Chapter 4

Barton Roberts reserved his usual table at the tony Afgan Coffee House in midtown. I arrived early and was reading Victoria Aren’s novel when himself breezed in.I continued to read as he slipped into his chair, placed his folded Financial Journal by his coffee cup, dropped the napkin in his lap, and glanced around the room to see who was power lunching whom.
    When he finished this ritual, Roberts said, “You can’t seem to get your nose out of that book, Paul. Whatever it is, it must be good.”
    I held White Exit so Roberts could see the title. He shifted in his chair.
    I said, “I understand the book has done $3 million.”
    “Well, that’s an exaggeration.” Roberts signaled our waiter.
    “Is it true you’ve nominated Victoria for the Pynchon Award?”
    Roberts motioned the waiter to hurry. “Where did you hear that?”
    “Sara.”
    “Humm.”
    The waiter appeared and asked Roberts, “Drinks, sir?”
    “Not for me.”
    I shook my head
    Roberts said, “We’re ready to order.”
    “May I present the specials, sir?”
    Roberts stopped him with a wave of his hand and we ordered from the menu. After the waiter left, there was an uncomfortable pause as Roberts studied his newspaper without picking it up.
    I seized the initiative. “I’ll need an advance of $2 million.”
    Roberts continued to study his newspaper. “Barton Books can’t publish your novel, Paul.”
    Sara was right. This was going to be hardball. Roberts’ tactic was brilliant and caught me completely off guard. My comeback was feeble.
    “Naturally, I don’t need the entire amount up front. We can spread it.”
    He looked up from the newspaper and studied my tie. “Paul, you’re not listening. Barton Books can’t publish your novel.”
    There was an embarrassing silence and then he said, “I’m sorry.”
    “Make me an offer…”
    Roberts had a puzzled expression as if he couldn’t understand why I was continuing to press the issue.
    I said, “I know the manuscript needs work…”
    He studied the place settings.
    “Bart, I won the world’s most prestigious literary prize. My name on a dust jacket is worth half a million dollars.”
    “Your new novel is amateurish. I’m surprised you submitted it.”
    “I’ll make whatever changes you ask. I need money.” I was starting to sweat.
    “Want my advice? Start over. If you need money, I can make you a personal loan.”
    “How much?”
    “Five thousand.”
    I was too stunned to respond.
    “It’s the best I can do right now,” he said.
    I brandished White Exit and raised my voice. “You started Barton Books with my novel, and you wouldn’t have signed Victoria if it wasn’t for me.” That tone is not used in the Afgan Coffee House where the volume never rises above a conspiratorial buzz.
    “Don’t create a scene, Paul.” Roberts glanced around the room and smiled an apology to the diners who were starting to look our way.
    Ignoring him, I spoke even louder. “I can walk out of here and have a publisher within the hour.”
    He looked at me directly for the first time since we started talking. “Do that and you can kiss what’s left of your career goodbye.”
    I stood. “We’ll see about that.”
    “Sit down and have your lunch.”
    “You have lunch. On me.” I threw two twenties on the table.
    The glares of publishing’s nobility followed me to the door.

Chapter 4 continued