The Store

by James Patterson

  But she’s not calling, and I realize that I’m living on nothing but luck—good luck and bad luck. There was Maggie Pine; that was good luck. There was Kenny at the start of my truck ride; that was very bad luck. Then there was Kenny at the end of my truck ride; that was unbelievably good luck.

  Anne gave me two fifty-dollar bills when I left her office in my stinky state of anxiety and manic fear. If you want to know what kind of Manhattan hotel lodging you can get for less than a hundred bucks (with a little left over for a nine-dollar sandwich and two Heinekens), I can tell you this: I’m staying in a place on Twelfth Avenue called…get ready for this…HOTEL. That’s it. That’s the name. Not HOTEL WEST SIDE, not LARRY’S HOTEL, not ECONOMY LODGING. No, just HOTEL, and it looks exactly what you think a place called HOTEL should look like: not just the flaking paint stained with fluids you don’t want to think about, but also bedsheets and a dirty towel that clearly haven’t been replaced in a few days, maybe a few weeks.

  A shower helps. It helps as much as lukewarm water and a sliver of used soap can possibly help. It washes away the stink and the dirt and the grease and the sweat. But nothing can wash away the fear of something that could go wrong mixed with the hope that everything might turn out just fine.

  Eleven dollars of Anne Gutman’s money purchases a disposable phone. I bought it from an African guy who was displaying his merchandise on a sidewalk. But I knew the damn thing worked. As soon as I bought it I called Anne, left my temporary number on her machine, and told her to call me (“Please, please, please, call me, for Christ’s sake. I’m living a horror story. I need to know what’s happening”).

  By midnight—after I had spent way too much time with Jimmy Fallon and Seth Meyers and Charlie Rose—no Anne, no call.

  I call her again and again, and all I ever hear is “You’ve reached Anne Gutman. I can’t come to…”

  I turn off the television. I lie on the filthy bed. I hold the disposable cell phone in my hand as if it were a religious object given to me by Jesus Christ.

  Just before 4:00 a.m., my friend the phone and I take a walk to a liquor store, the kind of liquor store that has a bulletproof shield in front of all the bottles and a bulletproof booth where the owner takes your cash and completes your transaction.

  Call me, Anne. Call me, Anne. Call me, Anne, for Christ’s sake. This puts the march in my steps.

  I buy a pint of Heaven Hill bourbon and a package of barbecue-flavored Pringles. I walk back to HOTEL.

  Call me, Anne. Call me, Anne. Call me…

  By 7:00 a.m., no phone call, no Anne, no bourbon, no Pringles…no hope.

  Chapter 64

  WHAT THE hell should I do now?

  I’m afraid to walk the streets for fear of being spotted. I have definitely moved into crazyland. Even though I’m certain that they’ve got surveillance cameras in my rat hole, I can’t actually find any. But looking for them—standing on the squeaky bed, kneeling on the broken dresser—kills some time.

  I sneak down to Anne’s office, in SoHo. Her assistants both say that Ms. Gutman is in Houston on business. (“We’ve given her your messages.”) I am about to head to the elevator when one of the women says, “Oh, Ms. Gutman said to give you this.” She hands me four fifty-dollar bills. Maybe I could make a nice living waiting for Anne Gutman.

  I go back to HOTEL. Staying in that room makes me sadder than anyone deserves to be. Drinking cheap bourbon, eating cold burgers, and watching those bickering broads on The View is not the life I had planned for myself. Lonely? I think only dead people are lonelier than I am. I don’t know for sure what it’s like to be dead, but I sure as shit am standing mighty close.

  I go into one of those chain drugstores near Times Square. Walgreens? Duane Reade? CVS? Who the hell knows? I buy a disposable razor, store-brand ibuprofen, store-brand shaving cream, and a Hershey’s Special Dark chocolate bar (the giant size).

  I go up to the cashier, a sweet-looking Latina no older than eighteen.

