Camino Ghosts полностью

Sid was also a transplant from the D.C. area. He had retired to Santa Rosa for health reasons but, like Steven, had found retirement to be unhealthy. So he started writing for The Register and bought it when the owner died and no one else wanted it. In his opinion, one that he rarely shared with his readers, the island’s rebound after Leo was creating enough work for everyone. The comeback was strong. Traffic was heavy enough. The last thing they needed was a huge resort and casino. Sid was also fascinated with the legend of Dark Isle. He’d read Lovely’s book years earlier, had even tried to do a feature but got nowhere. He’d heard the rumor, probably from Bruce Cable, who often started them just to see how fast they would travel, that Mercer Mann was interested in writing about Dark Isle and the upcoming battle over its future. He had interviewed Mercer twice and was a fan.

“She’ll slay this story,” Sid said.

“I think so too. Bruce told me her publisher likes it.”

“She and Thomas have been digging through our archives for a month. They know more of the history of this place than anyone. They told me last week that they cannot find any reference to a white person who has ventured onto the island and lived to talk about it. Several have tried. Mercer thinks there’s an old voodoo curse still hovering over the island.”

“I’m not going over there.”

“I suppose you’d like this on the front page as soon as possible.”

“I’m a lawyer. Of course I want the front page.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“You’re the owner, editor, publisher, and only full-time reporter. You can do anything you want.”

They shared a laugh and Sid promised to find room on the front page.

Another late afternoon thunderstorm had blown through, drenching the island and breaking the humidity. It was now pleasant enough to eat outdoors on the veranda, Bruce’s preferred spot in the rear of his cherished Victorian home. When the table was cleared they moved to the side and settled into cushioned wicker rockers. Frogs and crickets began a loud chorus. The old rattan ceiling fans rattled above and kept the air moving. Bruce fired up a cigar and offered one to Thomas, who waved him off. They were finishing a bottle of Chablis.

The topic of the evening was the quandary over Mercer’s book proposal. Etta, always the agent, had suggested the amount of $500,000 for an advance against royalties. It was an aggressive opening and she justified it by the performance of Mercer’s last book, Tessa. The success of that novel, plus the compelling story at hand, was more than enough to support such an advance. Mercer was thirty-six, an accomplished writer with three books to her credit and many more to come. As usual, Etta had implied that if Viking couldn’t handle such up-front money, then Mercer might be forced to shop around.

The vague threat went nowhere. Lana Gallagher was a tough editor who gently deflected such warnings as just another part of the agent’s routine. She countered with $200,000, and showed barely enough enthusiasm to placate the author. Viking had two major concerns: nonfiction was something new for Mercer and, in the broadest of terms, paid less than popular fiction; and the near certainty of protracted litigation could delay the project for years.

To make the offer even less attractive, Viking proposed to string out the payments over the next several years: one-fourth at signing, one-fourth upon delivery of the manuscript, one-fourth upon hardback publication, and the last check when the paperback came out. If the book sold as well as hoped, and the advance “earned out,” the prospect of royalties might kick in even further down the road.

Mercer was disappointed with the offer but did manage to find humor in the fact that she was disappointed with a contract worth $200,000. She still had the fresh memories of being the impoverished grad student, then the adjunct professor with a one-year contract. Her future was far from certain. She did not have tenure at Ole Miss. Her salary was a wonderful cushion but budget cuts were always hovering. She dreamed of writing books for the rest of her life but lived with the fear of not having the next story. Only a few years ago she would have fainted if Etta had called with a $200,000 offer.

Bruce commiserated with her and, as always, sided with his writer. But he knew the offer was reasonable. He also remembered that four years earlier, Mercer had been delighted with the $50,000 advance she had received for Tessa. He also knew from years of observation that new writers needed two or three bestsellers in a row to establish themselves and expect bigger contracts. Mercer wasn’t quite there yet.

She said, “Etta wants to shop it around. What do you think about that?”

Since most of the writers on the island confided in Bruce, he knew the ins and outs of the business. They trusted his advice and spoke openly to him about money. He was discreet and fiercely protective of their business.