And although it now seems that our democracy is amidst an overthrow and China is standing nearby to pounce, we didn’t get there in the way this manuscript promised.  That said, I understand why the names and strategies revealed in it would scare the hell out of the United States government.  And why there was no limit to whatever had to be done to squash not only its publication, but to also destroy it. To simply make it cease to exist, and anything associated with it.

But still, damn it, who killed Gen?  Our side or their side?  And why did she have to be killed?   All she actually had that fatal night, was that stupid manuscript for an erotic novel written by her weird stepmother.

Damn it!

Then, at last, I get to the manuscript’s last page.  And holy shit! It’s a note to me from Randy. In his beautiful handwriting.

My fingers shake. It’s so him, his voice. I’m trembling. I look around for where he hid his smokes.  I need one.

I’m going to have to deal with this tomorrow.

Tomorrow:  “Dear Jess”

72. I go for a walk

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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I don’t know what’s going on.  I’m confused.  Randy’s dead.  That damn manuscript from decades ago just showed up. 

I feel like it’s now, and like it’s then.  Like I’m with the living, and with the dead.  I don’t deal well with stuff like that.  I’m a pretty simple-minded guy.

I’m pulled to go for a walk. Back in time.  Back in my life.  Back when Randy was very much alive.  Before life got so damn complicated.  And dangerous.

I walked from our building on 9th and 23rd up to the corner of Lexington and 60th. 

To where I first lived in Manhattan. In a fifth-floor walk-up over The Subway Inn.

The place is gone.  There’s nothing there but a big hole.  I’m heartbroken. 

Charlie Ackerman tending bar in 1963. Christie M. Farriella for New York Daily News

The owner of the building and the bar, Charlie Ackerman, opened the Subway Inn in 1937 just after Prohibition ended. 

The New York Times perfectly described Charlie as “a man with a reputation as a colorful sourpuss who lived well into his 90s.”

I got the job at Harcourt Brace Jovanovich.  Now I had to find a place to live in New York City. 

I looked through the classified ads in the New York Times.  And circled one.

Charlie showed me the rear fifth-floor apartment.  $250/month.  He said, “First person to give me $500 cash gets it. OK, Jeff?  And hey, Meyer Lansky’s grandson’s also interested in it.  You know who Meyer Lansky is?” 

Yep, the top gangster in New York City, but what he had against his grandson that he would want him to live here, had me stumped.

I had a credit card with a $500 limit.  I rushed over to a Chemical Bank, grabbed the $500 in cash and ran back to Charlie.  The place was mine.

Randy helped me move from Boston.  The only truck or car I could find to rent was a 1968 Buick LeSabre.  I bought some rope.  Grabbed my mattress, desk, and chair and tied those to the roof.  Threw my clothes and typewriter in the back seat.  And off to Manhattan Randy and I went.

1968 Buick LeSabre

We parked in front of The Subway Inn where there was no parking. The rented car half on the sidewalk, half on the street, drivers screaming and honking at us, we dragged my stuff up to the fifth floor. Randy took a train back to Boston (he moved to New York City a few years later), and I dropped the car off at Hertz.

What a wonderful dump I moved into that day.  The street door was stained with piss.  The mailboxes and intercom were long ago ripped off the wall. So I had to pick up my mail at the bar on the way home from work.  

When getting my mail, I sometimes paused at the bar and thought of who else had also been there.  Drunken (and funny as hell) actor Art Carney had his own booth until he got sober in 1974 for the film “Harry and Tonto.”   Marilyn Monroe and Joe DiMaggio used to drop by after dinner. Yankee Billy Martin and actor Sean Penn popped in. And writers like Jay McInerney and Wendy Wasserstein wrote about the joint. You can find articles about the Subway Inn in The New York Times and The New Yorker.

Carney, Monroe, DiMaggio, Penn, me (in the Wienermobile, on tour for The Hot Dog Cookbook)

DiMaggio is a small world moment for me. On July 17, 1941, in Cleveland, he went hitless, ending his historic 56-game hitting streak. Which was one hit short of him getting the $10,000 promised by Heinz ketchup for his matching the number “57” featured on their labels. I know the feeling, Joe. I had to give up the $10,000 I got for putting my name on a Heinz cookbook. (Don’t recall that tale? See this post.)

Having people visit me was a pain-in-the-ass.  I could be buzzed from the street.  But there was no intercom to identify who was buzzing, and no way to buzz them in.  I’d hear “buzz!” and run down five flights of stairs only to discover some jerk pissing, with his other hand on my bell.  So five flights back up.  And I was smoking a pack-and-a-half in those days.

The second floor had a ballpoint pen repair shop.  In the morning, when the shop opened and I was leaving for work, there’d be 20 or so people lined up.  Ballpoint pen repair. Really?  

One night, legs suddenly swung down in front of my window.  Some guy was hanging off the roof, trying to kick in my window.  I grabbed a baseball bat, opened the window and started beating the hell out of the guy’s legs and ankles.  He crawled back up on the roof. 

It was an old frame building with a first floor packed with drunken smokers (as was my apartment).  Down the old wooden steps was the ONLY exit. The possibility of a fire scared the shit out of me.  So I again bought rope – two lengths of 100 feet.  I tied a knot every three feet in the rope.  Then tied the end of each rope to the bedroom radiator.  And coiled up both ropes so neatly that a snake charmer would be proud.  Bingo!  A fire escape for me.  And a second fire escape just in case, you know, I got lucky.

