Bugs (22 page)

‘Waste time – what are we talking about?’

‘Drop one woman in New York, pick up another in Mindianapolis.’

‘As a matter of fact, it’s been five months since
you
walked off and left
me
in bloody New York.’

‘Ha, ha. I heard all about the high times in New York, the
minute I left. Brawling in restaurants, trying to shoot somebody –’

‘I didn’t try any such thing–who told you all this?’

‘Allan, of course. He’s come back to London. We had dinner and he told me all about your escapades.’

‘Escapades?
Now, just a bloody moment. Allan was trying it on; he’ll say anything. Took you to dinner, did he?’

‘No, I made dinner for the two of us.’

There was a transatlantic silence.

‘And it’s bloddy Minneapolis, by the way, not bloddy Indianapolis.’

‘That’s what I said, Mindianapolis. Why are you trying to sound like Michael Caine?’

‘What are you phoning about?’

‘Oh, nothing. Just keeping in touch.’

‘Well – thanks.’

They said goodbye. Fred knew he was not going to sleep the rest of the night – all of the buried problems had just turned up like a skull on a shovel.

He made coffee and sat down to read. But his thoughts went back to little old New York.

‘Now it’s all yours,’ she said again. ‘
You
take Manhattan.
You
go to all the cockroach parties. You wallow in the filth. Not me.’

‘I have to stay till Monday. Jonah’s fixed this lunch with an editor.’

‘For you. No reason for me to hang about. I’m off.’

It was almost the last thing they said to one another in person. He helped her hail a taxi.

‘You could come with me,’ she said, relenting a bit.

But now it was his turn to be angry. ‘It all may look quite simple to you, but it’s not. I’ve got business here.’

‘What business? A lunch Monday with some publishing twit who’ll forget your name an hour later. If you even live till Monday.’

‘What’s the alternative? Come back to London? Sit around
broke and miserable, waiting for the Council to build us a new island? At least here I can do something.’

‘Like what?’ she said. The taxi bore her away.

He went into a place called the Blarney Room of Paddy O’Foylahan’s Shamrock Pub. It was just another American bar, though leprechauns and shamrocks featured in the décor.

‘Top o’ th’ evenin’ to ye,’ said the bartender, slipping apostrophes into almost every word. ‘An’ will ye be havin’ a drink, now?’

‘A ball o’ malt,’ Fred said.

‘Right ye are.’ The bartender went off somewhere. In a moment, he came back to lay a single Malteser on the bar.

‘Ball o’ malt it is, sir. Now, will ye be havin’ a drink to go with it?’

It cheered Fred greatly. If an Irish bartender in the middle of hell could be funny, maybe hell wasn’t such a bad place.

But just as he was beginning to have faith in New York another drinker, hearing his accent, turned to him.

‘Why don’t you fucking Brits fuck off out of Ireland?’

The reception-area of Gorgon & Zola Inc. was about the size of ‘two typical apartments. A huge curved desk like a bar occupied one corner; three receptionists filed their nails behind it.

‘Manfred Jones. To see Garner Dean Howells.’

In a few moments, Howells came forth; a tweedy man chewing a leather-covered pipe. He put away the pipe at once and held out a hand.

‘Manfred! We meet at last!’

‘Fred will do.’

‘And call me Gar, OK? Excuse me just a second here.’ Howells handed a pile of large manila envelopes to one of the three receptionists. ‘Hold these for messengers, Estrellita.’

‘Si.’

‘One more thing, Fred, and we go.’ Howells opened his tweed jacket to expose a shoulder-holster. He unlimbered a small automatic, checked it and loaded it.’

‘I have a permit,’ he explained. ‘It makes life here a lot more comfortable.’

‘You live in New York?’

Howells cocked the gun and put it away. ‘God, no. It’s bad enough coming in three days a week from Westchester. Shall we grab a bite of lunch?’

They strolled comfortably to Esperanto’s, a huge restaurant where hundreds of business lunches were in progress. Under the high cathedral ceiling, the place seemed like a huge school for priests: the acres of tables were white-draped altars; the waiters solemn priests; the busboys acolytes; and the High Mass lesson just getting under way.

