Leaving Word. Steven Boykey Sidley
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if you find a publisher, the average new novel will sell less than five hundred copies. If you’re an author of that average book, you will make about $1,500 in that year. How does that sound? And don’t even think of self-publishing, because the average sales drop to a total of seven books per year.’
‘Not fair.’
‘No, it’s not.’
‘I don’t mean the stats. I mean that you ruin my day and then you want to pick my brain about a death. Not a good trade.’
‘I suppose.’
‘Anyway, the stats don’t apply to me.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I am having coffee with a famous editor. I’ve already busted the stats.’
He was right. Her email inbox strained under the weight of hundreds of hopefuls, agent submissions, unsolicited submissions, finished manuscripts, book proposals, synopses, first chapters, weird first paragraphs, job requests, requests to interview, requests to talk, requests to appear, an occasional request from a stranger to marry or date (which she weighed up very carefully before discarding). People wanting to get close. People wanting things from her. To make their lives better. To fulfill their needs and aspirations. Even with the filter of her assistant it was still unmanageable. What about me, she had often thought. To whom can I appeal? To whom can I write a clever and witty email designed to fill my empty spaces? The note would be nuanced and understated and lightly amusing. It would be determined, not desperate. She would craft it as carefully as the Gettysburg Address—every word chosen for fit, counterpoint, strength and completeness. It would be shorn of excess and overage. It would convince the reader—yes, here is something that I can get behind.
Perhaps she could request the powers that be that her mother be brought back to love and care for her. That her father would not have lost his smile. That she could have her job back. That she could reverse time, make different decisions, be wiser, be more charitable. Make more friends. Lose her cynicism. Sit at the beach and simply enjoy a sunset once in a while. That she could find love. That she could find love, was that so much to ask?
‘Tell you what. I’ll read the first paragraph. Then will you answer my question?’
‘Shoot.’
‘Can a thirty-five-year-old, reasonably healthy man just die at his desk? No obvious cause?’
‘Depends.’
‘That’s not an answer.’
‘Neither is one paragraph.’
‘OK, OK. I’ll read the first page. If it grabs me I’ll read more.’
‘It happens. People sometimes just die. You’re talking about Rappaport, aren’t you?’
‘Were you there for his funeral?’
‘No. I was there to get you to read my manuscript. Anyway, there was only a basic autopsy, so we’ll never know.’
‘I think he was murdered.’
‘Why?’
‘I just do.’
‘And I think my novel is very good.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I’m an LAPD detective and I have many stories.’
He beamed at her.
Chapter 8
Mogul
By Antonin Corelli
A man dies, mysteriously. He is rich, well respected and powerful. There is not a motive in sight. He is, perhaps, not universally loved (although he is, by many), but liked well enough by the rest. And he has no known enemies. No spurned lovers or burned ex-business partners. But his power is such that a thumbs up or thumbs down from his office can make or ruin lives. He is a large man. Charismatic. About thirty-five. He is found dead at his chair in his office in a modern building near the beach, the headquarters of his sprawling company. There is no sign of trauma.
Detective Spagno stands over the desk and looks at him. The mogul’s head is drooped sideways, a thin line of drool trailing from the side of his mouth onto his collar. Still moist, a very recent death. There are various enforcement officials on the scene— a few cops, a photographer, someone from forensics. Not clear to anyone whether this is a crime scene. Yet.
Standing outside the office, slumped red-eyed against the wall is the executive content editor, Sarah Solmes. He walks over to her, making an effort to soften his face.
Joelle caught her breath and stopped reading and stared. She read it all again. Mediocre start, although not awful. Awkward parenthetical construction in third sentence. Present tense, always a challenge for an amateur. Detached narrator. A little flat, but catches the reader. Dropping into standard procedural fare. A copy of a copy of a copy.
She called Corelli.
‘Detective, Joelle Jesson.’
‘You love the first page?’
‘What’s your game?’
‘What’s my game? You sound like some black-and-white movie from the thirties.’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘No, I don’t. What do you mean?’
‘Your story is the Rappaport story. You know something.’
‘The Rappaport story? No, no. This takes place at a large TV content company, sort of a Netflix.’
‘Close enough. And Sarah Solmes? The executive content editor?’
‘You like her? I think I made her very empathetic.’
‘She is me!’
‘Why would you say that? The character curates video content, not books.’
‘Alliteration! Sarah Solmes? Joelle Jesson? You think I’m an idiot?’
‘Coincidence, I swear.’
‘How does it end?’
‘You have to read it to find out.’
‘Is it a murder or suicide or natural death or accident?’
‘You have to read it to find out.’
‘Jesus, Corelli.’
‘Ah, it’s not Detective Corelli anymore. We’re becoming friends. So you’ll read the whole thing?’
Joelle gave an exasperated grunt. ‘Goodbye, Detective. You are unlikely to hear from me again.’ Which was untrue, but she hung up anyway.
She dove into Google. Antonin Corelli. Thirty-eight. Modestly decorated detective. Divorced. An unremarkable but untainted career. No stumbles, no sparks. Just a city detective doing his job.
She called him back.
‘Corelli, when did you write this?’
‘Oh, over the course of the last year. Didn’t you say I was unlikely to hear from you again? It’s been, what, nine minutes?’
‘So is it based on Rappaport? Me?’
‘Well, I wanted a story about a mogul and a media company. So I did some research on moguls and media companies. Book publishers, TV studios, streaming companies. So not you, or him, or CrossMedia. It’s an amalgam of people and places and pieces of news and things I’ve seen.’
‘How do I know that?’
‘I’ve been writing for a year. Rappaport died a few days ago. What do you think? That I foresaw all of this?’
‘So is it a murder story?’
‘You