“I know it seems that way, John.” The publicist sighed. “But it’s not like he took your book too. You’ll see whatever future proceeds the book earns.”
“But it fell off the bestseller list. The real money’s done coming in, right? I mean, how will the book have distribution without a publisher?”
She sighed again. “Well, that’s where it gets…tricky. We need to seek some sort of injunctive relief and block Frechette from accessing any future earnings. Then we put the paperback rights and your future output up for auction. I’m thinking another publisher will be happy to snatch you up.”
“Thanks. I appreciate that, but what you’re telling me is that, for the foreseeable future, I’m screwed. Could be months.”
“More like one or two years.”
“Shit,” he whispered. “I was this close to getting outta here, moving the whole family somewhere that isn’t teeming with blood and shit.”
“I know, John,” she said. “What does your agent say? Angee?”
“Oh, her. Miss Thing can’t even be bothered to pick up her phone. As soon as this all started, she dumped me, said she needs to refocus her attention on higher-earning clientele. That two-faced…” He paused to take a frustrated sigh of his own. “I’d like to smash those damn glasses she’s always chewing on, trying to look smart.”
Monique clicked her tongue. “Tsk tsk. And they say publicists are the a-holes.”
“What about you? What’re you gonna do?”
“Well…” she breathed out, her tone dropping conspiratorially. “I’m working at another couple houses, doing publicity, but I think what I really wanna do is become an agent.”
“Good Lord, why? After all this? Besides, what about eBooks?”
“What about ‘em? Ebooks won’t replace the big publishers overnight, and I have a hot new talent just waiting for a good agent and a better deal.”
“Hmm. Well, I hope this hot new talent’s got a good book up her sleeve,” he said, shifting the lace curtain back, turning his family into three gauzy figures moving on the grass.
“Well, now that you mention it, I wanted to ask if you have anything new in the pipeline?”
“Huh?”
“A follow-up to Murder 101?”
“Oh. Well, I’ve been thinking about—”
Monique snickered.
“Wait. You’re talking about…me? I’m your hot new talent?”
“Well, let’s qualify that. You, personally, are not hot, in my humble opinion, but your temp in the publishing world is higher than lukewarm, and you seem to need a good agent, so…”
Pilate laughed. “Well, it also seems I need to make some money, pronto. You’re hired.”
“All right. The deal is 20 percent and a piece of film rights,” she said.
“Eighteen.”
She clicked her tongue. “Okay.”
“Okay, fine. Nevertheless, I could use a sizeable advance. I have to go back to teaching now. I need money to make my daring daylight escape from the town that time forgot.”
“Would you be willing to do short pieces? Magazines and such?”
“I’ll take it, even Hustler if I have to.”
“Ew.”
“I’m serious, Monique. I don’t care, as long as the checks will clear.”
“Let’s not get desperate so quickly, okay? I’ll overnight a contract to you. I’ll also get started with a lit attorney I know, see about emancipating your book from Frechette and severing your relationship with Angee.”
“A simple ‘screw you’ would be fitting, and I can’t afford a bloodsucking attorney,” Pilate said with a snort.
“Especially in conjunction with your psychiatry bills,” Simon said from a comfortable spot somewhere in Pilate’s cranium. For most of his life, Pilate had harbored Simon, his emotionally jaundiced, acerbic inner voice, confidant, and occasional tormenter.
“He’ll work cheap.”
“Monique, cheap attorneys are like cheap doctors, more dangerous than doing it yourself.”
“Look, if he doesn’t give me a good deal, he won’t get that special thing I do with a repeated flick of my wrist on Friday nights,” she said, her lips curling audibly through the receiver.
“What thing? Oh. I see. So he’s a—”
“A friend…and that’s all you need to know, old man.”
“Well, I’m all for friendship.”
“Gross.” She chuckled.
“Okay. Well, thanks for the help, Monique…and the hope,” Pilate said. “I’ll start thinking about the next book. The serial killer stuff would be a good follow-up, but a lot of what happened in Florida is off the table.”
“Why? That’s probably the juiciest bit,” she said.
