“And theft,” said the buxom interviewer. “Do you remember this voice?”
Todd looked around. A voice filled the air. A bubbling, drunk voice.
“He stole ’em!” said the voice of Billy Cairns. “He took ’em from a book!”
Gasps in the studio audience as Billy walked in, carrying a heavy sack.
“He stole the whole thing,” shouted Billy as he opened the bag and, from it, took copies of a big thick book, which he threw into the audience. “He stole it from Jake Turner!”
A book hit Todd in the chest. ALL MY COLORS by JAKE TURNER it said.
“Billy!” Todd shouted as the audience began to boo. “I’m your friend! Why are you doing this to me?”
Billy turned to Todd, and for the first time Todd saw Billy’s face properly. It was a mass of tiny bloody marks, miniature gashes, like some small animal had been gnawing at it, with its small, sharp, unrelenting teeth.
“Thief!” shouted Billy. “Thief!” the audience joined in. “Thief!” every voice in the room shouted. Except for one voice. One small, sharp, unrelenting voice.
It wasn’t shouting, “Thief!” It was shouting, “Teeth!”
* * *
Todd came to, sweating.
One thing about Todd Milstead, he knew when to ignore a hint. Put Todd Milstead in a Victorian Christmas story, have him visited by three Christmas ghosts, and at the very last he’d still be maintaining it was someone else’s fault and what the fuck was Bob Cratchit bitching about anyway.
Todd went into his study. He got down the boxed manuscript. Then he got out his secondhand copy of the American Publishers’ Directory, and began flicking through it and writing down telephone numbers.
* * *
The first number Todd rang was out of service. The second was answered by a woman who said they didn’t take unsolicited manuscripts and, when Todd asked how you could get a book published without sending it to people who you didn’t know already, put the phone down. The third said they would happily take Todd’s manuscript for a reader’s fee, and when Todd asked what a reader’s fee was and they told him, Todd put the phone down.
The fourth person was helpful.
“We would need to see the first three chapters,” she said. “Or the first ten thousand words, it’s really up to you.”
“I can do that,” Todd said. “I have the whole thing written.”
Something in Todd’s tone must have made her wary, or else she was used to people telling her that all the time. Either way the smile in her voice sounded more strained when she said, “You need to enclose a self-addressed envelope for return of the manuscript and, if it is lost in transit, we can accept no responsibility.”
Todd made five or six more calls, and realized quite quickly that this was the standard response to unsolicited authors. Which was fine. He knew All My Colors would be accepted straightaway.
After all, he thought, it’s already been published once.
* * *
Todd took himself to Staples, where he asked for and was given directions to the photocopier. He spent a large part of his remaining disposable income making six copies of his manuscript, and a slightly smaller portion mailing them out to the more reputable-sounding publishers.
Coming out of the post office, he almost bumped into Pete Fenton with Alice. If Todd thought it was unusual for a lawyer to take afternoon walks with his secretary, he said nothing: he knew there was a Mrs. Fenton but what was that to do with him? Todd considered himself a liberal and broadminded sort and besides, Alice turned out to be less frowsty-looking in the flesh.
Pete must have read something in Todd’s expression, because he said, “Mr. Milstead, I’ve been thinking about your situation.”
“How kind of you,” said Todd.
“I know Mrs. Milstead’s lawyer. Kevin Coughlan,” said Pete. “And he’s a ‘grab ’em by the throat’ kind of guy. I’ve known women go to him wanting nothing from the divorce but to get away from their husbands. Some of them are even prepared to let the man keep the kids. And they come out of his office swearing they’ll take their husband for everything he’s got.”
Alice tutted sympathetically. So did Todd, whose own view on kids was that they should be raised on distant farms until they were old enough to work.
“What’s your point, may I ask?” he said, politely enough.
“This,” said Fenton. “Given Coughlan’s reputation, and your own situation as regards Janis—your adultery, your drinking, and so on…”
Todd didn’t like the “and so on” but he said nothing.