  “How you doing today, sir?” she says. I’m thinking, Is this New York, or have I clicked my heels and gone back to Nebraska? (Yeah, I know it’s supposed to be Kansas, but my life is in Nebraska.)

  “I’m doing fine. How about you?”

  She’s ringing up the purchases with exceptional speed. Total, $11.47, and “Sure, I would like to make a one-dollar donation to the Children’s Diabetes Fund.”

  She hands me back a few dollar bills and coins in change. Outside, I go to stuff it in my pocket and I realize that in among the paper money she handed me is a business card. It’s blank except for four handwritten words: CHECK YOUR TEXT MESSAGES.

  I run back into the store. The girl behind the counter is gone. I stand in front of an endcap display of skin moisturizer.

  I punch into my messages as fast as I can. In those few seconds I think it might be Anne or even Megan or some thug from the store or…there’s the text:

  Hey, J, check out “The Store for Books” page. Very cool.

  My sweaty fingers move faster than ever. I move to Google. Then Google moves me to the landing page of the Store. Just below the bullshit banners selling toaster ovens and Lego and plus-size bathing suits is this:

  The book the world’s been waiting for…

  Twenty-Twenty

  The blockbuster that’s bound to bust the Store wide open

  Chapter 65

  BACK AT HOTEL, I click on the little line that says: “Read all about it. Now!” The screen fills with typography that’s supposed to look like human handwriting. It says: “How can we make your life better today?”

  I know Megan’s username (Major345Meg) and her password (LindsAlex9#9). In a few seconds I’m on the “Books, E-Readers, Audio” page. My index finger is actually sweating. My hands are shaking. I feel as if I’m about to push the button that will start a nuclear war.

  In a way I could be right about that. This is either the beginning or the end of my own personal crazy nuclear war.

  Boom! There it is!

  The gutsy exposé of the world’s most important and influential website

  Behind the scenes at the Store

  An anonymous author tells the truth about the world’s best-known company

  Twenty-Twenty

  Enter the incredible world of the Store

  My hands shake even more as I push the Download button. Within thirty seconds the words DOWNLOAD COMPLETED fill the screen. I move to chapter 1, page 7. It is a headache-making, eye-aching chore to try to read the small type on the crappy little disposable phone screen. I constantly need to enlarge the type and then reduce it in order to move on to the next paragraph.

  But hey, who gives a good goddamn? This is Twenty-Twenty. This is incredible.

  So what do I find?

  This isn’t my book at all.

  These aren’t my words.

  My name isn’t even on the cover.

  Holy shit. It’s not my book. And I’m no author.

  This fraud is an epic windblast of praise to the genius of the Store.

  This is a disgusting ode to the brilliance of Thomas P. Owens. The manuscript even keeps referring to him as “our beloved founder.”

  I rush pages and chapters ahead. No matter where my eyes land, it is a totally ridiculous piece of bullshit. I read how the Store has “made America a better place to live because it’s given America a better place to shop.”

  According to this version, the Store is not interested in making a profit for at least another fifteen years (bullshit!). The Store underprices every item they sell—from prescription drugs to lawn mowers to disposable diapers to finely crafted Stickley furniture (bullshit!). The Store believes in full discretion and privacy for all their customers. “Without the trust of our consumer partners we have no business” (double bullshit!).

  I begin scrolling with fierce speed. Perhaps every fifteen pages I recognize a sentence from my original manuscript. Usually it’s a harmless sentence like: “And this was just part of Thomas P. Owens’s d
ream.”

  I leave the book itself and move to a page entitled “What Do Other Customers Think of This Book? Read the Ratings from A+ to F.”

  Here’s a challenge for the Store. This must be the most hated book in America.

  One customer writes: “In a few words: this book stinks. A boring valentine. F as in phony. F as in foolish. F as in freaking stupid.”

  Another customer says: “I guess the author was ashamed to put his name on this piece of garbage. I don’t blame him or her.”

  I lie on the smelly HOTEL bed. I close my eyes. And then…then I sit up in bed as if the room is on fire.

