publishing in the hot zone : Harry Evans, Random House and the Glitzed-Up, Hype-Driven, Occasionally Literary Realities of Today’s American Book Business

Outside Harry Evans’ office, literary lions guard the gate. Scowling photos of Friedrich Nietzsche and Marcel Proust dot the walls, near dust jackets of William Faulkner’s “Absalom, Absalom” and Truman Capote’s “Music for Chameleons.” They’re all part of the Random House tradition, dating back to the company’s founding in 1927. Yet inside his office, Evans starts the week mulling over a far different product.

“Bloody marvelous,” the publisher cracks, thumbing through a photo book of Brigitte Bardot and eyeballing her famous red bikini. “The problem is, do we spend a fortune on her and buy it for publication? Might be risky.” Evans, a handsome man of 66 with thinning gray hair, steals one last look at the pouting French starlet. Then he tosses her onto a desk cluttered with unread manuscripts and a landslide of morning mail. “I don’t know,” he mutters. “Do we take a tumble with her or not?”

That, increasingly, is the question for American publishers: Can you place a flurry of big-money bets on books that may or may not become bestsellers and still produce quality titles that will only reach a small audience? During a hectic five days in late October, Evans rejects the Bardot book, but he haggles over many others in a high-stakes jumble of substance and selling.

Most publishers talk a good game when it comes to literature, yet in today’s corporate book world, the bottom line drives the business as never before. It dictates everything from the sex in summer paperbacks to the titles of celebrity tear-jerkers and the covers of true-crime thrillers. “The book market is all about money and much less about books than it used to be,” says Roger Straus, publisher of Farrar, Straus & Giroux, one of the last remaining literary houses. “And when that happens, people are less willing to take chances on something unknown, no matter how good.”

A familiar refrain. Straus and others argue that serious writers are an endangered species in today’s book world, given that the average title sells less than 30,000 copies. When book companies spend $6 million for a Hollywood autobiography, they’ve got to move hundreds of thousands to make a profit. They’ll flood the stores with product and seek as much publicity as possible. Meanwhile, titles that didn’t command such a high price or profile can quickly sink from view. Americans don’t read Ken Follett and Stephen King because they want to, goes the adage, they read them because they have to.

But is it that simple? “You can still take chances in this market and produce superb books,” the British-born Evans insists. “You’ve just got to mind your finances. You’ve got to sort everything out or you’ll get your knickers in a twist.” The key, he says, is to balance the books one publishes, ensuring that big commercial titles will absorb the losses from more creative works.

It’s an old maxim, but Evans startled colleagues last year when he cited actual sales figures to illustrate his argument, something almost never done in publishing. At a PEN gathering in New York, he revealed that Random House’s most acclaimed books of 1993 had collectively lost $698,000. The company was in the black, Evans noted, because two blockbusters had earned $1.4 million between them.

Some dismissed his speech as a stunt, but Evans has brought a literary sensibility to the publisher’s suite that is increasingly rare. An accomplished writer and editor, he’s an anachronism in a business overrun by marketeers and hype artists.

He’s also something of a newcomer to book publishing. Before emigrating to America in 1984, Evans edited the weekly Sunday Times of London and the daily London Times, before he was abruptly fired by owner Rupert Murdoch in 1982. Along with his wife, Tina Brown, editor of the New Yorker, he’s a leading member of the “Britpack,” a group of English journalists who play an influential role in the New York media world.

His company is part of the larger Random House Inc., which also includes Alfred A. Knopf, Crown Publishing, Pantheon, Villard, Ballantine, Times Books, Vintage, Modern Library and other divisions. Generating more than $1 billion a year, it’s America’s largest and most successful trade, or general interest, publisher. Last year, the corporation placed 39 books on the New York Times bestseller list, more than any other, and Random House led the way with such titles as John Berendt’s “Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil,” Caleb Carr’s “The Alienist” and 12 others spending 164 weeks on the list.

