“This is all Greek to me. I thought all you had to do was write a good book.”
“Ha! Even without the determined opposition of a Ridley Groendal, that’s not even in the ballpark. If you’re a nobody like me, in addition to a damn good book you’ve gotta have promotion, publicity, packaging, marketing, distribution—and a helluva lot of luck.”
“Holy crow!”
“People like me don’t get big advances. So the publisher is not going to lose a lot of sleep trying to recover the millions he didn’t advance me. If he runs into a big enough brick wall—in this case one built by Rid—he’s just not going to bother. And word gets around.”
Koesler had difficulty getting his shoes on. Not unexpectedly for him, with all the exercise and steam, his feet had swollen. “How long have you known about this, Charlie?”
“How long have I suspected is a better question. A long time. It was a combination of strange happenings. Why couldn’t I get a job at one of the metropolitan papers? Why did I have so much trouble—at least in the beginning, selling my stuff as a free-lancer? And most of all, why all this determined opposition from critics and editors and book chains?
“Of course the initial supposition is: It’s my fault; I can’t cut it; I should be out digging ditches. But it just didn’t wash. I knew I was better than that. I knew it. And some friends I could rely on—including you—reinforced my confidence.
“No, it was something else, some third person or force or something. I must confess I didn’t suspect Rid until fairly recently. And then only because I had investigated and dismissed almost every other possibility.”
“But you did find out, Charlie. From what you said, you know it’s Rid now.”
“Yeah, I know.” Again the joyless smile.
“Then, how . . .?”
“It happened a few months ago. I was doing a piece for the Suburban Reporter. I’ve done lots of stuff for them.”
“That’s the same paper Rid writes for, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, only he’s never there. Or he’s there so infrequently he might just as well never be there. I don’t know how many times I’ve been in that editorial office, but lots. He’s hardly ever there. It’s like a throne the king never sits in. It’s just there. And he isn’t.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Not many do. He mails most of his stuff in. About the only time he ever comes in is when he’s covering something like a concert and he’s on deadline. Then there’s almost no way out; he has to come in and bat out the copy. But he doesn’t stick around . . . just goes through his mail and leaves.”
“You seem to know an uncommon amount about Ridley’s comings and goings.”
Hogan shook his head. “Bob, everybody does. Everybody but you. Almost everybody’s done at least one feature on Rid, especially since he came back from New York. You’re just not keeping up on local gossip columns. Besides, in effect, I work at least part-time at the Reporter free-lancing. I’m there lots more often than Rid. And I talk to the staffers.”
“Okay, but how did you find out about Rid . . . I mean about his negative influence on your career?”
“As I was saying, a few months ago I brought in one of the pieces I’d done for the Reporter. It just so happened that Rid was making one of his rare appearances there at the time. As I was handing my article to the editor, I glanced over—and there he was. I guess my chin hit the floor. I never expected to see him. In fact, I hadn’t seen him since the seminary. And what was that . . . more than thirty years ago?
“Anyway, I decided I’d challenge him . . . why not?”
“And . . .?”
“It was incredible. It just spewed out of him. His friend—uh, Harison, is it?—was there. He tried to stop Rid, but he couldn’t Rid was citing chapter and verse. How he had reached the “right people” at the Free Press and the News. How he’d programmed and manipulated and poisoned so many of the reviewers, book editors, bookstores, chains, against me. How he had singlehandedly screwed my career:”
“He admitted all that?”
“Admitted? He bragged about it! It was as if he’d been storing it all up, just dying to let me have it.”
“Then why did he keep it a secret all these years?”
“That was the only way it would work. If I’d known what he was doing, I might have been able to head him off. No, it worked only too well.”
“So what did you do?” Koesler was well aware that Hogan had always operated on a notoriously short fuse.
“It’s what I almost did. And you can guess that. I almost beat the shit out of him. I think I would have if he hadn’t taunted me about that very thing. I was on the verge of hitting him when he seemed to read my mind. ‘What are you going to do about it,’ he said, ‘hit me? Like you did the last time? Go ahead . . . go ahead, then. Only I can tell you: No matter what you do to me now, what I’ve done to you was worth it. Go ahead! Go ahead!’ He was shouting. Everybody in the office stopped work to listen.
“Somehow, it took the spontaneity off the moment. I don’t know; I suppose I would have passed up most of the fights I’ve had if I’d ever stopped a minute to think about it. It certainly worked this time: All he had to do was invite me to do exactly what I was about to do, and I lost the urge.
“God, now that I think of it, maybe that’s what the bastard had in mind . . . do you suppose the son-of-a-bitch was programming me right to the last?”
“I don’t know, Charlie. I doubt it.
“But that was it? It ended like that? With Rid daring you to hit him?”
“Not exactly. I cooled off enough so I no longer felt like belting the hell out of him. But I was still damn mad. And . . . well . . . I warned him that if our paths ever crossed again, I’d . . .”
“You’d . . .?”
“I’d kill him.”
“You said that?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Did the others hear you? The others in the office?”
“I guess—I hadn’t thought about that—but, yes, I suppose so. They all heard Rid challenge me. And I wasn’t exactly whispering my threat. Yeah, they heard me. They had to.”
Koesler shook his head. “Not good. What if something were to happen to Rid?”
“Something like death? Then we celebrate.”
“Seriously, Charlie: What if Rid were to get hurt—or actually die under suspicious circumstances. All those people heard you threaten him.”
“So?”
“So, if I were you, I’d hope I had a really good alibi for the time in question.”
“Come on, Bob, you don’t think anyone would actually think I would kill somebody!”
Briefly, Koesler envisioned a prosecuting attorney describing for a jury the brutal beating Hogan had given Groendal years before, reminding them of the damage Rid had caused to Hogan’s career, and bringing up examples of Charlie’s quick temper.
If their paths did, indeed, cross again, Koesler could not predict the consequences. But he could well imagine a Hogan beyond anyone’s control.
“Just the same,” Koesler wrapped the familiar clerical collar around his neck and snapped it shut in the back, “let’s hope that Rid lives a long life and passes away quietly in his sleep.”
“You can’t expect me to drink to that, Bob.” Hogan completed knotting his tie, and slipped on his jacket. “I know only the good are supposed to die young, and, while we are not all that young, God could make an exception for this bastard. He’s screwed up too many people’s lives. I’d be doing mankind a favor if I were to . . . well . . .” Again his laugh held no mirth.
They parted in the parking lot, promising to get together again soon, although, privately, Koesler resolved not to meet at the spa again. Entering his car, he quickly started the engine and turned the heat on full. He was intolerant of the time that it took for the forced air to heat up. He was tired and shivering. He hoped this would not mark the beginning of one of those lingering Michigan colds. He had escaped both the flu and a cold for several winters. And he’d accomplished this without benefit of a “health” spa. No use ruining a proven formula. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it, he thought grimly.