Of course, the rope, if used, would rip the skin off one’s hands.  So, I found some black leather gloves and bought two pairs just in case, you know, I got lucky.  And neatly placed one pair each on the coiled-up ropes, next to the radiator, at the foot of my mattress on the floor. 

Sometimes I seemed to be on the verge of getting lucky, but for whatever reason, she’d look at my thoughtful and considerate fire escape, and suddenly have laundry or homework to do.

On one of my two New Year Eves there, Randy and two women he knew came down from Boston and stayed over.  They were in town to go to the punk rock club, CBGB.  The two women spent what seemed hours getting ready. Just walking around my place half-naked (they had a lot of tattoos which was weird back then), putting on extreme punk make-up.

I didn’t go out that night, I didn’t have much money, and was never into music. And besides, I had saved up to buy a hardcover copy of E. B. White’s Essays.  I loved his collection of letters and couldn’t wait to read his essays.  Two six-packs, a pack of smokes, and an E. B. White book – I was set. 

Very late, maybe around 4:30 a.m., the one woman returned with the supposed drummer from Sid Vicious’ Sex Pistols band.

He pulled down his pants, she got on her knees, and while that was happening, he nodded at me, and said, “What you readin’?” 

“E. B. White’s essays,” I said.

“Any good?” he asked.

“They’re wonderful. Especially the essay about the death of a pig.”

“Cool,” he said.

Then the two of them were done.  She passed out on the floor.

The drummer and I wished each other a happy new year, and he left. Then I slid a pillow under her head, laid a blanket over her mostly bare body, and read another essay.

The two years at the Subway Inn were sometimes wild, yet they also tamed me.  I did really stupid things, but also really wised up.  I used up the last of my youthful silliness and fell in love for a lifetime. 

Yep, there was a sadness in looking at that big hole on East 60th where The Subway Inn once was.

I mourned. For Charlie, for those crazy years, for so much.  But mostly for Randy.  I can easily see us double-parked there, hauling everything I owned up those five flights. He was such a good guy. 

Tomorrow:  The Fatal Manuscript

71. The fatal manuscript

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I closed the window and thought about how right there, on that windowsill, Randy made the final decision of his life.

In the room’s center was a large, worn reclining chair, with room on its seat for a body and a manuscript, side by side.  Obviously, this was where Randy did his reading. Suddenly it made sense, as there was no such chair in the rest of the loft — not in his office or his bedroom.  And his living room was furnished with uncomfortable furniture that I used to complain about.  He never seemed to care.  Now I know why.

Sort of like this

Behind the reclining chair was a floor lamp. On the chair’s left was a table with a reading lamp, and on its right another table with an empty martini glass, several pens, a pad of Post-it notes, and an ashtray.  Two butts in the ashtray.  That damn Randy, he too was sneaking smokes.  And in the chair, next to the indention caused by Rand’s butt over the many years, was a manuscript, face down. 

There was a small “dorm room” refrigerator, a sink, several bottles of gin, vermouth, and tonic.  In one corner, was a small table with a straight back chair.  Probably for when Randy had to take a break from the recliner, or he needed to write. 

I sat at the small table. It seemed somehow disrespectful and irreverent to sit in Randy’s reading chair. Not yet.

I looked around.  Really nothing else of interest.

It looked to me like he was reading a manuscript, had finished it, had had a smoke or two, a last martini or two, then ended it. I was suddenly so sad.  The feeling of loss filled me.  My breathing was short, my chest tight. 

I walked to Randy’s chair and picked up the manuscript.  It looked old, yellowed on some of its pages.  I turned it over.

Holy hell! 

It was that manuscript from all those years ago! That one all about real spies and real threats from China in the Watergate years. The one that got Gen Grau killed.

That son-of-a-bitch Randy did make a copy of the manuscript! And now he was dead.

I got a bit dizzy.  I leaned against the wall and looked out the secret room’s window. Holy shit, did Randy, as the cop said, “take a dive” or was he murdered?

Jesus!  If this is not the world’s most exhausting and deadly blog, I fear to know what is.

I’m just trying to say a few things about publishing.   That’s all.   Argh!

Tomorrow:  I go for a walk

70. Five windows vs. six windows

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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I went back to Randy’s loft today, after Holly and Bob left.

Randy once mentioned how he always thought it would be cool to have a secret room behind a bookcase.  That’s gotta be what’s going on. 

Behind the one wall of bookshelves, there must be a secret room with that sixth window.  The one left open, out of which it’s assumed Randy jumped.

I pushed, pulled, and lifted random books that sat on the shelves.  Nothing.

I pushed at the baseboard with my right foot.  Nothing.

I looked carefully for finger smudges. Nothing.

I looked under Randy’s desk and in its drawers for a button.  Nothing.

Could it be voice activated? I whispered to the bookshelves, “Abracadabra.”  Nothing.

I commanded, “Open!” Nothing.

And thought how embarrassing it would be if Holly unexpectedly walked back into the office.

Then I saw it.  The Lefty book I had published. I smiled.  That would be so Randy.

I lifted Lefty and heard a faint click. I then pushed on the shelves. 

The cold air from an open window rushed out of a small room.

