explaining. "Didn't you notice them all over the offices upstairs? And Mr. Perkins, the editor-in-chief—uh, the former editor-in-chief—he writes book reviews under several noms de plume and teaches literary criticism at the OldNew School."
"What's going to happen to him now that he's lost his position at Bunker Books?" Carl wondered.
"Who? Perkins?" asked Malzone, pushing himself into the other side of the booth, two fresh beer mugs in his hands.
Both Carl and Lori nodded.
"That's all taken care of," Malzone said jovially. "He's landed a job at S&M as head of their juvenile line."
Lori gasped. "I thought Susan Mangrove . . ."
"She's out. They bounced her yesterday. Found out she had a four-year-old niece in Schenectady."
"No!"
"What's wrong with that?" Carl asked.
"She was a children's book editor," answered Ralph with glee. "One of the requirements of a children's book editor is that he, she, or it has never seen or dealt with a child. Ironclad rule."
"Don't listen to him," Lori snapped. Then, to Ralph, she asked, "So what's Susan going to do?"
"She's moving over to take Alex Knox's place at Ballantrye."
"Knox is gone?"
"Yep. He starts Monday as head of Webb's romance and inspirational line."
"Replacing Scarlet Dean."
"Who's taking Max's job, that's right," said Malzone.
Carl's head was spinning, and not from the beer. "It sounds like musical chairs."
"It is," Malzone said. "The average lifetime of an editor in this business is about two years. Some last longer than that, but a lot of 'em don't even hang in that long."
"Two years? Is that all?"
Malzone laughed. "Long enough. It takes roughly two years for the accounting department to figure out that the books the editor is putting out don't sell. Accounting sends word to management, and the poor dufo gets tossed out."
"That's not exactly true," Lori said.
"Close enough. Meanwhile, over at the competition's office across the street, they've just found out that one of their editors has been putting out books for the past two years that don't sell. So they deep-six him. The two unemployed editors switch places. Each one goes to work at the other's old office, where they'll be safe for another two years. And the two publicity departments put out media releases praising their new hire as the genius who's going to lead them out of the wilderness."
"You mean they'll keep on publishing books that don't sell?" asked Carl.
"Not exactly," Lori said.
"Exactly!" Malzone said with some fervor.
"But why does the publishing house keep on putting out books that don't sell?"
"Simple," replied Malzone, almost jovially. "The books are picked by the editors."
Lori started to protest. "Now wait . . ."
Halting her with a lopsided grin, Malzone went on, "The publishing community is like a small town. We all work in the same neighborhood, pretty much. Eat in the same restaurants. Editors move back and forth from one company to another. They all share pretty much the same values, have the same outlook on life." With sudden intensity, he added, "And the editors all publish the same sorts of books, the books that interest them ."
Lori frowned slightly but said nothing.
"The editors all live in the New York area," Malzone continued. "They all work in a small neighborhood of Manhattan. They think that New York is America. And they publish books that look good in New York, but sink like lead turds once they cross the Hudson."
"They don't sell well?" Carl asked.
"Most books don't sell at all," said Malzone. "Ask the man who's stuck with the job of selling them."
Lori said, "Only a small percentage of the books published earn back the money originally invested in them. Most of them lose money."
"But how can an industry stay in business that way?" Carl asked. He felt genuinely perplexed.
Malzone laughed and quaffed down a huge gulp of beer. "Damned if I know, pal. Damned if I know."
Lori looked at her wristwatch again. "I've really got to go. See you tomorrow, Carl. In
"What's going to happen to him now that he's lost his position at Bunker Books?" Carl wondered.
"Who? Perkins?" asked Malzone, pushing himself into the other side of the booth, two fresh beer mugs in his hands.
Both Carl and Lori nodded.
"That's all taken care of," Malzone said jovially. "He's landed a job at S&M as head of their juvenile line."
Lori gasped. "I thought Susan Mangrove . . ."
"She's out. They bounced her yesterday. Found out she had a four-year-old niece in Schenectady."
"No!"
"What's wrong with that?" Carl asked.
"She was a children's book editor," answered Ralph with glee. "One of the requirements of a children's book editor is that he, she, or it has never seen or dealt with a child. Ironclad rule."
"Don't listen to him," Lori snapped. Then, to Ralph, she asked, "So what's Susan going to do?"
"She's moving over to take Alex Knox's place at Ballantrye."
"Knox is gone?"
"Yep. He starts Monday as head of Webb's romance and inspirational line."
"Replacing Scarlet Dean."
"Who's taking Max's job, that's right," said Malzone.
Carl's head was spinning, and not from the beer. "It sounds like musical chairs."
"It is," Malzone said. "The average lifetime of an editor in this business is about two years. Some last longer than that, but a lot of 'em don't even hang in that long."
"Two years? Is that all?"
Malzone laughed. "Long enough. It takes roughly two years for the accounting department to figure out that the books the editor is putting out don't sell. Accounting sends word to management, and the poor dufo gets tossed out."
"That's not exactly true," Lori said.
"Close enough. Meanwhile, over at the competition's office across the street, they've just found out that one of their editors has been putting out books for the past two years that don't sell. So they deep-six him. The two unemployed editors switch places. Each one goes to work at the other's old office, where they'll be safe for another two years. And the two publicity departments put out media releases praising their new hire as the genius who's going to lead them out of the wilderness."
"You mean they'll keep on publishing books that don't sell?" asked Carl.
"Not exactly," Lori said.
"Exactly!" Malzone said with some fervor.
"But why does the publishing house keep on putting out books that don't sell?"
"Simple," replied Malzone, almost jovially. "The books are picked by the editors."
Lori started to protest. "Now wait . . ."
Halting her with a lopsided grin, Malzone went on, "The publishing community is like a small town. We all work in the same neighborhood, pretty much. Eat in the same restaurants. Editors move back and forth from one company to another. They all share pretty much the same values, have the same outlook on life." With sudden intensity, he added, "And the editors all publish the same sorts of books, the books that interest them ."
Lori frowned slightly but said nothing.
"The editors all live in the New York area," Malzone continued. "They all work in a small neighborhood of Manhattan. They think that New York is America. And they publish books that look good in New York, but sink like lead turds once they cross the Hudson."
"They don't sell well?" Carl asked.
"Most books don't sell at all," said Malzone. "Ask the man who's stuck with the job of selling them."
Lori said, "Only a small percentage of the books published earn back the money originally invested in them. Most of them lose money."
"But how can an industry stay in business that way?" Carl asked. He felt genuinely perplexed.
Malzone laughed and quaffed down a huge gulp of beer. "Damned if I know, pal. Damned if I know."
Lori looked at her wristwatch again. "I've really got to go. See you tomorrow, Carl. In
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