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sort of crazy thing that you do when you get old. Can you
imagine flying all the way to Florida to see a nightclub act?
Frank had a big, big dinner party of...oh, about forty people,
including Jim Bishop and his wife. He picked this inopportune
time to start yelling at me for the fact that we weren't pushing
his book well enough. I said, “Jim, this is a party. I
don't want to talk about that now.” He said, “Well, I think
that you're doing a dreadful publishing job.” I lost my
temper and I said, “I think that you wrote a dull, dull book.”
I added, “I told you in advance that not many readers would
give a damn about a day in the life of President Johnson and
I was right!" Well, he went grumping off. When I got back
to New York, he wrote me a note saying, “Since you don't seem
very enthusiastic about me, maybe I'm with the wrong publisher.”
I wrote back and said, “You most certainly are. I most happily
say, ‘Let's cancel the contract for any future books,'” which
we did immediately. Of course, the agent told me that he
signed him up immediately with somebody else. He will possibly
write another best-seller some day but I couldn't care less.
I don't like Jim Bishop.
That's my only relationship with the Kennedy family.
The last time that I saw Bobby Kennedy was at a party given by
Mr. and Mrs. Jack Heinz, and it was at the height of the Manchester
fight. I was leaving with Cass Canfield, who, of
course, published the Manchester book. Bobby Kennedy greeted
me with great enthusiasm, just to emphasize the snub he was
giving to Cass Canfield. It was terribly funny. I said to
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