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“Well, so did we prepare for a career, but a unique career, administering sacraments, preaching, instructing in the Catholic faith. Nothing the world is interested in. But then, we weren’t preparing for life in the mainstream. See, when you leave the priesthood, necessarily you enter the mainstream—the very place that has no room for you. So you begin to scramble. You’ve got to make a living in a hostile environment.’”

Another spa member entered the sauna. He moved toward the far end, so as not to inhibit their conversation. But, as he passed the hot coals, he dumped a large supply of water on them. The steam rose immediately. It took Koesler’s breath away for a moment. He waited till he was sure his lungs were not seared before speaking again.

“Charlie, you make it sound like it’s Us against Them—that everybody outside the priesthood is lined up, waiting for one of us to leave so they can pounce on us.”

Hogan coughed. Apparently the steam had gotten even to him. “Okay, that’s a bit melodramatic. But look at it this way: I left in my mid-thirties. At that age, my peers, with a few exceptions, were already working away at whatever they were going to do for a living for the rest of their working lives. Guys in business were up to middle management—or higher.

“They’ve got their homes, maybe their second or third home. They’ve got their families, maybe all the kids they’re ever going to have. All of a sudden, here I come. I join them, only I’ve got nothing. I’m starting where they did when they were in their late teens, early twenties. Except that I’m in my mid-thirties. And starting on the bottom, I’m competing against guys in their teens and twenties.

“So I had to scramble, see? I figured I’d never catch up if I started in something based on strict seniority like the postal service or some other civil service job. On the other hand, I’m no good at selling. So that cancels something like insurance. I chose newspapering because it takes only four to five years to reach top scale in a union wage and also because I knew I could do it.”

“But that’s a crowded field, Charlie.”

“But I knew I could make it. I still know that. Hell, I’m making it right now. My pieces are getting published regularly. Seldom do I get any rejections.

“Oh, I can do it, all right. It’s just that I can’t do it where I want to do it—working steady at a major newspaper, where I could bank on a regular paycheck and good income. Where I could support Lil without her having to work. Where we could have a family. That’s what we wanted from the beginning, Bob; you know that. We wanted a family. We never had one. Probably we’ll never have one. Lil has to keep working. Together, we just get by. And without her insurance coverage, neither of us could afford to get sick.”

Koesler, well remembering how much Charlie and Lil had wanted children, was painfully aware that, on the one hand, they would have made excellent parents and on the other, in all likelihood, they never would be.

“If you don’t mind—” Koesler stood, “—let’s get out of here before I turn into a lobster.”

They showered and started dressing.

“I’ve never talked to you about this—” Koesler had feared he might be prying, “—but what about your books? It’s not everybody who’s a published author. I’ve got all three of them—autographed, of course.” Koesler smiled.

“Yeah, you and not enough others.”

“Not enough others?”

“None of them sold more than 5,000 copies.”

“That’s bad?”

“Think of Michener with well over 100,000 hardcover copies, book clubs, paperback, foreign sales, big screen movies or a TV mini-series. That’s success.”

“That’s a bit extreme, isn’t it?”

“Granted. But if I were going to make a living at this sort of thing, my books would have to sell at least 25,000 copies in hardcover, along with some of those auxiliary sales. And, as you can see, I’m a long way from that.”

“But they were good books.”

“I thought so. And so did a couple of thousand readers. But that’s just not enough.”

Koesler pondered for a few moments. “I don’t understand. They were good books. Why didn’t they sell?”

Hogan shrugged.

“If memory serves,” Koesler continued, “they got good reviews in the News and the Free Press . . . didn’t they?”

“As a matter of fact, the reviews were mixed. Actually, I guess I was lucky to have them reviewed at all.”

“You were?”

“Bob, there are about 400,000 book manuscripts submitted every year. About, roughly, 40,000 of them get published. And only a very small percentage of that number are even reviewed, let alone get a favorable review. Take a look at the Free Press and the News. Each paper uses a single page on Sundays for books, with, once in a while, another review or two during the week.”

“You’re right . . . I guess I never gave it much thought. When you consider the number published, I guess comparatively few do even get reviewed.”

“It doesn’t really matter that much. Most authors seem to feel that reviews neither sell books nor discourage people from buying them. A few readers, maybe, but not many . . . certainly not enough to make a difference.

“From my relatively narrow experience, I didn’t mind so much when a reviewer simply didn’t like my book. What bugs me—and I suppose most other writers—is when the reviewer is just flat-out wrong—incorrect. It happens. You knock yourself cold researching—and you’re accurate. You have experts in the field read and okay your manuscript. Then some reviewer, based on nothing but his or her own ignorance, right off the top of his or her head, says you’re wrong.” He grinned ironically. “If I had my way, reviewers would have to be licensed.”

“Licensed?”

“Use whatever criteria you want. But insist they have licenses. And, as in driving points, once they make X number of factual errors in reviews, they lose their license. “What do you think?”

“You’re kidding?”

“No.”

“Okay, but you said reviews are not all that important in selling books. So what happened to you? How come your books haven’t done better?”

Hogan bit his lip, seeming to weigh explanation. Finally, he said, “There’s a word for it—actually, two words . . .” He paused. “Ridley Groendal.”

Koesler felt he should not be surprised. Still, he was. “Rid? But, how—?”

“He’s powerful, Bob . . . at least he was. Especially when he was at the New York Herald. He reviewed my first book—although by his criteria he shouldn’t have. My publisher wasn’t that significant. Anyway, he went way out of his way to rip hell out of it. He even went so far as to question the motives and intelligence of my publisher. I think it was easily the worst review of anything I’ve ever seen.”

“But I thought you said reviews were not all that important when it came to book sales?”

“His carried more clout than maybe any other. Besides, the review was not only grossly negative; it was symbolic. The review predated publication by several weeks. So he was sending a message to other reviewers.

“But much more importantly, he was going out of his way to influence the bookstores . . .” Hogan stood before the mirror combing his hair. He smiled, but there was no joy in it. “I’ll have to give him that: He went to one helluva lot of trouble.”

“Trouble? What—?”

“This wasn’t just any ordinary vendetta. He went way out of his way to get me. He made sure his review was seen by influential editors.

“The thing that really gets me is the job he did in the stores. He managed to get his negative review reprinted in a publication influential on booksellers—that sort of thing. He really did a job!”