Tomorrow:  The fatal manuscript

69. Charlie Watts, Regis, Kathie Lee, and me

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I was promoting my Hot Dog Cookbook which was really the late Senator John Heinz’s book. (If you skipped the blog entry that makes sense of that last sentence, see this posting.

My New York-based media tour caused me to hang out (literally) with Rolling Stones drummer Charlie Watts.

We were both booked on “Regis and Kathie Lee Live!” and sitting in the Green Room with our publicists, doing small talk.  My publicist was a nervous wreck. I suppose I didn’t inspire—she kept going to the loading dock for a smoke. 

And I went to the men’s room. 

It was small—a toilet stall, a urinal, and a sink.  I was using the urinal when Charlie walked in, to also pee. But instead of using the toilet stall, he squeezed next to me to share the urinal. And there we both were, as I said, “hanging out.” 

Which is when he said, “So you’re that hot dog man?”  My mind nearly exploded, so many possible clever/brilliant/funny things to say, as we stood there holding our wieners.  But I simply went with, “Yes,” and zipped up.

A bit later, I go on air.  The show is “live,” not taped, with about five million viewers. Sally and Randy are in the third row of a small audience.  A long table on stage is covered with various dishes prepared from my book.  Regis and Kathie Lee to my left, we slowly moved along the table, me describing the dishes, them asking questions. 

Regis’s favorite recipe of mine (well, Heinz’s)

Regis was clearly thinking of his more worthy guest, as he kept calling me “Charlie.”  “Charlie” this, “Charlie” that.  It was a bit annoying. Should I say something?  Correct him?  After all, this is live.  And he is Regis.

Damn it!—I’m having an out of body experience, live, in front of five million people. 

(Wait a minute!  You need to know that I have a weird “L” word speech impediment. I say “tile” and “towel” the same. “Pole,” “pool,” and “pull” the same.  “Cool” and “cole” the same.)

We got to the toppings. I talked about “chili, corn salad, onion rings,” and when I said “coleslaw,” it came out “cool slaw.” 

Regis interrupted, “Hold on Charlie!  Cool what?” I heard Sally gasp, and Randy burst with a laugh. 

Sally and I had practiced for hours to be sure there’d be no “L” words for me to say, but we forgot about the coleslaw topping.  “What did you say Charlie,” Regis insisted.

Fuck it, I figured, and replied, “Cool slaw, I can’t say L words.  And,” I smiled, “my name’s Jess, not Charlie.”  He muttered a quick “sorry.”  And I, trying to be funny, said, “That’s OK, Ralph.”

“Hey Ralph, it’s ‘Jess.’ Not ‘Charlie.’”

And boy, Regis looked pissed. He just checked out on me, wandered to the end of the table, and Kathie Lee and I finished it off.

Sally rewound the tape back to when Randy laughed.

Then we hugged each other.

Years later, Peter Reynolds and I were doing an autographing session at a book convention for our picture book, Tess’s Tree. And holy smokes, at the table next to me was Kathie Lee, autographing her new book, “Just When I Thought I’d Dropped My Last Egg.”

I just had to re-introduce myself and remind Kathie Lee of when I was on her show.  I reached over to shake hands, her nervous publicist stepped closer, I said, “I was on your show.”  Kathie Lee wasn’t being very friendly, so I reminded her, “I’m the hot dog man.”  She turned back to her stack of books, and her publicist motioned for security.

Tomorrow:  5 windows vs. 6 windows

68. Randy’s loft

BESTSELLERS & BEST FRIENDS

My book publishing blog, with murder mysteries woven through it.

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I went there today. 

Bob Niegowski was now on board. 

We met with Holly.  Her eyes, I swear, were still red from crying. 

The two of them would wind down the business.  I’d keep Holly on for another three months. She’d have her full year of paid internship.  And I gotta say, shutting down something isn’t a bad experience to have.  It happens a lot over one’s career.  Technologies and the staffs and obligations that go with them, expire.  Same with warehouses, and ill-conceived acquisitions.  Shit happens. 

My announcement regarding Randy’s death will run in tomorrow’s New York Times and the various book publishing journals. 

I touched base with a real estate agent to sell the loft.  And I had a long conversation with Columbia University regarding how to set up a needs-based scholarship.

It was a busy morning.  Bob and Holly went out to lunch.  I had no appetite.

It was quiet and my being at Randy’s made me all the sadder.  I looked at the floor.  When the light’s right, I can see the damage done to the floor when the “Big” crew had a trampoline in here. 

The loft’s walls were simply shelves.  Lined with thousands of books bound-on-the-right-for-left-handed readers.  Floor to ceiling.  Under the windows, over the windows, in between the windows, in the office area, the living room area, in the bedroom, even above the kitchen cupboards and bathroom toilet. 

My god, those windows.  The views they offered and the light they allowed. The six on one side, and the five on the other.

I paused.  The five on the other.  My head spun a bit as if my memory was asking for help. 

The five on the other?

I took the elevator down to the basement, walked by the building’s laundry room, and out the back door into the courtyard.  I stood where I had several days ago and looked up at the eighth floor.  1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6!  The fifth window was now closed.  The last window was still open.

What the hell?

I went back inside to the loft.  1, 2, 3, 4, 5 windows, all closed, then a bookshelf. I was scratching my head and counting on my fingers when Bob and Holly came back from lunch.

