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Lincoln blathers on for a minute or so about niche publishing and backlists built on timeless reference books.
“I saw from the Internet that you even made a hit out of a collection of poems,” the publisher says.
My God, thinks Lincoln, the world has turned upside down. “A small hit,” he says sheepishly. “By poetry standards.”
Kessler shakes his head and laughs. “Another marketing coup—getting Michelle’s mother to show off the book.”
Lincoln decides to shut up and go for the ride.
“So what caused you to leave your old job?”
Of course, Lincoln has anticipated this question and carefully considered his response. Lying, even hedging, won’t do. Candor is the only way. So he carefully explains that after he’d separated from his wife, he and the author of The Ultimate Position, a company employee, developed a brief, intimate relationship while he was editing the manuscript. She was not a direct report, and afterward, she acknowledged her complicity, resigned in solidarity, they remain platonic friends, etc.
Kessler listens closely, leaning back in his chair, holding the palms of his hands together as if praying, a wan smile playing on his lips.
“The Midwest,” he says conclusively when Lincoln is finished.
“Exactly,” says Lincoln, hugely relieved.
They chat for a few more minutes about books, agents, writing programs, even the Bulls vs. the Knicks, and Lincoln senses he’s holding up well in the game of volleying insights and observations, his skill level elevated by the Olympic virtuosity of his partner. Finally, when Lincoln pronounces The Devil in the White City “a newspaper clip job—but a masterful clip job” and wonders aloud “what other potential best-sellers are buried out there in the archives,” Kessler smiles upon him benevolently.
The publisher stands. “Let me introduce you to a few of my colleagues,” he says. “And I will be in touch. I’d like to make a decision soon.”
Kessler has arranged a talking tour. He deposits Lincoln with Rhoda Zimmerman, a grand dame of quality fiction who lectures for several minutes on the gender crimes of Lincoln’s (former) homeboy Bellow. She then directs Lincoln to Elizabeth Warner, the young refugee from Time whose hiring dismayed him last fall. She is polite but harried, and she rushes through a perfunctory conversation before walking Lincoln down the hall to the office of Peter Falcone.
Lincoln has been hearing about Falcone for several years—blog posts, PW references, even the occasional items on Gawker, usually references to book parties that spilled into downtown clubs and collected a seasoning of movie stars and rockers. Oddly, Falcone is a visual echo of Kessler, with a narrow face, dark complexion (permanent tan or Mediterranean pigmentation?), flowing black hair combed behind his ears, and a navy suit and lavender tie. He’s about Lincoln’s age, maybe a couple of years older, and he sits behind a glass-topped desk clear of everything but a laptop and a phone—there’s not even a cup for pencils, scissors, or other implements of a vanishing age.
“Hey!” Falcone says in greeting when Lincoln appears. “Malcolm House intern made good!” He stands to shake hands. Firm grip, strong baritone, angled, almost conspiratorial smile. Lincoln can see why the blogs love this guy.
They trade bona fides (Falcone easily bests Lincoln with a Brown economics degree, a dalliance at Goldman Sachs, an introduction to publishing through the agent side at ICM, and then a quick rise at Malcolm House). They seem to hit it off, and at exactly twelve thirty Falcone pronounces, “Let’s have lunch!” (In Chicago, Lincoln reflects, everyone wants to eat at noon, before his appetite ever has a chance to sharpen.)
Falcone leads Lincoln to a small, modern Italian spot on Second Avenue, already noisy though it’s only half filled. The curvy young hostess knows Falcone and seats them at a table near the front window. Their curvy young waitress (Flam would love this place, Lincoln thinks) drops off a menu for Lincoln. She already knows what Falcone will order (salmon spinach salad and a bottle of San Pellegrino). Lincoln follows suit with his host.
“Tell me about Amy O’Malley,” Falcone says abruptly once they’ve settled in.
“Jeff said you read her book,” Lincoln responds, slightly disconcerted.
“Yeah, I did.” End of statement. No compliment. No assessment.
“She’s bright,” Lincoln proffers. “Lively style. Young, but promising.”
“What’s she look like?”
Lincoln pauses. What’s this about? “She’s attractive,” he says, nodding, then quickly adds, “And she managed to survive the University of Chicago’s English department without disappearing into all that poststructuralism and genderizing crap.”
“Did you fuck her?”
Lincoln is speechless. He slurps his water, buying time. Finally, he says, “We had a brief fling.” (A fling? How sappy! How Midwestern!)
Apparently reassured, Falcone proffers, “It wasn’t a bad book. Had some energy, some life. Did you have to do a lot of work on it?”
“Well, yes, there was a lot of line editing, eve
n some rewriting. But she was there every step of the way.”
“You do a lot of that heavy line editing?”
“Most of my manuscripts take a lot of work.”
