where the power brokers of the town met for breakfast, dueling with each other before taking on the challenges of the day, like athletes warming up for a big game. He walked arrogantly to a corner table where his editor awaited. As was his fashion, he ignored the nods of the other diners.
The waiter held his chair and he sat down.
“Good morning, Jacob,” he said as the waiter poured him a cup of coffee.
“Morning, Lee.”
The waiter offered Hamilton a menu which he slapped away.
“Where’s Humphrey?” Hamilton snapped without looking at him. “Humphrey always attends my table.”
“He’s got the flu, sir. My name’s Gus.”
“Well, Gus, tell the chef Mister Hamilton will have the usual.”
“Yes sir,” the waiter said and vanished.
Jake Sallinger, the editor of Metro Magazine , shook his head. He was a man in his early fifties with graying hair and a neatly trimmed beard, a veteran of the highly competitive publication wars who had earned his position as head of the hottest magazine in town, which he had conceived with a keen sense for both word and story. He was accustomed to Hamilton’s superior attitude and was neither intimidated nor impressed by it. Most of the writers he dealt with were experienced journalists, professional and jocular by nature. But Hamilton’s name on the cover sold magazines so he endured the man’s insufferable ego.
He also had Hamilton against the wall and Hamilton knew it. Four years earlier, the writer had decided it was time to venture into novels. But he had written two which were critical and financial disasters. Now he was forced to return to the field which he had dominated for two decades.
Sallinger was a tough editor and a conceptual genius. He was demanding, a hard sell, and Hamilton knew that. He had interested the editor on a series of articles tentatively called “Chasing Demons,” a series of sometimes arcane, sometimes recent, unsolved or unsolvable cases. They would then be compiled into a book by the same name, co-owned by Metro.
This time they would be playing by Sallinger’s rules, a tough and bitter pill for the pampered writer to swallow. And his book publisher, knowing that Hamilton would sometimes spend months on research, was uncomfortable with a concept which might take several years to complete.
But Hamilton had convinced them that his files contained much of the research and had agreed to produce eight articles, one every other month for the magazine, and a new and lengthy prologue and epilogue for the book, a task he had agreed to complete in less than a year.
The thing was that Sallinger had him on the spot. He would be approving the articles and editing them and the writer despised making pitches as much as he hated being edited, considering them demeaning. But Hamilton had accepted the terms, like it or not.
It wasn’t the money; he was a rich man.
Vanity had dictated the terms.
He had to redeem his two failures. Thus he had picked a daunting challenge.
The only control Sallinger had allowed him was the due date of the first installment: Halloween. Hamilton had chuckled morbidly as he suggested it.
Gus arrived with their food, a bagel and cream cheese for Sallinger, Eggs Benedict for Hamilton. The writer took a fork and lightly punched the poached egg.
“This egg’s a little on the hard side,” he growled to the waiter. But he noticed Sallinger’s immediate exasperation and quickly added, “They’ll do.”
“I can take them back, sir,” the waiter quickly replied.
“I said they’ll do,” Hamilton snapped and dismissed him with a wave of his hand.
Sallinger looked down and disguised a smile with a bite of bagel. Clearly Hamilton was nervous and on the defensive.
Δ
“So, Lee, what have you got for me?” He asked, spreading cream cheese on the bagel.
“It’s got everything,” Hamilton boasted.
“Forget the tease, okay? What’s the story?”
“Ever heard of the NYPD TAZ?”
Sallinger frowned. “Some
The waiter held his chair and he sat down.
“Good morning, Jacob,” he said as the waiter poured him a cup of coffee.
“Morning, Lee.”
The waiter offered Hamilton a menu which he slapped away.
“Where’s Humphrey?” Hamilton snapped without looking at him. “Humphrey always attends my table.”
“He’s got the flu, sir. My name’s Gus.”
“Well, Gus, tell the chef Mister Hamilton will have the usual.”
“Yes sir,” the waiter said and vanished.
Jake Sallinger, the editor of Metro Magazine , shook his head. He was a man in his early fifties with graying hair and a neatly trimmed beard, a veteran of the highly competitive publication wars who had earned his position as head of the hottest magazine in town, which he had conceived with a keen sense for both word and story. He was accustomed to Hamilton’s superior attitude and was neither intimidated nor impressed by it. Most of the writers he dealt with were experienced journalists, professional and jocular by nature. But Hamilton’s name on the cover sold magazines so he endured the man’s insufferable ego.
He also had Hamilton against the wall and Hamilton knew it. Four years earlier, the writer had decided it was time to venture into novels. But he had written two which were critical and financial disasters. Now he was forced to return to the field which he had dominated for two decades.
Sallinger was a tough editor and a conceptual genius. He was demanding, a hard sell, and Hamilton knew that. He had interested the editor on a series of articles tentatively called “Chasing Demons,” a series of sometimes arcane, sometimes recent, unsolved or unsolvable cases. They would then be compiled into a book by the same name, co-owned by Metro.
This time they would be playing by Sallinger’s rules, a tough and bitter pill for the pampered writer to swallow. And his book publisher, knowing that Hamilton would sometimes spend months on research, was uncomfortable with a concept which might take several years to complete.
But Hamilton had convinced them that his files contained much of the research and had agreed to produce eight articles, one every other month for the magazine, and a new and lengthy prologue and epilogue for the book, a task he had agreed to complete in less than a year.
The thing was that Sallinger had him on the spot. He would be approving the articles and editing them and the writer despised making pitches as much as he hated being edited, considering them demeaning. But Hamilton had accepted the terms, like it or not.
It wasn’t the money; he was a rich man.
Vanity had dictated the terms.
He had to redeem his two failures. Thus he had picked a daunting challenge.
The only control Sallinger had allowed him was the due date of the first installment: Halloween. Hamilton had chuckled morbidly as he suggested it.
Gus arrived with their food, a bagel and cream cheese for Sallinger, Eggs Benedict for Hamilton. The writer took a fork and lightly punched the poached egg.
“This egg’s a little on the hard side,” he growled to the waiter. But he noticed Sallinger’s immediate exasperation and quickly added, “They’ll do.”
“I can take them back, sir,” the waiter quickly replied.
“I said they’ll do,” Hamilton snapped and dismissed him with a wave of his hand.
Sallinger looked down and disguised a smile with a bite of bagel. Clearly Hamilton was nervous and on the defensive.
Δ
“So, Lee, what have you got for me?” He asked, spreading cream cheese on the bagel.
“It’s got everything,” Hamilton boasted.
“Forget the tease, okay? What’s the story?”
“Ever heard of the NYPD TAZ?”
Sallinger frowned. “Some
Similar Books