Random House Inc. is owned by Advance Publications, the sprawling media empire run by Samuel (Si) Newhouse and his brother, Donald. The conglomerate also includes Conde Nast magazines, the New Yorker, plus newspapers, cable TV stations and other interests. Collectively, they add up to one of America’s largest personal fortunes, valued at more than $10 billion. Si runs his divisions--books and magazines--with a stern hand, abruptly firing publishers and editors who don’t measure up.

One notch below Newhouse is CEO Alberto Vitale, a tough-talking executive from the Italian automobile industry who was brought in five years ago to increase efficiency. Known as “the General,” he learned the book trade during a stint at Bantam and scoffs at the thought that a publishing house should be treated differently than any other company. Once a smug, elitist world that looked down at Hollywood, the book business is now just one more form of entertainment competing on an uneven playing field. Even Random House, with all its clout, is dwarfed by media rivals.

In the music industry, rock stars can sell millions of compact discs in a matter of weeks. Hot movies gross $100 million in a summer. In 1993, only nine books sold more than 1 million copies; a title that sells 60,000 copies is considered a success. “That’s about the same number of people who attend a professional football game on one Sunday,” says novelist Robert Stone. “And this is a country of 249 million people. The profits on books are much smaller than you think.”

With more than 150,000 titles flooding the market each year, the competition for media attention is stiffer than ever. Which, in turn, affects decisions to publish--or not to publish. Will a tongue-tied author do well on talk radio? Can Oprah turn a diary of dysfunction into a media sensation? These days, some publishing executives worry more about TV booking agents than they do about Sunday book reviewers.

Harry Evans got the message long ago. Small and frenetic, he walks faster than many people run as he cruises through his offices on a Monday morning, coattails flying. “We’ve had a superb year,” he says, turning a corner and nearly banging his knees on an open door. “We’re $5 million ahead of our projections for the year. And I guarantee you, 1995 will be even better.”

At the very least, the place will look more human. It wasn’t until recently that Evans convinced superiors to put pictures of authors in hallways and cubicles. Before that, he jokes, the office looked like Lubyanka. “Harry’s brought a new spirit to Random House, there’s no doubt,” says a rival publisher. “He just rushes everywhere like an exploding firecracker.”

Yet some industry observers believe Evans’ go-go style epitomizes what’s wrong with publishing, and they suggest that his knowledge of deal-making, a staple of the business, remains limited. “I think Harry is fiscally impaired, paying hideous sums for big books that don’t sell and ignoring real literature,” says a prominent editor at a rival house. “These days, it’s about who’s got the hot book, not who’s got the best book.”

Publishing, once a collection of family-owned businesses, experienced dramatic changes in the 1960s. Conglomerates gobbled up smaller companies, and now only a few independents remain. Most of these acquisitions took place during a time of robust growth, but recent performance has been disappointing. Trade books have the lowest profit margins in the business, and adult hard-bound books posted a 1.3% net operating loss in 1991, according to the most recent figures compiled by the Association of American Publishers.

Mindful of these pressures, the new corporate regimes have sparked sweeping changes, and Evans had a mandate to modernize Random House from the moment he took over in October, 1990. A born showman with a mischievous streak, he’s brought glamour to the company started by Bennett Cerf and Donald Klopfer. Purists may wince when he promotes new Modern Library editions with chic celebrity breakfasts, but Evans insists the product is as good as ever. In recent years, he’s produced such books as “Lenin’s Tomb,” which won the Pulitzer Prize for nonfiction; “United States,” a collection of essays by Gore Vidal that won the National Book Award, and “The Warburgs,” a critically acclaimed history of the Jewish banking family.

But is he upholding the legacy of a firm that published James Joyce’s “Ulysses” when no one else would, the company that discovered Dr. Seuss, the house of Mailer and Mann, Saroyan and Shaw?