Enough!  These last few days, my god, I don’t know if I’m coming or going.

I went home to find Sally looking at an old video, a box of tissues next to her. 

She was watching something that she and Randy had enjoyed together.

I gotta share.

Tomorrow:   Charlie Watts, Regis, Kathie Lee, and me

67. The mini-bar and me

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My book publishing blog, with murder mysteries woven through it.

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Randy loved this story.  I owe it to him...

So, several decades after my first airplane ride ever at age 20 (Pittsburgh to Baltimore) and my first bite ever of Chinese food at age 23, I had a six-hour flight to London then a quick connection for a 13-hour flight to Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, where (in all of my ignorance) I assumed the food would be just like the Chinese take-out north of Boston which our family enjoyed on Friday nights.

The wonderful Pearson staff in Malaysia was intent on grabbing its territory’s online market for parents, teachers, and kids.  Which is exactly what my Pearson business unit, Family Education Network (FEN), was doing in North America.  So it made sense to meet and brainstorm.

I landed in Kuala Lumpur, grabbed a taxi from the airport (and wow, what an airport—it has a rain forest in it!), arrived at a Hilton, got my room, and oh boy, I was hungry.  But it was late, the hotel’s restaurants were closed, and I had been warned not to wander off the Hilton property.  So I turned to the mini-bar.  I had a Snickers.  Then another.  And fell asleep.

The next morning eight of us were to discuss what markets to target.  Pre-school, primary, and/or secondary?  Educators at public, private, and/or British and American schools?  Parents with children of what ages on what computers and browsers learning what stuff?

But first, breakfast.  I rushed to the hotel’s big breakfast buffet.  But oh-oh, that didn’t smell right.  Not at all like the Mandarin Palace on Route 1 north of Boston.  Even the scrambled eggs were off, almost smelling rotten. What the hell?  I quickly Googled.  “Malaysian flavors are a unique combination of sweet, sour, rich and spicy, combined in a way unlike any other country's cuisine.” That’s for sure.

I ran back up to my room and grabbed a Snickers from the mini-bar.  Then another just to be safe.

I was starving by the time we broke for lunch.  Our hosts excitedly treated us to their favorite restaurant, a short drive out of town. We arrived to what was not much more than a shack, next to a lake, where we sat at picnic tables.  The thing is, I don’t like fish.  So here at lakeside, lunch wasn’t looking promising.

Our hosts kindly ordered for us. 

Then the waiter ran into the front of the shack, and seconds later a guy with a bloody apron ran out of the back of the shack.  There were buckets sitting among fishing poles next to the lake.  He grabbed several fish from the buckets and ran back to the shack.

Ten minutes later the waiter walked out of the shack with our lunches.

A fish head with eyeballs looked at me from the bowl I was served.  And there was that same pungent smell of the scrambled eggs, mixed with a powerful fishy odor. I poked at the bowl.  My kind host asked if I was enjoying the meal.  I did one of those, “Oh, it’s wonderful!  I’m just not much of a lunch eater.  Big on breakfast and supper, but not so much lunch.  Always been that way.  My Dad too.  Even my cousins....”  I’m just rambling, making up shit.  And starving.

In the afternoon we talked about technologies and different revenue models.  Then I skipped the group dinner saying I had some critical business to work on, rushed to my room, quickly opened the mini-bar and had two Snickers.  Then another.

The next day and the next day were much the same.  Two Snickers for breakfast.  And another snuck into my briefcase for lunch.  Then three more for supper.

The next morning, I checked out of the Hilton before heading to the airport. The front desk clerk quickly ran through my bill, like they do, me nodding, not paying attention.  Why bother, they’ll be some confusing currency exchange rate on the statement anyway.  I signed the bill.

Three weeks later my corporate American Express statement arrived to our CFO. That’s how it worked, so he could first approve my expenses, making sure there was no personal use or un-allowed first-class airplane tickets.   

He wandered into my office, bill in hand.

I looked up.  He said, “$792 in Snickers?”

Tomorrow:  Randy’s loft

66. The day after

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I felt like shit.  Our apartment stunk of cigarette smoke. But Sally understood, she too is heartbroken.  We sat. We sipped tea. We said little.  We held hands.  Nothing else seemed right.

I got a call from Peggy, Randy’s attorney.  I had met her several times. She asked if she could drop by.

Peggy showed up at our place.“I feel awful, even guilty,” she said.  “I should have seen this coming. Last week Randy was so focused on being sure everything was set, should something happen to him.  He nearly drove me nuts.”

I think back to last week’s drinks at the Drunken Horse, the last time I saw Randy.  Sigh, the last time I’ll ever see him or hear his voice or, and this is what I’m remembering, feeling his hug.  We hugged good-bye sometimes, especially if we had had one martini too many.  In reflection, that hug last week outside the Drunken Horse seemed a longer and intended one.  It wasn’t an I’ll-see-you-later, it was a good-bye.  In the moment, I completely missed that.

Peggy went through Randy’s instructions.  His business was now mine.  Peggy handed me an envelope with $45,000 in cash.  “That,” she said, “is to hire somebody to shut it down.  Dispose of his hundreds of contracts. They all have out-clauses, some will take months for the expiration to play out.  Randy assumed this will cover the cost of a young or retiring lawyer, or a freelancer with experience in IP or publishing contracts.”  I was thinking of somebody already, Bob Niegowski.  We had worked together at Abrams Books.  He was a contracts wizard but now semi-retired.  He’d be perfect.