“You’re right, sort of. The juiciest bit is actually between me and—”
“That chickie cop you did the bed sheet shuffle with?”
“Never you mind, young lady. I’m actually talking about the offshore stuff. I’m legally forbidden from sharing what happened out in the Gulf, but I’ll think of something. A good writer can fill in plot holes nicely, right?”
“Well, unless you did the cop out on the boat, we need to act now, Mr. Handcuffs Fetish,” she said. “Can you get me a proposal in two weeks?”
“Two weeks? As in only fourteen days? Holy shit.”
“I’m not asking you to write the whole book,” she said. “Just need a proposal so I can get you that fat advance and my 20 percent.”
Pilate sagged against the kitchen counter. “Monique…”
“Yeah?”
“How much of my money do you think Frechette has?”
“Oh, probably around $632,481.21.”
“That mother—”
“Gotta go. Get crackin’ on that proposal, and I’ll get moving on everything else. Bye, lover.” She loosed a dirty laugh and hung up.
Pilate put the old receiver back on the wall. When his children’s laughter wafted through the screen door, he glanced again at the small patio area he had built, complete with a fancy little Weber Smoky Mountain smoker that bore a resemblance to R2-D2. A few yards beyond, on the edge of the ecotone between the yard and cornfields, rose an ancient oak that gave the best shade.
“October’s comin’ up fast,” Simon said.
“Yep. Time to get a job.”
“What’s with that old door in the barn?” Pilate asked over a late breakfast.
“That old slab of oak?” Kate asked quietly, holding her infant close to her breast. “It used to be the front door here, back when Rick and I first bought the place. It’s pretty but not as secure or energy efficient as we wanted, so we got the new fiberglass one and the tacky storm door.”
“Ya know, it’d make a great bar, under the oak tree.”
“What?”
“Well, I get tired of standing around the backyard when I need some time to myself. I want a place to relax.”
“We have Adirondack chairs, honey.”
“I like to lean, not sit.”
“You just wanna drink in the backyard at your own bar. Is that it?” she asked with a smirk.
“And what’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing. You know, if you want to make it into a bar, we can put a canopy over it and hang some tiki lights.”
“Tiki lights?”
“Well, yeah…so you can be out there at night.”
“Let’s not get too precious, dear,” he said. Sensing he was losing her, he added, “But okay. I guess tiki lights would be fine. We can use citronella, keep the bugs away.”
Kate was glad to hear that her husband now had a project to take his mind off losing the book royalties. To Kate, John Pilate seemed perpetually preoccupied, as if he was keeping company with other voices inside him. Perhaps a project will quiet whatever is disturbing him so much, she hoped. “Great,” she said, “but that door’s heavy. Make sure you get some help with it.”
“Okay.”
“What are you gonna call it?”
&nbs
p; “The bar?”
She nodded.
“The Frontdoor Backyard Bar sounds about right,” Simon said.
“The Frontdoor Backyard Bar sounds about right,” Pilate parroted.
Kate’s face brightened. “Hmm. I like it.” She made a face and scrunched up her nose. “Phew! Somebody just made a doody.”
“Wasn’t me.” Pilate raised a newspaper in defense.
“You take him,” Kate said.
“Where’s Kara? Let her do it.”
“She’s with her grandpa, remember? They’re at that OakFest planning meeting.”
“Grif took his seven-year-old granddaughter to a planning meeting for the most boring community festival in history?”
Kate shrugged. “She loves spending time with him, no matter what they’re doing.” She pushed Peter toward Pilate’s newspaper.
The stinky infant swatted at it.
“Okay, my poopy little man, let’s go,” Pilate said, dropping the paper and taking his son to the nursery. “Daddy’s gonna build us a bar!”
CHAPTER THREE
“I started out as a master plumber,” Dean Don Felix said, leaning back in his chair, an expansive smile peeling thin lips from his teeth. “There are three things you learn right away as a plumber. Shit rolls downhill, payday is Friday, and never, ever bite your fingernails.” He chuckled softly, extending his index finger.