Absolutely, says Si Newhouse. “I think the transformation of Random House under Harry’s direction--the professionalism and sense of direction, the improvement in dust jackets, the improvement of public relations, the general toning up of the company--has been a notable achievement,” the owner declares. “Before Harry came along, Random was an imprint that needed strong leadership. And Harry’s provided that.”

In almost any other industry, that would be enough to silence naysayers. But in publishing, gossip is endemic. As he swivels in a chair and smears jam on a slab of bread, Evans rolls his eyes at the latest jabs. “I’ll let our performance speak for itself,” he says early on a Monday morning. “Behind each book is an entrail of dispute, haggling and gambling. People look at a finished title and think that’s it. But if they knew what really went into each of these books, they’d be truly amazed.”

*

“In his own way, Harry is a hooker just like me, looking for a way to make money any way he can.”

-- Marlon Brando, in “Brando: Songs My Mother Taught Me.”

*

Back in 1991, the decision to buy Marlon Brando’s autobiography seemed like a smashing idea--a book that would generate scads of publicity, put Harry Evans on the map and make millions. But now, in October, 1994, several months after the book has hit the stores, the normally chipper publisher is tight-lipped about his first huge disappointment.

“There’s really not much to say here,” explains Carol Schneider, vice president and associate publisher for Random House publicity. “This was an author who simply would not promote his book to any great length.”

One of the world’s most reclusive movie stars, Brando began shopping his memoirs in late 1990. The price would be steep, as much as $5 million, but Evans was convinced that the book would be a monster. “We’ve got Brando!” he crowed, after a courtship that included hours of chess games with the actor. Some of his colleagues were privately aghast, but bagging Brando was just the kind of public relations event Evans loved.

“Here’s a man who has accomplished so much, but he’s still star-struck, amazed that he could be hanging out with Brando,” says a former Random House employee. “Harry just loves celebrities.”

Vitale and others didn’t block the Brando project, because books by VIPs can make piles of money. Indeed, they’re one of the fastest-growing segments of the business, dating back to the phenomenal success of “Iacocca” in 1984. They’re also heavily dependent on publicity and can bomb as spectacularly as they succeed.

Folks at Random House thought the Brando deal looked good, but there was a nagging concern. The author, who had barely written a proposal, promised to make only one television appearance for the book. He also took time delivering the manuscript, and the company recruited author Robert Lindsey to put the project in order when Brando missed a 1993 deadline. Evans remained upbeat, even though a competing book--a scathing biography by Peter Manso--was also due out. It didn’t matter, Evans thought. He had the book.

Early ads for “Songs My Mother Taught Me” promised a rush of Brando-related activity, including film festivals and a special video feed from Random House to TV networks. Banking on big sales, the company said it would publish 500,000 copies, a staggering figure. The house orchestrated an elaborate campaign in the weeks before publication, feeding the media with Brando stories and placing teaser ads in the New York Times to build interest.

But Brando held back. He declined one TV offer after another, and when he finally did appear on “The Larry King show,” his rambling performance was a fiasco. The book sold 250,000 copies and normally that would be outstanding. But each title has its own financial calculus, and Brando’s book had to do much better to make the expected profit.

With the Christmas season closing in, the irritation at Random House is palpable. Evans insists his company will make back the advance through sales to foreign publishers, but it’s clear he didn’t invest $5 million in Brando just to break even. It’s been a colossal letdown.

As Brando’s book piles up unsold, the actor makes a final offer: If Random House gives him extra funds, he’ll produce a TV show to boost sales. Evans asks for an early November air date, but the author won’t make such a commitment. At that point, the back and forth abruptly ends. “I’m so tired of this,” the publisher says. “Let it pass.”

The final blow comes in December, when Random House tells bookstores to cut the $25 price in half, instead of returning unsold books to the warehouse. It’s a painful move called “remaindering in place,” and several observers gleefully point out that “RIP” means something else as well. But rival publishers are charitable, saying the work Brando delivered was quite readable, and that Evans deserves credit for getting a book out of the actor in the first place.

