The scene of the crime: The Mysterious Bookshop in New York City

At the Observer, Dan Duray takes a look at how big publishers eat each other in a report about Hachette imprint Little, Brown‘s crime imprint start-up Mulholland Books. The report, which is written as if spoken by Humphrey Bogart reading Raymond Chandler, which is a bit much at that length, describes how stars like Laura Lippman are “shocked” to learn that one mega-conglomerate spent a fortune to hire another star — Laurence Block — from another mega-conglomerate, where he was no doubt already making a fortune …. Then there is the reporting — as if it too were news — of various other layers of cynicism in-house, as the robots debate the mix of authors necessary for a good crime imprint:

But there are hazards. Genre offers face heavy competition from the e-book world, where nobody cares if there’s a Michael Connelly quote on the cover, and there’s always a danger that an imprint like Mulholland can turn into a ghetto where you place books you’d never want on the list of Little, Brown proper.

“You can call it a ghetto or you can call it a specialized imprint,” Abel said. “You can spin it any way you wish.”

A heavy at another house whispered a little something in my ear about the whole plan. Little, Brown already handles big names like Michael Connelly and James Patterson, not to mention the stuff they do under Regan Arthur, the source said, so why do this imprint? Crime makes money. Money means resources, and in a sleek operation like Hachette, that can make all the difference, even if it means competing with Grand Central, which does a neat little thriller business of its own. This was Mr. Pietsch’s bid to remain the olive in the cocktail at Hachette.

As I say, no surprises. But the most telling thing in the report may be the scene of a Mulholland Books launch party for one of its star authors, Marcia Clark — remember her? the losing public prosecutor in that great nineties non-mystery known as the O.J. Simpson case? — at New York’s mecca for crime book lovers, the Mysterious Bookshop. It’s a big party, but with one problem: No one shows except for a bunch of people from the publisher, who apparently just stood around talking about James Elroy. The take-away: “‘There, there,’ said an agent, pouring Ms. Clark a stiff drink of book-party white wine.”

Well, actually, the take-away is worse than that. As Duray writes in his relentless gumshoe voice,

The next day I called up Otto Penzler, who owns the store, and asked him for information on the imprint.

“How can I say this without getting myself in trouble?” he began.

“Trouble’s my game,” I told him.

“Mine, too,” Mr. Penzler said. “But I’ve got a lot of friends at Hachette.”