entire apartment. The rest of the apartment seemed just as opulent. As distracting as Maggie was, lolling on her couch, the view behind her was even more distracting. French doors led out to a brick patio and an elegant, English-style garden in full and brilliantly colorful bloom. Somewhere down the black and white tiled hallway, he assumed, was at least one bedroom. Probably two or three. He couldn’t help but wonder if she’d be inviting him down that hallway to check out that view.
Carl finally responded to her question and, indicating the apartment, said that it was beautiful. He then took the plunge and began rattling off how pleased he was that she’d liked his novel, that it was very personal and important to him, the whole idea of a small-town basketball coach and what happens to him when he lands a once-in-a-generation player. He hoped she liked the title, Getting Kiddo, because he felt very strongly about it—well, not so strongly that he wouldn’t think about changing it if she really hated it. He was just telling her how thrilled he was that she thought it could be a success, that he’d work incredibly hard, do whatever it took to help, when she held up an imperious hand, cutting him off, and said, bluntly, “Your novel won’t sell for shit.”
That stopped him cold. Which she didn’t even notice. She was too busy pouring some Evian into a crystal glass filled with ice cubes. She didn’t offer him any, just took a sip, sighed with pleasure, and put the glass down.
“It’s too damned good to be successful in today’s market,” she explained. “But I will publish it. And I’ll do the whole number—fancy advance galleys, a reading tour at the good independent stores, the three or four of them that are still left …”
Carl shook his head at her, confused. “Maybe I’m missing something here. Why do you want to take on a book that won’t sell?”
“Because I want you to take on something for me that will sell. Something big. I’m talking number-one best-seller big. Are you listening?”
“I’m listening big,” Carl said. He was also noticing that she had a wall of original Nan Goldin photographs. It was a disturbing display of junkies, transvestites, and asexual body parts.
“I’ve landed something that’s so unbelievably hot we’re doing it as an instant book. Written quickly, published even quicker. The kind of thing we usually save for terrorist attacks, wars, or dead royalty.”
As she talked her face lit up as though it were Christmas morning and she’d just been given the ultimate present. At that moment Carl saw right into the essence of Maggie Peterson, and that essence was pure, unadulterated greed.
“I’ve got an inside source in Washington,” she went on. “A certain someone who has an amazing story to tell, every bit of it true. And when that story is published, it will change the course of history.”
“That’s quite a statement,” Carl said, somewhat skeptically. Hype was, after all, what Maggie Peterson was best at.
“I mean every word of it. I am not exaggerating. This book will change the course of history.”
“Who’s the inside source?”
“Someone who, for personal reasons, wishes to be known only as Gideon.”
“Gideon,” Carl repeated. “Okay … but who is Gideon?”
Maggie drained her glass, uncrossed her legs, and leaned forward, narrowing her eyes at him. “The first and only thing you need to know about Gideon is that you’ll get no answers whatsoever about him. None. You will never meet him, you will never speak to him, you will never have any contact with him. So don’t even bother asking questions. Gideon is in an extremely sensitive position. And terrified of being outed. He will deal only with me. No one else. Understood?”
“No,” he said slowly, frowning.
“Then keep quiet and listen.” Her words poured out of her in machine-gun style, quickly, violently, and dispassionately. “I need a ghost. Someone who can write,
Carl finally responded to her question and, indicating the apartment, said that it was beautiful. He then took the plunge and began rattling off how pleased he was that she’d liked his novel, that it was very personal and important to him, the whole idea of a small-town basketball coach and what happens to him when he lands a once-in-a-generation player. He hoped she liked the title, Getting Kiddo, because he felt very strongly about it—well, not so strongly that he wouldn’t think about changing it if she really hated it. He was just telling her how thrilled he was that she thought it could be a success, that he’d work incredibly hard, do whatever it took to help, when she held up an imperious hand, cutting him off, and said, bluntly, “Your novel won’t sell for shit.”
That stopped him cold. Which she didn’t even notice. She was too busy pouring some Evian into a crystal glass filled with ice cubes. She didn’t offer him any, just took a sip, sighed with pleasure, and put the glass down.
“It’s too damned good to be successful in today’s market,” she explained. “But I will publish it. And I’ll do the whole number—fancy advance galleys, a reading tour at the good independent stores, the three or four of them that are still left …”
Carl shook his head at her, confused. “Maybe I’m missing something here. Why do you want to take on a book that won’t sell?”
“Because I want you to take on something for me that will sell. Something big. I’m talking number-one best-seller big. Are you listening?”
“I’m listening big,” Carl said. He was also noticing that she had a wall of original Nan Goldin photographs. It was a disturbing display of junkies, transvestites, and asexual body parts.
“I’ve landed something that’s so unbelievably hot we’re doing it as an instant book. Written quickly, published even quicker. The kind of thing we usually save for terrorist attacks, wars, or dead royalty.”
As she talked her face lit up as though it were Christmas morning and she’d just been given the ultimate present. At that moment Carl saw right into the essence of Maggie Peterson, and that essence was pure, unadulterated greed.
“I’ve got an inside source in Washington,” she went on. “A certain someone who has an amazing story to tell, every bit of it true. And when that story is published, it will change the course of history.”
“That’s quite a statement,” Carl said, somewhat skeptically. Hype was, after all, what Maggie Peterson was best at.
“I mean every word of it. I am not exaggerating. This book will change the course of history.”
“Who’s the inside source?”
“Someone who, for personal reasons, wishes to be known only as Gideon.”
“Gideon,” Carl repeated. “Okay … but who is Gideon?”
Maggie drained her glass, uncrossed her legs, and leaned forward, narrowing her eyes at him. “The first and only thing you need to know about Gideon is that you’ll get no answers whatsoever about him. None. You will never meet him, you will never speak to him, you will never have any contact with him. So don’t even bother asking questions. Gideon is in an extremely sensitive position. And terrified of being outed. He will deal only with me. No one else. Understood?”
“No,” he said slowly, frowning.
“Then keep quiet and listen.” Her words poured out of her in machine-gun style, quickly, violently, and dispassionately. “I need a ghost. Someone who can write,
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