“If you’re going to play in the big-money league, you have to stand up at the plate and be ready to strike out,” says Phyllis Grann, CEO of Putnam Books. “Otherwise don’t play. Nobody will judge Harry on this one book.”

*

“ Will the virus catch the Pope? Will it beat O.J.?”

-- Harry Evans on “ The Hot Zone’s” skyrocketing sales

*

Sitting around a big conference table, the senior editors and marketing honchos of Random House are giggling and grinning. It’s the weekly marketing meeting, a time when publishers gauge the performance of newly published books and decide how to boost their fortunes through publicity, advertising or other strategies. Today, they’re running down a list of titles, ranging from Mary Matalin and James Carville’s “All’s Fair” to Anna Quindlen’s “One True Thing.” Word that an author will appear on Oprah Winfrey is greeted with oohs and aahs; news that a promising novel isn’t selling dampens the mood.

But one book sparks nothing but smiles, and it’s the reason people in this room are gleeful. “The Hot Zone” has suddenly gotten hotter. “Can we do anything to get this book moving?” Evans deadpans, and the group explodes with laughter. “I mean, how high is high? How far can we go?”

Orders and reorders of Richard Preston’s true story of a runaway virus are going through the roof. The book has sold more than 450,000 copies in several months, trailing only the Pope’s “Crossing the Threshold of Hope” and Faye Resnick’s quickie on Nicole Brown Simpson. Most nonfiction books are lucky to sell 45,000 copies.

Asked why “The Hot Zone” is smoking up the charts, Random House executives mostly shrug. It didn’t hurt, says Evans, that “48 Hours” aired a special on deadly viruses soon after Preston’s original New Yorker piece appeared. When the segment was re-broadcast just before the book hit the stores, it was like manna from heaven. The title was also boosted by news stories of other killer viruses in the weeks before publication, as well as the persistent Hollywood buzz about rival movie deals based on Preston’s work. “Also, don’t forget this is a superb title,” Evans notes, praising Random House editor Sharon DeLano, who worked on the book. “Word of mouth helped it greatly.”

Even if Random House knew precisely why “The Hot Zone” was special, the answer wouldn’t be based on hard research. Unlike movie and record companies, publishers don’t have the money or the means to test-market their products. They don’t even know who is likely to read their books, let alone the demographics of actual buyers. For a multibillion-dollar industry, publishing is charmingly primitive.

By midweek, Evans and others hold yet another meeting, this time to decide how many new copies to print of several recent works. It’s a tricky task and one of the most significant decisions in the life of any book. If a title breaks well, the temptation is to restock the stores quickly. But what if sales slacken? The publisher swallows the cost of unsold books because stores can return them for full credit, a financially draining arrangement unique to the book business. Caution and prudence can also kill a book. If Random House holds back on reprints and customers can’t find titles in the stores, demand may dry up overnight.

Evans likens the reprint drill to walking a gangplank blindfolded. But not with “The Hot Zone.” Do the Price Clubs in California want another 10,000 copies? No problem. Does Barnes & Noble need 40,000 more? Let ‘em roll. From the beginning, Evans says, “The Hot Zone” looked like a winner. All he had to do was read his wife’s magazine--like everyone else in town.

Was it a coincidence that Evans landed “The Hot Zone,” which initially appeared as a 18,704-word story in the New Yorker? Evans insists he saw the piece like other readers in October, 1992, and began pursuing the author to do a full-length book. He swears he had no inside information.

“Oh, come on,” says a rival publisher. “How can anybody believe there’s no interplay between Harry and Tina? Their pillow talk must be amazing.”

