Nearly everyone had finished eating. Dishes were being cleared away. However, because he’d been talking steadily, Krieg was well behind the others. But when the waitress reached him, he indicated he was finished, and his dishes, still containing considerable food, were removed. Dessert and coffee were then served. All the women, none of the men, accepted the apple pie. Only Janet took cream with her coffee.
“You’re quite right, Rabbi. .” Krieg, stirring his coffee in an attempt to cool it, returned to the fray. “I do know the familiar names. But I’m not talking about literature or art that lasts forever. We are dealing with a pop culture.” His expression altered to one of sympathy. “Sad as it is to say, still, realistically, we cannot hope that all the books you have written are going to be on people’s shelves as long as, say, Shakespeare.” A small, consoling chuckle.
“We all know,” Krieg continued, “the Bible is the all-time best-seller in the history of the world. I dare say it would be difficult to find an American home-almost impossible to find a hotel room-without one.” One more chuckle for the Gideon Society. “And in all these homes and rooms, how many of these Bibles are read?” He left that truly rhetorical question hanging.
“Meanwhile,” he went on, “what sort of book does the great unwashed American public buy? Ever see people selecting a book in a supermarket, book chain, airport newsstand? Not War and Peace.
“Ever notice the general run of covers publishers put on paperbacks, the type of dustjacket on hardcovers?” Pause-a dramatic pause.
“It all tells us something,” he continued. “And we all, deep down, know what it tells us. These are the books publishers count on selling. And this is the packaging they hope will sell them. And that’s the market P.G. Press is in, friends. Praise God!”
There was no echo from his listeners.
“And as you four know by this time, I’m sure,” Krieg’s tone became almost conspiratorial, “it’s the market I’ve invited each and every one of you to join me in.”
Marie gasped as if she’d been trapped by Krieg’s discourse. Benbow and Augustine seemed embarrassed.
It was Winer who spoke, and spoke calmly, forcefully and personally. As if, of a sudden, he and Krieg were alone in the room.
“That’s right. We’ve already discovered that each of us was offered a contract with you. And that each of us, after mature consideration and professional advice, has decided not to be associated with you. Our connection with each other, aside from the fact that we share a clerical or religious calling, is that each of us has been approached by you and each of us has rejected your offer.
“It requires no genius to guess this is the reason why you stipulated as a condition of your acceptance that each of us be invited to this workshop. What you have in mind isn’t completely clear. But you’ve got something in mind. Of that there can be little doubt. If I had to guess, it would be that you are going to make one last effort to change our minds and sign us up with you.
“How am I doing?”
Krieg chuckled, and stroked his chin. “Well, Rabbi, you certainly don’t write mystery stories for nothing. The only problem is, you make it seem this whole thing was my idea. Not so. I was planning nothing of the sort. No thought of this at all.
“Out of the blue, a man I’d never met, never heard of before, phoned me. Jack Regan had this idea for a writers’ conference, a very specialized workshop in mystery novels with a religious setting. Was it so extraordinary, unexpected, that you four should come to mind? Praise God! It was a heaven-sent opportunity to meet you in person and-what else? — give it one more shot. And when heaven sends me an opportunity, I assure you, I take it.
“Now, fortunately, Mr. Regan was very strong on having me participate in this conference. So set on me was he that I was able to establish a few prerequisites. The first, and nonnegotiable, condition was that he secure your presence. And, praise God, he did. And, praise God, here you all are.”
Koesler studied the four writers. Something was going on between them and Krieg. Some sort of perceptible bad chemistry. What could it be?
Krieg spread his hands, palms up, on the tabletop. “But there’s no harm in this. It’s what the American business world labels ‘the bottom line.’ It’s a free country. You don’t have to sign with me.”
“Right,” Winer said. “A free country. We don’t have to sign with you. And that’s what we’ve told you. We are not-let me speak as forcefully as I can for one-I am not signing with P.G. Press. How much more clear can I be?”
The smile lost none of its self-assurance. “It’s a free country, all right. You have the right to decline, but I have the right to give it another go. Who knows. .” Krieg spoke slowly and softly, emphasizing each word as he enunciated it. “Who knows? I may just make each of you an offer you cannot refuse!”
There was a protracted, electric silence as the writers and the publisher studied each other. Koesler sensed that Krieg had just thrown down a challenge that the writers at least understood, whether or not they would accept it.
Who would break the silence?
It was David Benbow who spoke through clenched teeth. “I’ll see you dead and in-”
“David!” Martha Benbow almost shrieked his name. Her tone not only interrupted, but silenced her husband.
But everyone in the room well understood what was left unsaid. What David Benbow had been going to say was that he would see Krieg dead and in hell before ever signing a contract with Krieg’s empire.
Koesler took stock. Kreig’s smile had disappeared. In its place was a look of shocked surprise, even, oddly, fear. None of the writers had backed down. Each seemed tacitly to be in general agreement with Benbow. Martha, Janet, and, Koesler presumed, Benbow himself, were deeply shaken.
The silence that followed Benbow’s cut-off statement seemed as if it would never be broken. It was as if a gauntlet in the form of a threat had been thrown and it simply lay there with no one willing to either accept or retract the challenge.
Then Martha, clearly mortified, said, “I’m sure. . I’m certain David did not mean that. He would never. . could never. . oh, dear. .” She was near tears.
Janet cleared her throat. “This has been a long day. There’s been a lot of tension. .” (A lot of tension I did not anticipate or expect, she added to herself. And why should I have to carry this load? I didn’t arrange for any of this to happen.) “I think we just need some time to calm down,” she continued. She glanced at her watch. “It’s almost time for the movie. I’m sorry, but there seems to be no time for after-dinner drinks. The students will be gathering about now. Why don’t we go and relax a bit? That should help us wind down. Tomorrow we can start fresh.”
She was grateful there were no general sessions scheduled for tomorrow. The faculty would not convene except for meals. She resolved to be on her guard lest another altercation break out during mealtime. Maybe she’d be able to enlist Marie’s help in peacemaking. But after this evening she could not be certain. About anything.
There was no immediate response to Janet’s invitation that they take in the movie.
Then Martha, somewhat more composed, said, “I think that’s a fine idea, Sister. Come on, David, let’s go see the film.”
Benbow shook his head. “Not in the mood, I’m afraid, dear. You go ahead. I think I’ll take a bit of a walk. I’ll see you in our room later.”
“Reverend?” Janet addressed Krieg.
“What?” Krieg had been lost in his own thoughts.
“The movie. Would you like to join us at the movie?” Janet explained.
“Oh, no, I think not. I’ll just wander up to my room. A bit tired. Suddenly a bit tired.”
“Up to your room?” Janet repeated. “You’re not returning to the hotel for the night?”
“Think not. Not worth the trouble. I’ll stay here tonight. But no, no movie. Thanks just the same.”