He was unable to concentrate. Everything told him that money was close at hand – the very menu prices spoke of wealth. If he could only find some way to unlock it. He hardly heard Howells recommend the grilled lamb, with a California wine.

‘Fine,’ he managed. The price of this entrée would keep him and Susan for a week. In beans on toast.

The food and wine arrived, and Perrier for Howells. He began to talk. Though clearly sober, Howells had a loud drunk’s voice that could be heard across the great room. No one seemed to pay attention, however.

‘I’ve known Jonah a long time. I knew him when he was Joan Bramble, working for Mark Windsor Agency. Those were the days. Mark Windsor was a real publisher’s agent. There was nothing that guy wouldn’t do to make a deal. I mean, he changed his name to make a deal.’

‘Changed his name?’

‘In the thirties he was Marcus Weintraub. But when he had a chance to pick up the exclusive American rights for
Mein Kampf
, he had to become Mark Windsor. He almost made it, too. But then war broke out and the deal went sour. But what a magnificent try. What a guy!’

Fred noticed a group of Middle Eastern men at the next table. One wore the white robe and dish-towel of a sheikh. The other two wore business suits and dark glasses.

‘Mark Windsor, what a guy! Mark was kind of tough on clients sometimes but, hell, they came out all right. Like, most authors move around a lot, right? Well, when Mark had a cheque to send out, he used to send it to a client’s old address, so maybe the cheque would take a lot longer to clear – or, hell, the client might not get it at all. Then, too, Mark used to keep part of a royalty payment as a reserve against returns. But, hell, the clients did all right – like when Mark would sell the same rights twice.’

‘How could he do that?’

‘If anybody complained, he just blamed the author.’

Fred found himself watching the Middle Eastern group. The two men in business suits and dark glasses were scanning the room as they ate. He was disappointed to note that they ate with both hands, just like everyone else.

‘Good old Mark. He’s the only agent I know ever set up a deal with himself!’

‘How’s that?’

‘He talked a publisher – Root and Branch, they’re defunct now – into letting him do all their acquisitions. What a deal – he gets a commission from the author for selling a book, then he gets a fee from the publisher for buying it. It would have been a sweet deal, you could say a double deal, but – you probably know about the tragedy.’

Fred shook his head.

‘You mean you don’t remember Earl Cutter?’

‘No. I guess we don’t get all the details in London.’

‘Earl was a convicted two-time murderer, a real scumbag, but smart. He was on Death Row for killing a pregnant woman and a ninety-year-old man. He heard about how Norman Mailer got another scumbag out of prison, so he wrote to Mailer himself. Mailer never answered. So then Earl looked around for another famous and gullible celebrity to be his patron. Patron and patsy.’

Howells sat back, chuckling to himself. His jacket fell open slightly, exposing the gun. One of the men in dark glasses sat up straight and stared at him.

‘He found Teddy Morgan – you know, the talk-show guy? Earl wrote to Teddy and told him: “I’m a great writer, only I had this lousy childhood. I just need a chance.” Teddy’s no fool; he asks to see a sample of his work. But Earl’s no fool, either; he hires a ghost writer. Hires him through Mark Windsor, sends him a page of reminiscences, and the ghost turns them into a prison novel.

‘This Earl sends to Teddy, who gets all worked up. He ‘starts in every night or so on the show, talking about how America’s next Norman Mailer is languishing on Death Row. Write your Congressman, folks. Next thing you know, Earl gets his pardon.

‘Not only free, but potentially a big earner, Mark Windsor signs him up, and they cut a film-book deal for 2.3 million. He’s all set, right?’

‘Right.’

‘Wrong! He gets his fifty grand advance and blows it on a week or so of drink, drugs and dames. One night, roaring drunk, he calls up Mark Windsor at home. Wants to borrow ten grand. Naturally, Mark turns him down. Next morning, Mark does not come in to the office. Not all of him, anyway. About ten in the morning, a messenger delivers a box. Mark’s head is in it. They never find the rest of him.

