Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 43, No. 7 & 8, July/August 1998
- Автор: Alexander Gary, Crawford Dan
- Год: 1998
- Язык: английский
- Год: Dell Magazines/Crosstown Publications
- ISBN: ISSN: 0002-5224
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 43, No. 7 & 8, July/August 1998». Краткое содержание книги:
“Now, Martha’s never come right out and said as much,” said Helen, “but it’s plain to me that she feels Baxter hasn’t treated her fairly. I’m not talking about a huge sum of money, just a fair amount.”
Of course not everyone at Lil’s believed all that. It was well known that for years Helen had been yearning to move to Florida. Still, once or twice under questioning from Lil, Martha admitted that she’d always had to spend much more time on Harry Baxter’s manuscripts than any others.
“Making improvements, Martha?” Lil asked.
“Well, I guess you could call it that.”
All the while Cathy and Linda, the two hairstylists, paid close attention. While Helen harped on the injustice of it all, they would look at one another as if to say, “What more do we need?”
Lil’s wasn’t the only place where Harry Baxter was a frequent topic. The whole country knew all about him, the supermarket tabloids having made him a favorite whipping boy. Success and money had led to a turbulent life, and three marriages to the kind of peroxided Loreleis who in pre-harassment days would have been described as “dumb blondes” had resulted in bitter divorce trials, the proceedings enthusiastically covered by the tabloids.
AUTHOR’S WIFE ENDURED CRUEL AND BARBAROUS TREATMENT, screamed the headline about the first divorce. The testimony from Wife Number One was heartrending.
“That’s right,” she sobbed on the stand. “He made me read a book every single week... imagine. And I had to write a book report... and I never got nothin’ but F’s.” Divorce granted; two million dollars awarded.
Wife Number Two was Turned into an Ice Cube. Baxter refused to let her wear a fur coat, claiming animals were better creatures than humans. Whales were especially to be protected.
“Well,” Blondie Number Two whimpered, “when I couldn’t take no more, I said that as far as I was concerned whales were nothin’ but a bunch of blubber.” Baxter flew into a rage, called her a numbskull, a nitwit, “an’ lotsa other horrible names.” Divorce granted; two and a half million awarded.
AUTHOR BEATS WIFE WITH LETHAL WEAPON, screamed the tabloids. That was laying it on pretty thick, for the lethal weapon was a box of Yummy Oats. Baxter got up early, made his breakfast, went into the den to write, his third wife well aware that he was not to be disturbed. One morning the poor girl couldn’t find her favorite cereal.
“All I did,” she testified tearfully, looking about as yummy as they come, “was to open the door to his den, and real polite I said, ‘What happened to the Yummy Oats?’ ”
All hell broke loose. Baxter leaped from his chair, raced into the kitchen, “throwin’ things helter-skelter all over the place” before he found the Yummy Oats box hidden behind the other cereals.
“He beat me over the head with the Yummy Oats,” the poor girl whimpered and sobbed. “An’ the box broke and the stuff spilled all over the floor, an’ he made me sweep it up. It was awful.” No question here; a two million seven hundred thousand dollar verdict.
But the divorce trials were only part of the tabloids’ fascination with Baxter. And he gave them plenty of ammunition. A troubled soul who frequently looked for solace in the bottle, he all too often convinced himself that the next one would do the trick and then the next, the result welcome fodder for the tabloid mills.
AUTHOR SLUGS EX-WIFE’S LAWYER WITH LIVE LOBSTER, POLICE CALLED TO RITZY RESTAURANT went one headline. Months later came Crazed Author Rampaged in Bar. At issue was Baxter’s suspicion — unfounded — that the bartender had watered his drink.
Mike Wilson, Baxter’s literary agent, not only had to bail him out, he had also tried to get Baxter to undergo treatment for alcoholism. Baxter refused, claiming the media were out to get him. In one instance he was right.
He lived in Connecticut, went to New York on weekends to unwind from his writing. Just before Christmas 1988, he emerged from an Upper East Side bar holding three fifty dollar bills, having promised the Salvation Army lass manning the sidewalk kettle that he would have a contribution on his way out. Unsteady to begin with, he slipped on a patch of ice. Baxter, lass, and kettle ended up in the gutter.
SCROOGE LIVES; AUTHOR ATTACKS SALVATION ARMY LASS, shrieked his most persistent adversary, The National Beacon. Baxter sued. The head of The Media’s Conscience, Thomas W. Reardon, appeared as an amicus curiae — a friend of the court. Baxter won a settlement of a hundred thousand dollars, the Salvation Army lass testifying that he was an unavoidable accident.
Agent Mike Wilson — early fifties, stocky, balding — entered his midtown Manhattan office on Friday, April twelfth, at about nine thirty. His secretary, a temp — his longtime one had married and moved to California — handed him a registered letter.
“It came as I was opening up,” she explained, “and there’s been a phone call from a Martha Ainsley. She sounded very upset, wants you to call her as soon as possible. Here’s her number at work.”
Mike thanked her, noted that the envelope had Hairy Baxter’s return address. He went into his office, closed the door, and sat down at his desk.
I know what this is, he said to himself as he opened the envelope. Friend Harry is telling me I’m out.
Mike had been hearing the rumors: Baxter was planning to auction Ebb and Flow himself.
Mike was right: “This is official notification that you are no longer my agent. Thanks for everything, Mike, but you have made enough off me. As for Sharpe & Slashwright, I’m going to auction Ebb and Flow, head for the Caribbean, and the hell with the IRS, the rotten tabloids, thieving publishers. Good luck.”
“Damn him, damn him,” Mike snarled as he crushed the letter, threw it into the wastebasket. “After all I’ve done for him. Now what do I do? I can’t let him get away with it. Hell, I can’t afford to lose my ten percent — Ebb and Flow could easily go for six million dollars. The reading public knows this is the last of the Easterfields. Losing my six hundred thousand would ruin me. Now to see what Ainsley has to say. I can guess.”
He phoned Hillsdale. He had guessed correctly. Martha — very upset — said that Baxter had telephoned her from Connecticut as she was leaving for work. He demanded to know when she would be finished with Ebb and Flow.
“I told him that I’d be finished by Monday evening,” she went on, “and he told me to send everything to him — his manuscript, my copies, the computer disk. Nothing was to be sent to you, Mr. Wilson. He was... well, emphatic on that point. And he even ordered me to delete the computer file. Doesn’t this mean that he intends to bypass you, his agent? Can he legally do that? Don’t you have a contract?”
“We had a contract, Martha,” said Mike, trying to sound calm, “but it expired after the third book. I couldn’t get him to renew it. Since then we’ve operated on mutual trust, like many writers and agents. But can he legally do this? Can he, at the last minute, just before Ebb and Flow goes to the publishers, cheat me of my legitimate commission while he auctions the book himself? I don’t think so, Martha. But to prevent that, I’m going to need your help.”