  I smile. The smile grows bigger. The smile turns into laughter. The laughter is unstoppable.

  I’m tired and sleepy.

  Yet I leap out of bed.

  I stomp my legs and feet like a crazy little kid.

  It worked! The Store published the stupid bogus version of my book.

  Chapter 66

  “HAVE WE heard anything?” the old man says.

  “Nothing yet, sir,” says the serious-looking young woman in brown canvas shorts and hiking boots. She carries a tan Osprey backpack. A single earphone is attached to her left ear. She is the old man’s executive assistant, and she is seldom more than a few feet from his side.

  The old man—perhaps he is nearing eighty—is in remarkably fine shape. Everyone in his entourage says so. He is tall and stands straight. His white beard is closely trimmed, and his gray hair is full and thick.

  The old man flew by private jet last night to Flagstaff. This morning he is hiking the hills near Supai on the periphery of Grand Canyon National Park. He’s not at all alone, however. His entourage includes the executive assistant, two mountain hiking guides, the old man’s fifty-year-old son, and the old man’s thirty-three-year-old wife. There is also a camp cook (well, a chef-nutritionist, actually), a tech support man, and the old man’s personal physician.

  “Call New Burg. I want to know what’s happening,” the old man says. His manner is strong but not unpleasant. He’s so used to being rich and in charge that there’s no need for him to be anything less than gracious. “Now!” he says sternly.

  “Don’t have to call, sir. New Burg is calling us,” the assistant says. As she pushes a few buttons to accept the message, he looks over the mountains above and below him. The red and brown and yellow and coral palette stuns him with its beauty. He thinks what he frequently thinks: I’m a lucky man. No one would argue with that.

  “I’ll take the message myself,” he says to the executive assistant. She hands him the earphone, and he holds it close.

  “What’s the story?” he asks.

  The caller says, “It’s over. A big nothing. Done and done.”

  “Hah!” the old man says, then adds, “Not even a hiccup. Just a book. It’s a stupid e-book.

  “Can you imagine?” he says as he hands the earphone back to his assistant, “Just a book.”

  Thomas P. Owens begins to laugh. He looks out over the mountains. He owns thousands of acres of this land. A shiver of warmth rushes through him. The beloved founder’s laugh grows louder. The colors of the mountains grow more intense.

  His lovely wife touches his shoulder. His physician keeps a steady eye on him. His executive assistant replaces the earphone on her ear. The personal chef begins unpacking lunch.

  He owns so much land in this area. Not merely the land he is standing on, but also so much land beyond that and then beyond that and…

  His laughter winds down, and he speaks. His voice is firm and hearty and happy.

  “Not even a hiccup. A book. The thing is just a book.”

  He takes a big gulp of water from the bottle that his beautiful young wife has handed him.

  “I’d like to hike a bit more before we have lunch,” the old man says.

  Nobody dares disagree with him. A few of them wipe dirt and sweat from their faces. A few of them drink some water. They are about to begin.

  “I’ll have everything ready when you return, sir,” the chef-nutritionist says.

  “Perfect,” says the old man. “Let’s get going.”

  And then.

  “Hold on just a minute, sir,” his executive assistant says. “It looks like you’re getting another message.”

  Chapter 67

  “ARE YOU ready, Anne?”

  “Completely. The question is, are you ready, Jacob?”

  “I’ve only dreamed of a day like this day most of my life,” I say.

  We are standing in a small room in a large conference space on Wooster Street, in SoHo. Anne and I are about to—I can’t believe I’m lucky enough to be saying this—hold a press conference.

  Word is out: the Store has published a totally counterfeit version of Twenty-Twenty. The real version—a tough-minded, inflammatory, scandalous book—is going to be available starting tomorrow.

  In the big space on Wooster Street, a noisy menagerie of bloggers and newspaper writers and e-zine journalists has gathered. People from the Wall Street Journal and Vulture.com and BuzzFeed and YouTube and Salon and Slate and virtually every website and cable channel in the country.

  The only media source that’s missing, of course, is the Store.