‘Just shows you, an agent’s gotta be choosy about his clients.’

Howells poured more wine for Fred, more Perrier for himself. I’m getting drunk, Fred thought. And this bastard is going to wait until I’m over the edge and then make a minuscule offer.

‘Well, Fred. Let’s talk about
Doodlebug
. I’ve read it, and I am very impressed.’

‘Thank you.’

Howells pushed his chair back and crossed his legs, tweaking the tweed knee. He began to tap his foot on air.
‘Very impressed.’ Tap, tap. An English-looking shoe. ‘Very impressed indeed.’

‘Urn, good.’

‘You know, agents like Jonah–and she’s … he’s one of the better ones – they send us a ton of shit every week. Every one an exciting new work by an unknown genius, according to them. So I don’t expect too much, you know?’

Looking away from the hypnotic shoe, Fred noticed the sheikh’s group again. The two bodyguards were no longer scanning the room; they were watching Howells sip his Perrier. ‘So I almost missed
Doodlebug
. But the first page grabbed me. More wine? For a first novel, it’s very good.’

‘Yes?’

‘Too good, really.’

‘Too good.’

Howells sat back. ‘I hate to say it about the people I work for, but we’re a philistine outfit. You’re casting pearls before swine, with us. Frankly Fred, we’re just not worthy of your novel.’

‘I don’t know if I follow you.’

‘If
we did it, you’d hate the whole deal. I couldn’t offer much money – as soon as the cost accountants upstairs heard I was paying out money for something
good
, they’d have my scalp, Fred.’

With a sinking feeling, Fred asked how much.

‘Money isn’t the only problem. We’d have to make changes. Substantial changes. The book would be mutilated. You’d hate the result, and so would I. No, no use talking about it.’

I’m going to have to beg this bastard to take the book at any price, and to chop the shit out of it.

‘How much?’

‘Five thousand.’ Howells threw up his arms, making the bodyguards blink. ‘Hell, I know it’s an insult. I wouldn’t even dream of proposing it.’

‘I’ll take it.’

‘But the changes –’

‘Make them.’

‘They’re very extens –’

‘Make them.’

Howells was not prepared for this easy victory. ‘Well, I guess you want to talk it over with Jonah before you decide.’

‘No, I accept.’

‘Great.’ Howells did not sound pleased, however. He stalled for time.

‘Hey, let me buy you a dessert. They do a very good
bombe surprise
here.’ He waved and shouted at the waiter, who was just then approaching the sheikh’s table with a covered dish. ‘Bring my friend a
bombe surprise.’

The waiter was about to set the covered dish before the sheikh. One of the bodyguards cried out, ‘Bomb!’ as he knocked the dish away, threw the sheikh to the floor, and fell on top of him. The other one drew a gun and fired. A new potato exploded on Howells’s plate, blowing parsley on his tweed.

‘Holy shit!’ In one smooth motion, Howells drew his own gun and flipped the table on its side. He and Fred crouched behind it. All around, there were sounds of banging tables and chairs, crashing dishes, sounds of other businessmen taking cover.

‘Where’s the bomb?’

‘He’s got a gun!’

‘Who?’

Shots.

‘Holy shit!’

‘Look out!’

‘Bomb!’

‘Holy – !’ More shots. Howells collapsed, apparently shot. Fred snatched up the gun and looked around. There did not seem to be anyone to shoot at. He could only remain crouched behind the table until the room slowly filled with police in bulletproof vests. Some of them were pointing shotguns at him.

‘Just drop it, scumbag.’

He dropped it. As he was led away, he heard one of the sheikh’s bodyguards arguing with the police.

‘Just drop it, turkey.’

‘No, not Turkey. I am from the Royal Emirate of –’

‘Just drop it.’

‘You’re a very lucky man,’ said the judge. ‘Mr Jones, or whatever your real name is, you are a very, very lucky man. True your little assassination attempt was foiled, and you may be downhearted about that. On the other hand, you are alive. Alive and free.’