Pilate managed a smile, though it didn’t match that of the new dean’s. The former plumber was the polar opposite of his friend, the late Dean Peter Trevathan. Trevathan was old; Felix was relatively young, barely knocking on fifty’s door. Trevathan was silver-haired, lean, crusty, and had a bark of cranky where his skin should’ve been; Felix was round, balding, and exuded the unctuous mien of an insurance salesman.
Where Trevathan favored plaid flannel shirts, Felix wore a short-sleeved button-down, with a polyester Ex Libris tie. Trevathan’s office, once replete with Western memorabilia, books, and hunting trophies, now displayed textbooks, a collection of small, die-cast metal cars, and photos of Felix and people Pilate presumed were family, though Pilate noted that the man was not wearing a wedding band.
Trevathan suffered fools poorly, but as much as it went against Pilate’s psychotherapy to make snap judgments about people, he had already decided that the new dean was leaning toward fool. Trevathan’s ghost must give Felix the finger often, Pilate thought.
“So… I was a master plumber for eight years, and I get called in to unclog a ladies’ locker room toilet at UNO one day. Disgusting what girls try to flush.” He made a face. “Anyway, I decided right then and there that I missed being in college. I wanted to be back among the ivy-covered halls of academe.”
Simon snickered.
“So you flushed away a successful career in the porcelain arts for all this?” Pilate said, looking around the room and gesturing to the oval outside the window.
Felix didn’t catch the sarcasm Pilate had lobbed, one-handed over the plate. “Yep,” he said, another fool’s strike. “I went back to school and earned my PhD in history. Did my dissertation on Lewis and Clark. I ended up teaching for about ten years before I moved up the ranks at a couple small colleges in Iowa and South Dakota.”
“So this is your first, um…deanship?” Pilate asked, fighting to stay interested.
“Ha! Well, yes, I guess, but I’m excited to be here at Cross,” he said, gazing out the window. “So much history here, though there’s been a little too much drama lately, as you well know.” Dean Felix’s eyes moved from the window that overlooked the quad, and he turned his gaze on Pilate. His brow knitted together, his smile frozen on a fat head cocked to the side.
Pilate was fully aware of the recent drama. He’d been the leading man in the performance, after all.
Pilate first appeared on campus almost two years prior, as a sad-sack instructor, freshly divorced and full of self-loathing. He stumbled upon a conspiracy that spanned the decades since JFK was shot, narrowly survived attempts on his life, and wrote a bestselling book about the entire affair.
Then, the indicted former president of Cross College lost his marbles and tried to kill Pilate, his family, and Trevathan, the former dean. Somewhere in the midst of all that, Pilate partied hard in Key West, married Kate, and adopted a stepdaughter. Mere months earlier, Kate and Pilate welcomed a son, Peter, Trevathan’s namesake, but the dean died of cancer shortly thereafter.
“Drama indeed,” said Simon.
“Yes, well, that’s all done now, Dean,” Pilate said. “Peace, quiet, and boredom has found its way back to Cross College.”
“Of course,” Felix said, leaning forward, clasping his fingers in front of him on Trevathan’s old desk. “And that’s just what we want. Our new president is intent on getting this school out of the tabloids.” He held a hand up to Pilate. “Sorry. Didn’t mean it like that. Poor choice of words, but I’m sure you know what I mean. We need to get back in the business of being a great school, not a magnet for headlines, sensationalism, and criminality.”
Pilate matched the dean’s gesture with one of his own. “Couldn’t agree more.”
“So…”
“So?” Pilate coaxed.
“What are your plans?” he asked, again with the insurance salesman’s smile.
“Well, I’m through flogging my book, and—”
“Congrats, by the way. A bestseller, I hear.”
Pilate nodded. “Yes, and now my wife and I—”
“Wonderful instructor, Kate. So glad she’s going to stay with us.”
Pilate swallowed, growing frustrated by the interruptions. “Yes. Well, she’s a teacher. That’s her love.”
“She was missed during her maternity leave and the car accident,” he said, chewing on the cap of a ballpoint pen. “Sorry. Bad habit.” He put the gnarled plastic cap on his desk.
“Well, it’s apparently better than chewing your nails.”
