Kissing the Beehive

KISSING THE BEEHIVE

flyleaf:

Bestselling author Sam Bayer is stuck. Burned out from his third divorce, bored with the formulaic rut his writing has fallen into, and unable to deliver the manuscript for which he has been paid a stratospheric advance, he is desperate for inspiration. But a chance visit to his hometown of Crane's

View, New York, sparks his imagination. Soon he immerses himself in an unsolved case of murder that took place when he was a teenager -- Sam himself had discovered the body of the victim, a beautiful and wild teenage girl named

Pauline. At the same time he is drawn into an explosive affair with a gorgeous but seriously loopy fan with the improbable name of Veronica Lake.

As Sam learns the disturbing facts about his lover's past, Pauline's murderer reappears -- not only endangering Sam but putting his beloved fifteen-year-old daughter in jeopardy as well. Not knowing whom to trust, Sam has to brace himself for the truly unexpected resolution to this decades-old mystery.

Jonathan Carroll has crafted another of the unique and mesmerizing novels that have long captivated his devoted following of readers. With wit, pacing, and this gripping story, Jonathan Carroll continues to astound.

"Jonathan Carroll is far superior to most writers working today, anywhere. His perceptive, death-haunted tales are so evocative, and unforgettable, that after reading them it's hard not to imagine that the events describe did not happen to you." -- _Spin_ magazine JONATHAN CARROLL is the author of eight previous novels, including _The Land of Laughs_, _Outside the Dog Museum_, _After Silence_, and _From the Teeth of Angels_. He lives in Vienna, Austria.

All of the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Lyrics from "Bulls on Parade" written and arranged by Rage Against the Machine: All Lyrics by Zack De La Rocha. Copyright (c) 1996 Sony/ATV Songs LLC

and Retribution Music. All rights administered by Sony/ATV Music Publishing, 8

Music Square West, Nashville, TN 37203. All rights reserved. Used by permission.

The poem "A Ritual to Read to Each Other," reprinted from _West of Your City_ by William Stafford (Talisman Press/Harper & Row). Copyright (c) 1960 by William Stafford. Reprinted by permission of the estate of William Stafford.

The poems "XLI" and "XLII" reprinted from _100 Live Sonnets_ by Pablo Nerucla, translated by Stephen Tapscott, by permission of The University of Texas Press and the Fundacion Pablo Neruda. Copyright (c) 1959 by Pablo Neruda.

Two quotations from _The Book of Job_, translated by Stephen Mitchell, reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. Copyright (c) 1979

by Stephen Mitchell. Revised edition copyright (c) 1987 by Stephen Mitchell.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Carroll, Jonathan, 1949 --

Kissing the beehive: a novel /Jonathan Carroll.

p. cm. I. Title.

Page 1

PS3553.A7646K57 1998

813'.54 -- dc21 97-19399

CIP

ISBN 0-385-48011-3

Copyright (c) 1998 by Jonathan Carroll

All Rights Reserved

Printed in the United States of America

January 1998

First Edition

10 987654 3 21

To

Pat Conroy

Stephen King

Michael Moorcock

Paul West

Friends/ Mentors/ Wizards

If you don't know the kind of person I am and I don't know the kind of person you are a pattern that others made may prevail in the world and following the wrong god home we may miss our star.

-- WILLIAM STAFFORD, "_A Ritual_

_to Read to Each Other"_

One

I do not like to eat alone and that is one of the reasons why I became famous. There is something both pathetic and unattractive about a person eating by himself in public. Better to stay at home drinking orange soup from a can with a handful of dry white crackers in front of the TV, than be seen sitting by yourself waiting for that forlorn single meal to be served.

I was having lunch with my agent, Patricia Chase, when I made this observation. Patricia is a big beautiful woman with balls of titanium. She looked at me as she has so often over the twenty years we've known each other

-- her unique mixture of amusement, exasperation and scowl.

"Where do you come up with these ideas, Sam? There's nothing _nicer_

than having a meal by yourself! You bring along a book or your favorite magazine, you don't have to talk or be the life of the party, you eat at your own speed . . . I love eating by myself."

I ignored her. "On the other hand, the greatest thing in life is having dinner in a restaurant with a
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new woman. You order, and then you really get to talk with her for the first time. Everything till then has just been chatter.

There's something magical about sitting with that new being in your life in a nice restaurant . . ."

She smiled and took a roll from the basket. "Well, my boy, you've had your share of meals with new women over the years. What's the latest report on Irene?"

"She calls and taunts me with the fact that she's hired one of the best divorce lawyers in the city.

Then she cackles when she says how much she's going to ask for in court."

"But you had that prenuptial agreement thing."

"Those sound good when you're getting married, but somehow they go up in smoke when you're getting divorced."

"Irene is your third wife. My God, that's a lot."

"Just because you're mad at the fleas, doesn't mean you burn the blanket. Whoever said optimism was a good thing?"

"Seems to me that with all the money you're paying the other two, you should take Irene as strike three and just have girlfriends from now on. And speaking of money, what's up with your new novel?"

I cleared my throat because I didn't want the next sentence to come out either a peep or a squeak. "Nothing, Patricia. Zilch. The cupboard is bare.

I'm word dead."

"This is not good news. Parma called and asked what was going on with you. He's used to chatting. He thinks you're hiding from him."

"I am. Besides, Parma's spoiled. I gave him five books in eight years and made him a lot of money. What else does he want from me?"

She shook her head. "It doesn't work like that. He gave you a big advance for the new book and has a right to know what's going on. Look at it from his side."