Randy was correct to anticipate shutting down the business of books bound-on-the-right-for-left-handed readers.  Its moment had passed. With the market rapidly turning to ebooks and audio books, the binding no longer mattered.  The numbers were no longer there for Randy.  And the customers in Randy’s database were dying off. 

Peggy coughed, to grab back my attention. “His loft is also yours, he’s left it to you.” 

Holy shit!  For a split second, “that’s so cool” slipped through my head.  Along with Tom Hanks and how amazing my kids would think that was, for me to have that loft.  But in another second, my thoughts and heart slammed back to Randy.  And the image my memory now carried of him dead behind his building.

“You can do what you want with it,” Peggy said, “but Randy hoped you’d consider selling it and use those funds to establish a needs-based scholarship at the Columbia University Publishing Course,” she paused, “in the name of Gen Grau.  So that somebody has the chance to do with her life what Gen was denied.” 

“Absolutely,” I said, “Let’s do that.  I trust you can help me?”  Peggy nodded yes. 

“We’re almost done here,” she said.  “There will be no service.  He insisted.”

“Understood,” I said, although I also hated that wish.  Services —the gathering with others, the celebrating, the laughter that eventually shakes loose — are healing.  And I was much in need of healing.  “But I should send notice to the New York Times and the publishing journals, like Publishers Weekly.” 

“Agreed,” she said, checking off something on her note pad. 

“Once the morgue releases his body, he’ll be cremated,” she paused, then read from her notepad, “my ashes are to be scattered on Boston Common, as it all began there. Where Little Brown and Houghton Mifflin once kept [they both moved years ago] an eye on this wishful young publisher.  And where, to my shock, I and a score of tourists discovered that Brallier had never eaten Chinese food.” He was among the group that lunched that day. And that’s when I started to cry. 

Peggy looked up at me. “Yep,” I sniffed, “I’ll take care of that, the ashes” 

“And one last thing,” she said, “He told me to give this to you the next time I saw you—” 

She choked on her words, “Oh god. I just realized that Randy knew it would be this moment.” Peggy too started to cry.

Then she handed me a Snickers candy bar.

And I made that messy snorting noise when somebody laughs and cries at the same time.

Tomorrow:  The mini-bar and me

65. Hold on! Maybe forever.

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My book publishing blog, with murder mysteries woven through it.

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Hold on!

No funny memory to post today.

It was an awful day.

A worst-ever awful day. Most every Monday, Randy and I have drinks near my home in Chelsea, at the Drunken Horse. The Drunken Horse is everything we both love about New York City.  

Interior of the Drunken Horse.  Randy and I sometimes sit at the fireplace, sometimes at the bar.

The place is owned by Azman, a Turkish gentleman.  It’s managed by Ruffino, a Mexican.  Patty, from Poland, waits on tables.  And Moon, from Pakistan, mixes the perfect gin martini.

For my birthday, Randy commissioned a painting of the place for me.  It hangs next to my desk. Tonight, it hurts like hell to look at it.

Randy and I usually check in with each other during the day on Monday, confirming we’re both still free for evening drinks.

Today, Randy didn’t reply to my texts.  Weird. 

The Drunken Horse painting

My phone rang.  There, at last, a call from Randy’s office number.  He must have lost his mobile.  That explained things.

But it wasn’t Randy.  It was his intern, Holly, sobbing, gasping for breath.  Something about “Randy. Gone. A window.  Police.”  I grabbed a cab to SoHo.  Two police cars were outside of Randy’s.  Police tape was strung around the parking meters in front of Randy’s building.  And Holly, stood in the street, by herself, sobbing and shivering despite the late afternoon sun. 

I held her tightly.  I still had no idea what was going on. When Holly tried to speak, she mostly failed, “Randy.  Gone.”  She pointed to the passageway between Randy’s building and the one next door. I looked around, none of the police paid me attention. I slipped through the passageway to the back of Randy’s building, and into the small courtyard shared by the building’s tenants. And there to the far-right laid Randy’s body, his arms and legs twisted in ways they shouldn’t, a dried red stream led to a nearby pool of blood.

I slipped to the rear of the courtyard.  Two uniformed police ignored me.  They were deep into a Jets vs. Giants discussion.

I looked toward Randy.  Couldn’t see his face.  I fought not to vomit.  I looked up to the eighth floor at, I counted them for some reason, Randy’s six large windows. The last two windows were wide open.  I slid a few steps to the left.  Randy’s body was directly under the sixth window.  Had he gone out the other open window, he would have had to fly —like the pigeons the two police kept waving away from Randy’s body — to land where he did.

I went back to the building’s front. Holly was now tightly held by a young man. He introduced himself.  Her boyfriend.  He gave me Holly’s cell number.  I thought I should have it.  His arms around her, they slowly walked over to the subway entrance on Spring Street.

I introduced myself to a police officer.  She explained that my best friend, “took a dive.”  I gave her my name and contact information.  “We’ll be in touch tomorrow,” she said. 

On the way home I stopped for a pack of smokes. It’s been months.  I don’t want to drink.  I don’t want to eat.  I barely want to think.