“… it seems likely that Coughlan is going to advise Janis to, er, take you down.”
“Take me down?” echoed Todd.
“Take you down like a lion takes down a warthog,” said Alice. Todd looked at her and she smiled back sweetly.
“He’ll take you for all you’ve got and then some,” added Pete. “Unless—”
“Unless?” said Todd, who was wearying of his apparent role as Greek chorus to the all-wise Fenton.
“Unless,” and here Fenton shot a guilty look at Alice, “unless there really is something in this story of yours about her and another man.”
“What about all that no fault stuff you were coming out with before?” said Todd.
“I’ll see you later, Pete,” said Alice, and at that moment Todd suspected he was coming between them. He didn’t give a fuck.
“It’s reputation,” said Fenton. “This is a small town. If you had some dirt on Janis, it wouldn’t matter if a divorce court gave her the house and the money. Might even make it look worse. If you can prove that she’s seeing someone else, it makes her look like a slut.”
“But what about me seeing someone else?” said Todd.
“You’ve got nothing to lose, Janis does,” said Fenton. “Like I say. Reputation.”
Fenton was looking worriedly in Alice’s direction now.
“I have to go,” he said. “Here. Call this guy.”
He thrust a card into Todd’s hand and strode off. Todd looked at the card.
JACK BEHM, it read. PRIVATE INVESTIGATIONS.
THREE
As a connoisseur of film noir, Todd was pleased with Jack Behm’s office. Everything was in place: the wooden desk with drawers presumably containing both revolver and whiskey bottle, the filing cabinet full of case notes, the dirty windows overlooking some mean streets, and best of all, in a standard-issue 1950s swivel chair, Jack Behm himself.
Behm looked more hard-boiled than an egg with a drinking problem. His eyes were narrow and red, his cheekbones high and stubbled, and his bony yellow fingers were constantly lifting cigarettes to a narrow and suspicious-looking mouth. He looked at Todd with an expression that was both interested and keen to show a complete lack of interest. Todd liked him immediately.
“How’d you get my number?” said Behm, and began coughing. It was a horrible cough, like an old car being started up, and it didn’t end for what seemed like minutes. When he’d finished, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, Behm looked up at Todd, still waiting for an answer.
“My lawyer,” said Todd, “Pete Fenton.”
“That asshole,” said Behm encouragingly. Todd had no disagreement with this point of view.
“Sit down,” said Behm. Todd waited for Behm to pour him a slug or whatever private eyes were supposed to do next, but no slug was forthcoming. Instead Behm drew heavily on his almost extinct cigarette and said, “Pete Fenton,” in a thoughtful voice.
“That’s right,” said Todd, wondering if this conversation was going to take all night, “Pete Fenton.”
“You fucking his wife?” said Behm.
“No,” said Todd.
“Okay,” said Behm. “Good to know.”
“Why would—”
“You fucking him?”
“No!” Todd said.
“Calm down,” said Behm. “Just checking there’s no loose threads that might unravel later.”
Todd
was not consoled.
“I’m not that way inclined,” he said.
“Like I care,” said Behm. “Besides, I know he’s fucking his secretary. So why are you here?”
I’m starting to wonder, thought Todd. But he said, “I believe you can help me.”
And he unrolled the whole sorry tale, playing down the part where he and Sara were having an affair, and talking up the part where he thought Janis was having an affair. All the while he talked, Behm took no notes, and stared intently at Todd.
“I see,” he said when Todd had finally finished talking. “You’re not telling me everything.”
“I am—” Todd began.
“About the affair, if that’s what it is, yeah,” said Behm. “But you’re not telling me everything.”
“You want to know the name of my first date?” said Todd. “Where I went to school? The first time I got drunk?”
“No,” said Behm. “Just whatever it is you don’t want me to know. Doesn’t matter. I’ll find out. I usually do.”
