Free Westlake, Donald E - Novel 42 by A Likely Story (v1.1) Page B

Coca-Cola Bottling
Company, Atlanta . Georgia , to print a
representation of the same tray in The Christmas Book. Not with your additions, of course, but perhaps the simple original will
work best within our context.
     
                What I did, when I got the Warhol
package, was immediately phone the Coca-Cola company ,
and spoke to a PR woman there, and once she understood this was a legitimate
middle-class operation with a respectable publishing company behind it she
agreed I could use the tray photo for free. Those who wish doodles on the
picture can mark up their own copies in the privacy of their homes.
                In the meantime, despite Annie’s
assurances, the greater shadow still looms over the book and me and all living
things: Vickie Douglas continues to be my editor. Annies discussion with Wilson changed nothing. Day after day I am
involving myself with this book—not only in correspondence with potential
contributors, but also in library research for oldies and goodies, and in
poring at home over endless anthologies and collections—and all the time, from
the far distance, I can hear the slow beat of that muffled drum. “Vick-ie
Doug-las,” the drum says, steady and deadly. “Vickie
Doug-las. Vick-ie Doug-las.”
                I couldn’t even forget it yesterday
during the ball game. At the top of the seventh Seaver, suffering a strained
leg muscle, was replaced by a rookie named Doug Sisk,
who maintained the steady pace, retiring the side without trouble. Unable to
fight it any more, following that third out I got to my feet. As the Phillies
trotted back onto the field, Carlton still leading them, and Dave Kingman (who
had already struck out three times in this game) coming up to bat, I excused
myself to the boys and walked back around the press level to the Diamond Club
bar, where I found a phone booth and called Craig, Harry & Bourke and,
after some small delay, spoke with my bete noire in more or less person.
She remembered me almost right away, and I said, “Vickie, I’m worried.”
                “Worried? About
what?”
                “About us” I said. “You and me. Maybe I was distracted or something last week,
but I just don’t feel we had that real meeting of minds we should—”
                “Oh, you didn’t?” She sounded mildly
surprised. “Well, of course, we were just getting to know one another, that
sort of thing always takes ...” She faded away, apparently torn between ending
the sentence falsely (“. . . time.”) or truthfully (“. . . forever.”). Outside,
the crowd roared.
                “Vickie,” I said loudly, in case she
was falling asleep, “I’m not one of your prima donnas, one of those people who
can’t take advice or help. I believe in a strong relationship between
author and editor. This is a very important project for me, Vickie, and I —”
                “Well, sure it is.”
                “And I want us to work on it
together. I want your output, I want you to
feel this is your book as much as it is mine.”
                “Oh, that’s sweet,” she said. “But
honestly, Tom, I think an editor who stomps all over a book, leaves his own
footprints everywhere, isn’t doing anybody any favors. This is your—”
                “ Our ,
Vickie. Mine in concept, mine for the most part in execution, but yours
in translating that concept and work into a marketable, sellable package,
something that Craig, Harry—”
                “Oh, Tom,” she said, “you should
never let commercial consid—”
                “I just want the best book
possible,” I said quickly, desperately. When your editor tells you not to let
commercial considerations stand in your way, you know you’re doomed.
“And,” I scrambled on, “with you there to be sure I don’t go astray, I can—”
                “I have