Now I’m dizzy from two cigarettes.

I’m calling it a night.

Tomorrow:  I have no idea

64. One day at lunch

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Recall 1) my job in Little Brown’s Medical Division where I met Curtis and Randy, and 2) that I grew up in Ligonier, a small town of 1,500 in Western Pennsylvania.

My family only left Ligonier for the hour’s drive to Pittsburgh to see relatives or a Steelers game; and for our annual one-week vacation to Ocean City (MD) which started with a drive over the mountain to meet up with the Pennsylvania turnpike in Bedford.

My hometown was 100% white and Christian (but for one family).   

My mother baked the best apple pies, and each day served a delicious (and traditional) supper of meat, potatoes, and a green vegetable. Spices like oregano and basil were considered exotic. 

And we rarely dined out, except for Mother’s Day.  My dad, a child of the Great Depression, just couldn’t understand the logic of going to restaurants to spend money on meals that were not as good as my mother’s. 

Oh, and I was never in an airplane until senior year of college when my then girlfriend and I flew to visit her aunt and uncle in Baltimore.

To say the least, when I arrived to Boston and that first job in publishing, I was not “worldly.”  One day, Steve, my boss at Little Brown’s Medical Division, announced to several of us (including Randy), “Let’s go to Chinatown for lunch.  I’ll treat. I’m in the mood for Chinese.” 

Boston’s Chinatown

I panicked. Chinese food?!  Holy hell!  What’s that like?  Bats?  Snakes?  Do I have to use those sticks to eat?  Is it spicy?  What the hell do I order?  I can’t read those weird letters.   Maybe they’ll have a children’s menu with chicken tenders.  I could do that. 

We walked out of Little Brown on Beacon Street and down across Boston Common.  Steve was a yapper, always had to be the center of attention. 

I desperately wanted to pull him to the side and discreetly tell him that I’d never eaten Chinese food.  I needed him to, you know, watch out for me, and help me through the crises just minutes away.

Finally, Steve paused his yapping. 

From Little Brown on Beacon Street, across the Common, and into Chinatown

I whispered to him.  And in the middle of Boston Common, he pulls back, looks at me, and screams, “HOLY HELL!  NEVER?” 

Tourists in shorts with fanny packs stopped and looked.  Steve pointed to me, “JESS HAS NEVER EATEN CHINESE.” He paused, “IN HIS WHOLE LIFE!”  He burst out laughing.  And my colleagues and the tourists joined in. 

I was so embarrassed. 

We walked into the restaurant.  There were huge aquariums filled with fish and octopi and crawling things.  I about fainted.

My colleagues ordered dishes that we all shared.  Which was cool, passing this and that about the table.  Sort of like our family’s Thanksgiving. 

(Oh, and a non-Steve colleague was kind enough to ask the waiter to get me a fork.)

All of it was of course delicious. 

Tomorrow (continuing the theme):  The mini-bar and me

63. The murder of Gen Grau

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Randy was a one-person shop, except for a paid internship he annually offered to a lucky graduate of the Columbia University Publishing Course.

Randy’s internship was a deep dive into subsidiary rights, the global network demanded of it, and a lawyer-like understanding of contracts.  Of the largest eight book publishers today, six of them have a rights director who once held that intern slot with Randy.

And if you ever wondered why book publishing might have a diversity issue….

In 1989, that intern was Gen Grau.  1989 was more than 15 years after burglars broke into the Watergate offices of the Democratic National Committee, half of President Richard Nixon’s cabinet was jailed, Woodward and Bernstein became famous, the Watergate hearings revealed the horrific corruption throughout Washington, DC, and the New York Times fought to publish the secret Pentagon Papers. 

All that horror and craziness was fading into history.  And getting well behind us.

Until a manuscript was suddenly submitted to the major book publishing houses.

And, oh boy, what a manuscript it was.  Supposedly, it reported in critical detail about what really happened back in those Watergate years.  The manuscript claimed that Nixon’s corruption, the inept Howard Hunt, goofy G. Gordon S. Lilly, the Congressional hearings—all of that was simply diversion caused by China so that nobody would spot China’s real plan to dominate North America within the next 25 years.

After several fierce rounds of bidding, Gene Grau, an editor over at Random House, acquired the manuscript for publication.

Now here’s the thing, back then, the courts were good about allowing The New York Times, The Washington Post, and various book publishers to freely publish.

But this manuscript exposed the names of CIA operatives and the traitorous corporate CEOs playing ball with China.  The dangers to national security were just too great.  On that the courts were in full agreement.

The feds suddenly raided the author’s (whoever he/she was) home in Brooklyn and safely secured all files, notes, and what was assumed to be the only copy of the manuscript. 

(Remember, this is back when manuscripts were only on paper. Nothing digital.)

Yet at the moment that the government agents were at the author’s home, another (and only other) copy of the manuscript was with a bicycle courier who was delivering the manuscript to Random House, to the attention of its acquiring editor, Gene Grau.

You see what’s going to happen here, right?

Instead of the manuscript going to:

Gene Grau

c/o Random House

 It went to:

Gen Grau

c/o Randy House

The bicycle courier was secretly followed by somebody.  That somebody saw the courier hand over a large manila envelope to Gen at the door of Randy’s building.  And an hour later, that somebody watched Gen leave Randy’s building and head home to her apartment with a large manila envelope.   