  A PR guy holds open the door to our waiting room. Ladies and gentlemen, please be prepared to have your heads blown off.

  We walk toward the cameras. The crowd moves closer to the dais, where we stand before a gigantic cluster of microphones.

  After a few moments of the “press” settling down, I begin to speak. I am—to my own surprise—calm. My voice feels strong and sensible.

  “Good morning. I’m Jacob Brandeis.” I pause. There is no applause. I’m an idiot. This is the press, not the public. I start talking again.

  “We know why we’re here. You know why we’re here…”

  Why do I keep pausing? Of course they know why they’re there.

  “Beginning tomorrow, the authentic, unexpurgated, real version of Twenty-Twenty will be available. The people who want to know the truth about the Store can find it on a new site called WrittenTruth.com. It will be delivered within twenty-four hours. But if you just can’t wait twenty-four hours, it will also be available at whatever independent bookstores throughout the country have not yet been devoured by the Store. And if I have to, I’ll stand on the back of a truck in Times Square and sell copies to anyone who wants to read them.”

  Some laughter. Then mostly silence.

  “I know that you all have plenty of questions…”

  Suddenly an explosion of hands and shouts of “Mr. Brandeis”…“Jacob”…“Mr. Brandeis”…

  I hold up my hands. I talk loudly into the mike. Reverb throughout the room.

  “I will be very glad to tell you in detail how we pulled this off. We’ll do that some other time. But I can give you the general answer right now: exceptional people—family and friends—were secretly in on the plan from the beginning. We all acted in a way that got the Store to believe we were writing one kind of book, but in fact we were writing the book that is now being released.

  “My great kids, Lindsay and Alex, were continually making videos of my great wife, Megan, and me arguing venomously about my project. Then they’d send that video to the Store. The Store thought the kids were cooperating, but of course all they were doing was verifying that the Store was recording us on their own surveillance cameras. The one thing the Store didn’t know was this: it was all a huge act, a delicately planned act—and, I might add, a very scary performance. The Store believed the story we handed them: a crazy father was writing a book, and the wife and kids were so loyal to the Store that…well, you get it.

  “As to the others who helped us pull it off…they’re all in the book. Suffice it to say that Megan and I had recruited certain of our neighbors—Marie and Bud and Bette—to become part of the plan. Even Megan’s supposedly rotten boss, Sam Reed, had some secret scores to settle with the Store management. So Sam became part of the act.

&nb
sp; “I’ll be moving offstage in a minute. I’m a writer, not an actor. But I do want to talk about two of the most amazing people behind the scenes, two women who did as much as I did to make this book happen.

  “Yes, I wrote the book, the real book, the true Twenty-Twenty, but nothing would have been possible without the unwavering encouragement and the wildly sneaky brain of the most important and honest book publisher in the world, Anne Gutman.”

  I swing my left arm backward, and Anne steps closer to the microphones. Her voice is sure and strong. As my mom used to say, “You can hear her brains in her voice.”

  “Jacob Brandeis wrote a brilliant investigative book under essentially wartime circumstances. I was a conduit, a fan, a citizen. I am proud to have been part of it.”

  Anne and I hug, and now—oh, shit, my eyes are filling up with tears—I replace Anne at the microphone.

  “I…I…sometimes I was so arrogant…obnoxious to her, but she never gave up…I…nineteen years ago, I…I chose right. Here’s Megan.”

  She walks out. She looks terrific. New York all the way: black slacks and black shirt and her hair tied back with a white scarf. As we kiss—I could honestly say the kiss was passionate—Alex and Lindsay walk over to us.

  “I love you,” I say again and again to the three of them. I hold them so tightly that I actually think I might squeeze them until they burst.

  “Yay,” shouts Alex. “Group hug!”

  I don’t think any of us wanted that hug to end. Megan tilts her head back and looks me squarely in the eyes. Then she says, “There’s just one thing I’ve been wanting to tell you.”

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  Tears are streaming down her cheeks.

  She looks at me. She speaks.