“Heh. Right. Okay, since she’s staying, does this mean you want to resume your class load?”
Pilate’s stomach churned. The answer was a resounding no, as in “Hell no, Dean Felix…and fuck you very much.” He wanted to get back to his simple life again, if that was possible. Teaching could do that, but he would prefer to have the book money and a shot at life in a new place with his family.
“I miss the ocean,” Simon said.
“Well, I’m interested in teaching a couple sections, if you’ll have me,” Pilate said, shrugging.
“Atta boy,” Felix said, his smile bursting from his cheeks again. “We can get you back into speech and comp. Sound good?”
Pilate nodded.
“How about spring session?”
“Spring?” Pilate swallowed. “That’s almost four months away.”
“Well, yes,” Felix said, “but we’ve already found subs for your other classes. We have to honor those contracts. Perhaps we could see if we offer a section with you as instructor… Hmm. Maybe online. Yes, if we could get twenty students to sign up, then we could bring you in sooner.”
The wages for one section would be barely enough to make a couple mortgage payments. Pilate nodded though, having lost any will to speak.
“Just one more thing.” The dean’s smile evaporated. “No more interviews.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Well, once you’re back on the payroll, the president wants all the Cross College tragedy stuff to go away. She said no more interviews, no more press. You said you’re finished promoting your book anyway, so that’s it for the media, okay?”
Pilate stifled his desire to tell him to screw off, not because he disagreed but mostly because he didn’t like anyone—least of all that dollar-store Ned Beatty—telling him what to do. He inhaled, filling the lower lobes of his lungs, where he imagined smoke from his cigarette-smoking days still hibernated.
“I understand. No problem. Shit rolls downhill, right? But what do I do if the media calls? Just hang up?”
“Well, if you need somebody
to play bad cop, just send them over to the PR office. Let that guy earn his pay,” Felix said.
“Hmm. The media will think it a little strange that I suddenly can’t speak to them. I’m no PR guy, but that could be a PR nightmare all its own.”
Felix had a look on his face that reminded Pilate of his stepdaughter, Kara, trying to work out a tough math equation in her head. He scrunched his brow, screwed up his mouth, and looked up to his right, then blew air from his crimson cheeks. “Okay,” he finally said, “how about this? You let me know if you get a media call, and I’ll run it up the flagpole. If the boss says it’s okay, you can do the interview. If not, our PR guy will take care of it.”
“That’s not an answer,” Simon said, relaxing deep in Pilate’s brain like the genie in his lamp.
“It’s academic anyway, until January,” the dean said, fanning his stubby fingers. “Looks like you get to fall into winter away from campus.”
Pilate stood and extended his hand. “Sounds fine. I think the media’s done with me for the most part anyway. They’ve moved on to real celebrities.”
“And you have a book to write,” Simon goaded.
“Glad to hear it. I mean…” he held up his hand again, as if trying to stop the onset of any offense lured by his words.
“I understand,” Pilate said. “See you in January.”
“Great, John. That will be great.” Felix turned away, absently biting his fingernail.
Pilate took one last glance at the office his dead friend once imbued with such cantankerous dignity, now occupied by a hapless interloper. Pilate hated Dean Felix, and that detesting wasn’t really fair, as Felix’s only crime was taking Trevathan’s place.
His eyes fell to the floor as he gently pulled the door closed behind him.
CHAPTER FOUR
“Constable? What’s that? Like…a dog catcher?” Pilate said, holding a gallon of milk.
County Commissioner Jeremy Ryder leaned against his white, late-model Dodge Ram at the convenience store on the edge of town. The pump clicked as he filled the thirsty tank. Laconic and reedy, Ryder took in the world with pale blue screw-you eyes and close-cropped, thinning, gray hair under his hat. He reminded Pilate of the post-millennium version of actor Peter Weller—no longer Robocop or Buckaroo Bonzai; rather, it was reminiscent of someone harder, reedier, and less tolerant of and patient about all the day-to-day bullshit. “Peace officer,” he said, spitting tobacco juice on the ground near his ostrich boot; not a drop touched the leather.
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