Meanwhile, up in his loft, Randy realized what had been delivered to him by mistake.  Holy shit!  It was the manuscript that had been all over the news! 

He called Gene at Random House to tell him what had happened. An hour later, government agents arrived at Randy’s to secure the second and only other copy of the manuscript.  Phew!  The nation is saved, or at least its network of spies throughout North America and China.

Meanwhile, several blocks aways, Gen is murdered at her apartment by a spy working for one side or the other (it didn’t matter which). That killer spy then grabbed the large manila envelope which he assumed contained the very dangerous, outlawed manuscript.

Sadly, what was really in that envelope was the manuscript of an erotic novel written by Gen’s weird stepmother.

An awful, awful, stupid, stupid, what-are-the-odds moment! 

And that was it.  The New York City police were instructed not to investigate Gen’s murder. Anything to do with the mysterious manuscript was shut down and swept under the rug for the sake of “national security.”  Mum’s the word.  All that stuff.  Gen was simply gone, purposely forgotten, not even an asterisk next to her name.  Absolutely heartbreaking in every way possible.

I went with Randy to Gen’s services in Boston. And geez, after the service, her stepmother pitched me her erotic novel.  (There are moments in life when you think that things, or people, just can’t get worse.  And then they do.)

That annual dinner with Randy in Bologna?  We always toast Gen. With great fondness and regret. 

And I always wondered if in that hour between Randy calling Gene at Random House, and the government agents showing up to grab the manuscript, did Randy photocopy it?  I never asked him.

Back then, Randy and I had to somehow move on from Gen’s death. 

Same goes for this blog.

Tomorrow:  One day at lunch.

62. Books bound-on-the-right-for-left-handed readers

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Randy quickly moved to secure the license to produce books bound-on-the-right-for-left-handed readers.  He tossed $100 per title to book publishers for the exclusive global license to publish editions bound-on-the-right (although he skipped the Hebrew market, as that got complicated).  For decades, he grabbed that license for most every fiction and nonfiction bestseller. 

At the same time he built a massive mailing list of left-handed readers who wanted such books.  He created catalogs, exhibited at left-handers conferences, celebrated official lefties days, worked with international left-handers organizations, and soon, just as Curtis did with OEM, Randy secured both ends of the lefty book business — the demand and the supply — and their connectivity.

It turned into a solid business. 

With Randy having quickly secured the bound-on-the-right license for the most popular books, nobody else could enter the market once they saw what he had pulled off.

And nobody else had the amazing list of customers he did, or the brand that he established with the core market.  Hell, every literary left-hander out there knew of Randy House: Publisher of Books Bound-on-the-Right-for-Left-Handed Readers and looked forward to its quarterly catalog of new books.

In fact, he sold the hell out of one of my Planet Dexter books, Lefty, a celebration of lefties, already bound on the right, for kids.

“This Planet Dexter release, published to coincide with International Left-handers' Day on Aug. 13, outs Julia Roberts, Whoopi Goldberg, and Brad Pitt as ... southpaws.” -- Entertainment Weekly

Randy, like me, moved from Boston to Manhattan.  He bought a loft in SoHo back when lofts there could be had cheaply. He worked and lived out of his.  And one year, when Randy was off to the Frankfurt Book fair, his loft was used in the Tom Hanks movie, “Big.”  

One of Randy’s fantasies was to have a hidden room with a secret door disguised as a bookcase (a lifelong fantasy for many of us).  He talked about having one built into his loft.  I don’t know if he ever did. There certainly was room for one in his loft.

The two of us always met for drinks and dinner on the last night of the Bologna Children’s Book Fair.  It was good to get away from all the conference madness, and talk of the old times at Little Brown, the state of the book publishing industry, and how our own businesses were going.

We were best of friends.  He even claimed he was going to leave me his business and his loft should anything ever happen to him.  Back in those early days, we laughed, because the loft would have been more trouble (security, heating, AC, elevator, etc.) then it was worth.

So yep, Randy lived the really good life. 

Until 1989.

When his intern was murdered. 

For the stupidest reason ever.

Tomorrow:  The murder of Gen Grau

61. Curtis Vouwie and Randy House

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My book publishing blog, with murder mysteries woven through it.

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What Curtis (as mentioned in yesterday’s post) did with OEM was make business of an opportunity.  He spotted the market’s need for something, and provided that something.  In Curtis’s case, it was the emerging need (due to both corporate and public policy) for occupation and environmental medical books.   

Curtis secured the best OEM authors, he built a mailing list of everybody and anybody in the OEM market, he produced catalogs, he launched conferences, and when the day came, he launched an OEM website, built an OEM email list, and made sense of social media for OEM.  He secured both ends of the OEM business—the demand and the supply—and their connectivity. 

Meanwhile, at Houghton Mifflin, Randy quickly got his head around the business of “subsidiary rights”— the right to produce products in different formats based on original material. 

For example, let’s imagine that Harper licenses your original material, perhaps a children’s book entitled, “Tess’s Tree.”  You sign the standard author/publisher contract. 

The core income from Harper’s investment will be realized when Harper exploits its business expertise and publishes a hardcover edition of Tess’s Tree.  But as is almost always done, Harper will also grab the rights to produce Tess’s Tree in every other possible format. Those other formats may not be Harper’s expertise so they’ll sub-license those rights to other businesses (thus, “sub rights”). 

