THE SEVENTY-FIFTH PAGE

Now the art director joins the assistants in knowing that somebody out there doesn’t like him. Or does he? Perhaps he thinks it an innocent mistake that one of his suppliers had given him a stolen shirt. What’s wrong with theft, anyway? The pain remains: the police, the conversation with his wife, leaving the office for the downtown hearing. If he had stuck up for his original artwork for my jacket and not taken the guff from his bosses, he would still be working for my publisher today.

I’d created a general and a specific retaliation, so the practiced hand moved along. I could handle the rights folk as well as the salespeople en masse. Special handling was needed for the lawyer, who mucked around with the contract; the publicity director, a feckless goon if there ever was one; the editor-in-chief, a mockery of the use of the word, “editor”; the proprietor, who paid more attention to his video business than his book interests; and last and least, my very own editor.

I thought it necessary to organize each act separately for maximum exposure--not that they would see any connection in my random acts of vengeance. If, however, they thought of their company as a place where something dreadful could strike at any time and I could instill within each a daily fear of coming to work, I’d be satisfied.