Much has been made of the so-called “synergy” between Brown and Evans, yet they archly deny any collusion. In fact, Brown says, the cross-mingling hurts her. When Preston signed a contract with Random House, she explains, the magazine missed his contributions for months.”There was no tip-off” for ‘The Hot Zone,’ ” she says. “There’s too much money at stake, too much reputation at stake to be signing up books for friendship deals. Harry just moved faster than anyone else.”

Within hours of reading the article, Evans tracked down Preston’s agent. She told him that Simon & Schuster, which had published Preston’s previous book, was offering $300,000. They were contractually obligated, however, to increase their bid by 10% over any higher offers to stay in the running. Evans offered $360,000, betting that S&S; wouldn’t go to $400,000. He guessed right.

Now, months later, the swelling profits make him giddy. In the United States alone, gross store sales are approaching 7 million, with the book reaching No. 1 on the bestseller list. In another coup, Random House sells paperback rights to Anchor for $1.1 million.

Evans talks of the possible Hollywood movie and begins casting it in his mind. There are heroes galore, and one big villain. “I wonder,” he says idly. “Can we get Rupert Murdoch for the virus?”

*

“ What are you doing with Colin Powell? He’s the Marlon Brando of the military!”

--Gore Vidal, as recounted in conversation by Harry Evans

*

By the time Random House publishes Gen. Colin Powell’s memoirs in September, 1995, the book-world equivalent of a D-Day invasion will have taken place.

Powell’s calendar has already filled up with commitments to promote his story across America. Television interviews, film specials and radio appearances are scheduled. Dinners with booksellers and speeches before key publishing groups are written in stone. “Gen. Powell’s going to be busy,” says Bridget Marmion, Random House’s marketing director. “We’ve planned all this down to the last minute.”

In August, 1993, Random House announced it would publish the life story of the retiring chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. One of the most popular figures in the United States, Powell said Evans’ unusual pledge to edit the book personally influenced his decision. For all of the interest in Powell, though, the project is a risk for Random House, which gave the general a $6.5-million advance, one of the largest ever offered for a celebrity memoir.

“Lots of us wanted to publish that book,” says Putnam’s Phyllis Grann. “Powell is an attractive figure, and I think his life story could be huge .”

Converting the general’s allure into sales is something else, however, and as he plots pre-publication strategy, Evans tries to nail down every detail. For all his chaotic style, the publisher can also be meticulous and focused, illuminating problems and cutting through obfuscation. A blur of phone calls quickly ends when Powell himself breezes into the office, a smiling, affable man in a dark blue winter coat and scarf.

“Hiya, how you doing?” he says to one staff person after another, as if he were greeting steelworkers outside a factory gate. Quickly, Powell is ushered into Evans’ office to meet a standing-room-only crowd of editors, executives, marketing and public relations specialists.

An hour later, Evans says, Operation Powell is in high gear. The general agrees to address the American Booksellers Assn. convention in Chicago in June. He commits to meetings with selected booksellers. He’ll be happy to chat with Random House sales representatives, long before the book is set in type.

Even more important decisions are made after Powell leaves. Huddling with aides, Evans tackles a tough problem of timing and media relations: He must set a post-Labor Day publishing date, give Time magazine a two-week period before that to print excerpts, and also schedule a pre-publication air-date for Powell on “20/20” with Barbara Walters. Time’s deadline is reasonably elastic, but Walters’ could be trickier. Evans would like her to broadcast toward the end of a week--making it easier to ship books for a weekend splash--but she sets her own schedule.

“Harry, darling, how are you!” says Walters, as Evans switches on a speaker phone and leans forward in his chair. “How’s my favorite publisher?”

Walters, it turns out, wants to do a special “20/20” edition on a Friday night. Evans gives a silent thumbs up to the room, and his staff breathes a sigh of relief.

Yet bigger problems remain. To earn back the huge advance, Evans must sell a raft of foreign rights. Earlier in the fall, he flew with Powell to the Frankfurt book fair in Germany, hoping to drum up business. The trip was crucial, because U.S. publishers are increasingly dependent on foreign sales to balance their budgets. For some, the European event is now more important than any U.S. book convention.