For example, those extensions of Tess’s Tree might include a Braille edition, an audio book, a movie, a TV series, a large print edition, a paperback, a smaller paperback (mass market), Tess’s Tree merchandise (t-shirts, bedding, lunch boxes, dolls, coffee mugs, wallpaper, etc.), a French or Greek or Mandarin or whatever foreign language edition, a deluxe leather-bound edition, a library edition with reinforced binding, and so on and so on.  And Harper will probably split the income from those sub-licenses with you, the author, 50/50. 

But hold on!  Do you see what’s not on that list of possible formats?

That’s right!  Books bound-on-the-right-for-left-handed-readers.

And that’s what Randy spotted.

Tomorrow:  Books bound-on-the-right-for-left-handed-readers

60. Ogden Nash

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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“Frankly, I have no use for Messrs. Little and Brown . . .

it’s the ‘and Company’ I’m fond of.” — Ogden Nash

Dagmar and Ogden Nash

With my first job in book publishing at Little Brown and Company’s Medical Division, I had to agree with Ogden.

The division’s publisher was Fred Belliveau.

The word “gentleman” may have been invented because Fred showed up.  Worldly, sophisticated, inspiring, handsome, polished, well-dressed, and well-mannered. 

And Fred wasn’t particular about gender.  He once announced at a company meeting that I had a cute ass.  Oh, for the days when somebody thought I had a cute ass. 

The division’s editor-in-chief was Lin Richter, extraordinarily talented, a good and kind listener, and an editorial wizard. She moved in only one direction, forward—she grabbed life head on. Once, she and her husband went on vacation to Jamaica where, in the middle of the night, a burglar shot Lin’s husband with a crossbow (he lived).  Talk about extreme vacationing!  (Me? I like to rent a one-speed bicycle at the boardwalk.)

Lin and Fred

There was also the matter of the Union Club, one of several traditional men’s club in Boston.  It was much favored by Little Brown’s top executives.  Women were allowed into the club for receptions, but they had to enter through the service door. The story goes that Lin was the first woman to say, “Fuck that, I don’t walk through anybody’s back door.”  In she walked through the Union Club’s front door, and out the window went that policy. God, but I loved her.

In 1966, Fred and Lin published Human Sexual Response by William H. Masters and Virginia E. Johnson.  In this book for the medical profession was stuff never before put to paper. Stuff that EVERYBODY wanted to read about.  Like female sexual arousal, vaginal lubrication, orgasm, and even (holy smokes!) multiograsmic possibilities.

People demanded the book from their bookstores. So much so that Human Sexual Response was the only “short discount” book ever to go to the top of the New York Times bestseller list. (At a short discount, a store only gets a 20% margin off of the book’s retail price as opposed to the usual 50-to-55%.). Human Sexual Response stayed on the bestseller list for more than five months and was translated into over 20 languages.  (Little Brown nailed it again in 1970 with Masters and Johnson’s Human Sexual Inadequacy.)

Better yet, the brilliant and savvy Lin and Fred wrote a layperson’s (get it?) edition of Human Sexual Inadequacy. It too went on to be a huge bestseller.  As a wanna-be-publisher in my early 20s, I was so lucky to be hanging out with them.

Doug and Lee

I also worked there with Leigh Stoecker. Leigh and her husband, Doug, became best friends to Sally and me for the next half century. You married folks know how remarkable that is — for one spouse to pull in a friend plus his/her spouse, only to have the four of you become best of friends. Wow!

And there was Curtis Vouwie, who was a sales rep for the medical division who later came in-house to be an editor there.  He went on to establish OEM Press (as in “Occupational and Environmental Medicine”). But most importantly he introduced me to Robert Parker’s Spenser series.  Life-changing!

Curtis’s launch of OEM Press inspired Randy House, who like me worked in the medical division before getting into the trade business.  When I left my lowly position in the division’s sales department and went south (New York) to Harcourt Brace Jovanovich for a marketing position, Randy left his lowly position in the division’s editorial department and walked down Beacon Street to Houghton Mifflin for a subsidiary rights position.

Tomorrow:  Curtis Vouwie and Randy House

59. The End

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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I’m of course curious as hell about the final draft of Under the Rose that the now-under-arrest Bill Franks prominently placed at the scene of each murder. 

Just what is it?  Is it blank? Full of favorite recipes?

Did he actually re-write Doyle’s original Under the Rose? 

Ligonier Police Chief Jim was kind enough to send me a photocopy of the one he was holding in evidence.

It arrived today.  I opened it.

And although the cover of it reads...

UNDER THE ROSE

THE FINAL DRAFT

BY JAMES DOYLE

 ...the title page inside actually reads:

ALBERT

A BIOGRAPHY OF EINSTEIN FOR CHILDREN

BY BILL FRANKS

What the hell?  I quickly scanned the pages, pausing every 30 pages or so to read a paragraph.  Yep, it was a biography of Einstein.  Though, to be honest, the writing was awful.  Then I noticed this, its last page:

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

To myself, Bill Franks, who wrote this (it’s better than Brallier’s).

 That son of a bitch....

Tomorrow (back to publishing):   Ogden Nash