Yeah, right, Todd thought, and good luck with that. He smiled and said, “Whatever you say, Mr. Behm. How much do you charge?”
Behm told him. Todd didn’t like it. He didn’t have a choice, though.
“You like whiskey,” said Behm.
“Yeah, why do you ask?” said Todd.
“It wasn’t a question,” said Behm, and got up from behind his desk. Todd noticed that he had a pronounced limp. L-I-M-P, pronounced limp, he thought to himself. Behm dragged a tatty hat from a coat stand and headed for the door.
“Come on,” he said, and Todd followed him out the door.
* * *
“See,” said Behm as they settled themselves in a leatherette booth in a local bar Todd had never noticed before, “I like to get to know my clients. Find out what’s behind the mask, so to speak.”
“I just want you to do some surveillance,” said Todd.
“I know you do,” said Behm. “Everybody does. They think I’m gonna hide across the street from some bastard’s house, take pictures with the car window down, and produce evidence.”
“That’s pretty much what I’m looking for,” said Todd. “What’s wrong with that?”
“What’s wrong with evidence?” said Behm, harshly. “Evidence is just—” He made a chopping gesture with his hand. “—just a slice of time. A knife through the air. Take this, for example,” he said, and pulled a crumpled snapshot from his wallet.
Todd, who knew a man with a hobbyhorse when he saw one, took the photograph by its edges and studied it.
“What do you think you’re looking at there?” said Behm.
“A man and a woman, naked, lying on a bed,” said Todd. “You collect these?”
“First off, don’t ever cheek me,” said Behm. “Second, I don’t collect anything except maybe headaches, one of which you are currently giving me. And third, you’re wrong. That’s not a man and a woman, it’s a woman and a boy. Not even a bed either, not that it matters. It’s a ditch full of snow. Looks a bit like a counterpane, I guess.”
Todd handed the photograph back.
“You’ve made your point,” he said, irritated. “Things are not always what they seem. Thank you for that insight.”
“I’m getting another headache,” said Behm. “Yeah, things are not what they seem. Things can be misinterpreted, manipulated, changed. A photograph, even a film, can be altered or just read wrong. More whiskey.”
When he’d worked out that the last part of Behm’s speech wasn’t connected to the first, Todd bought more whiskey.
* * *
“Your case is boring,” said Behm. “You were fucking someone so your wife wants out. So you want people to believe she’s fucking someone else.”
“She is fucking someone else,” Todd insisted.
“Sure,” said Behm. “Even if it’s true, it’s boring. And you still aren’t telling me something,”
Todd said nothing. He really had nowhere to start with that.
“But that’s okay, I’m not your mother,” said Behm. “Or your shrink. I’m just saying, I can’t get to the bottom of this unless I have all the facts.”
“All right,” said Todd. “I have no money, I have no prospects and my wife’s going to screw me.”
“That feels like a prelude to me,” said Behm.
Todd took a deep breath. “You wouldn’t believe me,” he said.
“I don’t believe anybody,” said Behm. He drained his glass. “Time to go. I’ll take your case, because there’s something in there that interests me. Maybe when we get to know each other better, you’ll tell me.”
He got up. Todd thought for a moment. “What about the woman and the boy? In the snow?”
“It’s just a picture I carry around,” said Behm, and left.
* * *
Time passed. Todd sat around at home. There were messages from Janis (but not, thank God, from Billy). No publishers rang. Behm didn’t ring. Every so often, Todd would slide a sheet of paper into the typewriter and wait for something to happen. Nothing did. Days went by like this.
And then one morning, there was a knock on Todd’s door. Todd all but ran into the hall and yanked the front door open.
“Delivery for you,” said the person at the door. It was Sara, and she was holding three large packages. “I found this on the step,” she added.
Todd took them.
“Thanks,” he said, and turned the first package over. It was from one of the publishers he’d written to. So were the others. Return to sender, Todd thought.
“Can I come in?” said Sara, after Todd had stared grimly at the packages for almost a minute.