Evans left Frankfurt without closing the deals he needs to pay for Powell’s book. But it’s early; Powell may yet declare his candidacy for the presidency. He might form a third political party. Any number of things could affect this $6.5-million gamble.

Later in the day, the publisher joshes with Gore Vidal on the telephone, and he smiles at the joke about Powell and Brando. Then he gets serious.

“‘We’ve got a big one here,” Evans says. “Keep your fingers crossed.”

*

“ It doesn’t take brains to publish Tom Clancy. It takes brains to pick him out from the crowd the first time around.”

--David Rosenthal, publisher of Villard Books

*

Early Wednesday morning, Rosenthal ambles into Evans’ office with the latest Hollywood gossip: A British screenwriter named Nicholas Evans has just sold his debut novel, “The Horse Whisperer,” to Disney for $3 million, even though it was incomplete. Agents and publishers all over town are calling it the next “Bridges of Madison County.”

The big bucks won’t necessarily come from hardcover sales, although that’s a possibility. They’re more likely to flow from paperback profits, tied in to eventual release of the movie, which has drawn interest from Robert Redford. Evans’ eyes light up as he and Rosenthal consider rolling the dice. “I hear the book is schmaltzy, but we could play hardball,” Rosenthal tells the publisher. “We could come in with a $750,000 bid and preempt the field.”

Hours later, Rosenthal comes into Evans’ office with another proposal. This time he’s talking about a completed first novel. “We can get it for $25,000,” he says. “It’s a book of uncommon beauty.”

But in all likelihood it will sell less than 10,000 copies, and therein lies the dilemma facing so many publishers: Quality books may not generate enough sales to earn back even a $25,000 advance, and only rarely do they explode in the marketplace. Yet Evans and others believe they have a duty to protect good writing from financial extinction. Still, how many first novels can you afford, knowing the odds against turning a profit? At what point does your overhead grow so large that one or two blockbusters won’t subsidize a writer you hope to nurture for 20 years? These days, publishers say they need a calculator as much as a sense of taste to make such decisions.

“You don’t have to lose your shirt on a book if you’re smart,” says Rosenthal. “It all comes down to what you paid for it. The size of the advance should reflect at least a portion of what you think you’ll be earning.”

But even that caution doesn’t translate into an abundance of first novels at Random House. By Evans’ own admission, the company could do far better when it comes to new quality fiction. Although it publishes novelists like Anna Quindlen and Pete Dexter and touts promising young writers on each list, it’s not an incubator of fresh talent like Knopf or Farrar, Straus & Giroux.

For several nights, Evans takes “The Horse Whisperer” home with him to read, gauging everything from the book’s merit to its potential market. On Friday, he tosses the manuscript aside with disdain. “It’s dreck,” he says, “but beautifully cooked.”

The book is slick and commercial, he explains, but has absolutely no literary appeal. Then Evans gets down to his principal concern: A $750,000 bid would be hard to earn back, and the final price at an auction would probably be higher. “Let’s say we bid $750,000. Our paperback division would have to put up at least $350,000 or so, and that means they’ve got to sell 300,000 to 400,000 paperbacks. In hardback, you’d have to sell at least 150,000 copies, and I don’t think it would work. It’s too much money.”

Sometimes you guess wrong. Random House dropped out of the bidding for a promising new novelist several years ago, when the paperback division refused to cough up extra money. Now John Grisham is published by Doubleday. Sometimes you guess right. Raising eyebrows, Evans gambled $400,000 on a first novel by Robert Harris, and “Fatherland”--a what-if tale about Hitler winning World War II--went on to become a bestseller and an HBO special. Random House completed the deal by selling the paperback rights to a rival house for $1.8 million.