"I can't. I have enough to look at in my own life. Everything in the book is goo. All the characters are stuck in suspended animation and the story is going nowhere."

"The synopsis looked good."

I shrugged. "It's easy writing a synopsis. Ten pages of snap, crackle and pop."

"So what are you going to do?"

"Maybe I should get married again. Take my mind off things awhile."

She sat back and had a good laugh. It was nice to see because I hadn't made anyone laugh for a long time. Especially myself.

The rest of the meal was a wrestling match between my glum and glib sides. Patricia knew me as well as anyone and could tell when I was faking it.

I assumed her conversation with my editor, Aurelio Parma, had been a bad one because I was rarely summoned for a business lunch with her. Usually we spoke on the phone once or twice a month and then had a celebratory dinner whenever

I handed in a new manuscript.

"How far have you gotten?"

"The man's left his wife and is with the girl."

"That was on the first page of the synopsis, Sam!"

"I know, Patricia. That's what I was just telling you."

"Well, what about . . ." She tapped her ringer on the table.

"Forget it -- I've thought through all the 'what abouts,' believe me. I started a short story but it was so dreary that even my pen threw up. I'm telling you, it's bad. It's not writer's block, it's writer's _drought_. My brain is Ethiopia these days."

"You're lucky it hasn't happened before. You've published nine books.

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That's quite a few. Sounds like you're just written out."

"Bad time for that to happen. Especially with Irene out there, sharpening her knives."

We talked about other things, but the subject of my big silence hung over the rest of the meal like Mexico City smog. When we were finished and getting up to leave, she suggested I take a vacation.

"I hate vacations! When I was married to Michelle we went to Europe, but all I wanted to do was stay in the room and watch CNN."

"I liked Michelle."

"I did too until I married her. She thought I could be a great writer if I only tried harder. What did she think I was doing at that desk all day, making sushi?"

Patricia gave me one of her wise-old-owl looks. "What would you rather do, write great books or ones that sell?"

"I gave up trying to astonish people a long time ago. There's a Russian proverb: 'The truth is like a bee -- it goes right for the eyes.' One of the few truths I know about myself is I write books that are entertaining, but

they'll never be great. I can live with that. I'm one of the few people I know who is genuinely grateful for what he's been given. I was in an airport one day and saw three people reading my books. I can't tell you how happy that made me."

I thought the subject was finished, but Patricia said, "Need makes you cry, sing or spring."

"Huh?"

"I know those Russian proverbs too, Sam. I gave you the book, dumbbell!

It's all right to be satisfied with what you're doing if you go to bed at night feeling good. But _you_ don't anymore.

"You wrote thrillers, they were successful, you were happy. Now you can't write, you're empty and sad. Maybe it's time to try and write a great book. See what happens. Maybe it'll get you out of your rut."

There was a long pause while our eyeballs dueled.

"I can't figure out if you're a bitch or a guru for saying that."

"A bitch. A bitch who wants you to get back to work so you can feed all your ex-wives."

The ironic thing was the day was originally intended to be a celebration. My latest, _The Magician's Breakfast_, had just been published in paperback and I was in New York to do a signing at my friend Hans Lachner's bookstore, Cover Up.

I always like a book signing because it is one of the few times when I am face-to-face with the people who have shared the most important part of my life with me --

the time when I am telling them stories. Sure, I get a screwball now and then who wants me to autograph a towel, or someone I

wouldn't dare sit next to on the subway, but all in all they're nice events and hearing compliments about my work doesn't hurt either. At first they scared me because I was convinced no one would show up. I will never forget the feeling of walking into that first signing session and seeing a horde of people waiting around for me to arrive. Rapture.

Hans Lachner had worked as an editor for a few years at a famous publishing house but got fed up with the politics and intrigue. When his parents died, he took his inheritance and turned it into Cover Up. It was a small store but beautifully designed, intimate, and his taste in books was impeccable. I once dropped in and saw him deep in conversation with Gabriel M?rquez. Later when I told him I didn't know he spoke Spanish, Hans said, "I don't. But I learned _that_ day."

He had given my third novel, _The Tattooed City_, to a Hollywood producer he knew who bought it and eventually turned it into a film. I owed him a great deal and did whatever I could
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to repay him.

After my lunch with Patricia, I must have walked into his store looking like Peter Lorre in _M_, because Hans came right over and said I looked like shit.

"Dog or human? There's a big difference."

"What's the matter?"

"I just had lunch with my agent and she fricasseed me."

"Mr. Bayer?"

I turned around wearing an instantaneous big smile and was greeted by a camera flash square in the puss. When the suns burned onto my retina faded, I made out a chubby woman wearing a Timberland baseball cap and large silver-frame glasses.

"Would you mind, Hans?" She pushed her camera into his hand and came right up next to me.

She took my arm. Hans counted to three and flashed my eyes back into blindness.

"I'm Tanya. When you sign my books, remember I'm Tanya."

"Okay."

She took her camera back and bustled off.

Hans put his arm around my shoulder and steered me toward the back of the store where a table and chair were waiting. "Tanya always buys two copies of your books. Gives the second to her sister."

"God bless her."

I sat down and the first people came up hesitantly, as if they were afraid to disturb me. I tried to be as nice as possible, always asking for their names and then signing something personal so they could have a smile when they looked at the inscription. "Breakfast with Charles. Thanks for sharing this meal with me." "This magician says hello to Jennifer." "To Tanya, who always buys two and deserves a double thank-you for her support." Time passed as I signed and smiled and made small talk.