“So what’s the title of your novel?” Beresford asked. “I want to get it.”
“Sorry, you can’t.”
“Why not?
“Not out yet.”
“Oh? When’s it coming out?”
“Not for a long time, I hope.” Tenpenny smiled as he handed Beresford his drink.
“But Eleanor said it was getting published this fall.”
“No, no, I told her they offered to publish it. But I politely declined.”
Beresford made a sour face. “Why?”
“I take it you don’t know much about the publishing world, Charlie?”
“No. Well . . . no, not really.”
Tenpenny lit a cigarette. “Publishers ruin writers. Yeah, it seems like a good deal—a little dough, your work’s finally getting out there, and so on—but ultimately, being published is the kiss of death.”
“So you said no?”
“I did indeed.” He held up the Viceroys but Beresford waved him off.
“Then why’d you submit the manuscript in the first place?”
Which, Tenpenny realized, was an excellent question. He took Beresford’s drink back to the counter and sullied the rum with tonic water. “You like lime?” he asked, as he worked out this riddle.
“No, I’m good. So . . . I don’t get it—why’d you send it to them if you didn’t want to be published?”
“Send it to who?”
“The publishing houses.”
Tenpenny slowly stirred Beresford’s drink as he deliberated. “See, I have a writer friend and I gave it to him—you know, I needed fresh eyes, typos and whatnot—and he took it upon himself to pass it on to a few editors without my knowledge. Prick. Well, he was just trying to be nice. Next thing I know, I’m in the middle of a very modest bidding war, which was kind of flattering, I guess—no, I admit. But then I started having nightmares about it, so I pulled the plug and told them I didn’t want it out there until after I die.”
Beresford blinked. “Wow. That’s . . . wow. May I inquire why?”
Tenpenny finally returned his drink. “Well . . . for the same reasons the Catcher in the Rye guy refuses to publish his new stuff.” (Despite his Rollins education, Tenpenny had always gotten Caulfield and Salinger confused, as far as who was the writer and who the whiner.) “Because making money off it is a form of prostitution?”
This remark chafed at Tenpenny’s genes and, though being agreeable would’ve tied a nice bow on the discussion, he snapped, “There’s nothing wrong with making money! Nothing! Not ever!”
The channeling of Tenpenny’s objectivist grandfather had shrunk Beresford, so Roger throttled it back a bit. “It’s just . . . I choose not to publish my work for the simple reason that once it’s out there, you’re no longer pure. You start writing for the public, or worse, the critics, and once that happens—when you start caring what other people think—you’re tainted.” Then he added, “That’s true in life too.”
“I suppose. But even Salinger published four or five books.”
“No he didn’t. He did?”
“Catcher, Franny and Zooey, Nine Stories, a couple others.”
“Oh.” Then: “Well, I don’t intend to make the same mistake.”
*
It was three days later that the package addressed to Beresford arrived. Tenpenny wasn’t the least bit curious of its contents and spent the afternoon writing a new business plan—this time for a life-settlement start-up. This was a new AIDS-inspired industry that allowed people to cash out their life insurance policies early, but at a steep discount, and then the new beneficiaries would claim their fruits “at the time of harvest,” as stated in his presentation.
Beresford phoned that evening. “You’re going to be receiving my novel Danke, Dolores in the mail,” he said.
“Believe I already have.”
“Brilliant.”
“Can’t promise I’ll get to it for a while, though, kiddo. Kind of busy these days.”
“No, no, you don’t have to read it. I just had to mail it to someone for copyright purposes because I still haven’t found a permanent flat yet.”
“Oh.” Then: “How’s that?”
“See, I don’t have enough money to be ladling it out to the Library of Congress when I can get an official copyright simply by mailing it to myself. Long as it’s not opened, the postmark is a valid copyright, so I saved myself ten bucks.”
“You shrewd bastard.”
Beresford chuckled. “One other thing. When I sent the book out I had to give the publishing house a phone number, and the Y said I’m not allowed to receive calls here, so I gave them yours. Hope you don’t mind, sir?”