“Those stories keep you looking for the next hit,” says Evans. “But I’m not really impressed by ‘The Horse Whisperer.’ ”

A few weeks later, Dell buys “The Horse Whisperer” at auction for $3.15 million. It’s the largest sum ever paid for North American rights to a first novel. Meanwhile, Random House decides to purchase the work of fiction that Rosenthal recommended for $25,000, gambling that good reviews will generate media publicity and better-than-average sales. “At that price,” He says, “we’ll take the risk.”

*

“ Publishing is just learning what Hollywood already knows. You’ve got to put on a good show.”

--Jonathan Marder, vice president of special marketing projects at Random House

*

On the surface, it looks like a diplomatic reception at the newly restored Russian Consulate near Central Park, a swank bash where chilled vodka flows freely and tuxedoed guests munch platefuls of steaming pirogi. But this is a book party. Evans has just released “The Russian Century,” a collection of dramatic, previously unpublished photographs of Russia over the past 100 years, and he’s determined to get publicity any way he can. The press might ignore a coffee-table book, he reasons, but they’ll find it hard to resist a glamorous night out.

“Harry’s brought some interesting ideas to book promotion,” says Bill Shinker, former head of trade publishing at HarperCollins. “Publishing is not an old man’s game, and I’d say he’s very much in step with changing times.”

For “The Russian Century,” the genesis is simple: Evans learns the consulate is being restored at great cost, and he discreetly brings some private benefactors together with diplomats. In return, the consulate agrees to reopen its doors with a party honoring Random House’s big picture book. If all goes well, tabloid columnists will hype the title, and a pack of journalists will come in the wake of a New York Times story about the event. Meanwhile, TV does its job.

“I don’t want any bags under my eyes, and I want to look 37,” the publisher jokes with a CBS camera crew as they ready him for an interview on the book. “But I’ll settle for 47.”

Within publishing, Evans’ showmanship was initially viewed with suspicion, yet now there’s a growing belief that the book world has to compete more aggressively for media attention, to put on some razzle-dazzle. “Look at films,” Marder says, who has a background in movies. “They’ve been creating big PR events for years, and that’s how you put your product on the map. You have to build some buzz around a book, just like for any other kind of mass entertainment.”

But with less money. Unlike the film industry, which spends millions on publicity for each movie, the book business has fewer resources. In its $122,699 budget for promotion, publicity and advertising on John Irving’s last novel, “A Son of the Circus,” Random House spends a little more than half on ads. And that’s generous compared to most books.

Given the money squeeze, publishers are dependent on free media publicity. If coverage dries up, a title suffers. When Random House learns that “60 Minutes” has decided not to do a promised feature on “The Private Life of Chairman Mao,” a book by the leader’s physician, they quickly lower the holiday season reprint order. It has nothing to do with quality.

“Books open these days like movies do,” says Evans. “They need a good first two weeks to gain altitude, and if they don’t, you’re stuck. You have to stay on your toes and dream up ways to keep attention on the product.”

“All those parties, all that showboating, give me a break,” counters Roger Straus. “They have money to burn at Random House, so they throw it around and Harry Evans gets some more press. But what does it really accomplish?”

In fact, Random House believes all those parties directly affect sales. When “Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil” was published last year, Marder flew a pack of reporters down to Savannah, the site of the book, and hosted weekend tours with author John Berendt. What seemed to be a flagrant expense then looks like a shrewd investment now, with the thriller spending 49 weeks on the New York Times bestseller list. By contrast, the “The Russian Century” fights for life in the holiday scramble and early sales approach 20,000. Still, Evans says he’s pleased.

As he finishes a TV interview at the Russian soiree, the publisher studies a photo of Stalin’s henchmen. Then consul general Ivan Kouznetsov walks up and claps his hands delightedly.

“So!” he booms. “Tonight we have a party! Tonight we have a good time!”

Evans smiles, waves hello and turns back to the photo.

“Yes,” he mutters. “And maybe we’ll sell a few bloody books.”