“What? Sure, I guess so,” said Todd, still numb from rejection.
“Gosh, thank you,” said Sara as she followed Todd into the house.
“Are you okay?” Sara said when she’d got Todd a beer from the fridge and a glass of water for herself.
“Sure,” said Todd. “Why do you ask?”
“Gee, I don’t know,” said Sara. “Maybe it’s because you didn’t return my calls. Maybe it’s because you’re acting like you can hardly see me. Maybe it’s because you lost fifteen pounds. Maybe it’s because nobody’s seen you for weeks. Or maybe it’s all of that.”
She leaned toward Todd, and touched his face.
“Besides, you pompous, vain, arrogant, self-obsessed, rude bastard,” she said, “I missed you.”
* * *
Half an hour later, Todd rolled over in bed.
“You’re a lot lighter now,” said Sara approvingly. “I like being able to get my legs around your waist.”
Something was troubling Todd. “Have you had any calls from Janis lately?” he said.
“You old romantic,” said Sara, and there was an edge beneath the breeziness. “No, Janis is staying away. Maybe—” and the breeziness was back, “she’s playing away as well.”
“That’s what I’m counting on,” said Todd, and he told Sara about what he’d seen at the diner.
“Wow, Janis, you dog,” said Sara. “Jesus, if word gets out that Lockjaw Janis is getting some, the universe might just explode in shock.”
“Lockjaw Janis?” said Todd.
“Some of us call her that,” Sara said, “On account of she never smiles.”
She rolled over on Todd, and poked a rib just below his right nipple.
“Guess she’s got something to smile about now,” said Sara, and moved her hand down toward Todd’s crotch.
Todd stopped her, a fact which came as a surprise to both of them.
“What are you doing—”
“You know what I’m doing,” said Sara.
“—here,” finished Todd.
Sara frowned.
“I’m doing what we always do. We don’t do anything else.”
“Sara, I haven’t seen you since I don’t know when,” said Todd. “Last time we spoke, you were freaking out about Terry finding out, and Janis making life hard for you. And now here
you are, all calm and relaxed.”
Todd reached for his beer to clear his throat. It was probably the longest speech he’d made since the Saturday nights of yore.
Sara was looking less breezy now. “I just thought you might want some company,” she said. “Janis is gone, and I guess I missed you. You were out of circulation a long time.”
This was another topic that interested Todd.
“How long exactly?” he said.
“A month,” Sara said. “Six weeks maybe.”
“Six weeks?” said Todd. So that’s how long it takes to write the Great American Novel, he thought.
“Yeah,” said Sara. “At first I thought you were out of town, but then Yvonne Morris said she thought she saw you driving to the drug store, so I figured sooner or later you’d get back in touch,” said Sara. “And here we are.”
Todd furrowed his brow in a rare moment of concentration.
“One name you haven’t mentioned,” he said. “Terry.”
There was a moment’s silence.
“Terry’s gone,” said Sara.
Todd flopped onto his back.
“That’s not why I’m here!” Sara said.
“Really,” said Todd. “Terry moves out, and you come looking for a sugar daddy.”
Sara began to shake. Her eyes watered. For a moment Todd thought she might be having some kind of seizure, then he realized she was laughing. A minute or so later, when she had stopped, Sara said:
“Todd, believe me, you are no one’s idea of a sugar daddy.”
“Then why are you here?” said Todd, revealing new levels of low self-esteem.
“Because I like you,” said Sara. “Is that so hard to believe?”
Yes, said a voice inside Todd.
“Look,” said Sara. “I can hardly believe it myself, but I’m glad I’m here, Todd. You know why? Because you’re different. I don’t just mean different to the other jerks in this town—and I do mean ‘other jerks’—I mean you’re different to how you were.”
“Oh really,” said Todd. “How so?”
“Well, apart from the sparkling repartee,” said Sara dryly, “there’s a change in you. I can see it in your face.”
All My Colors Page 6