by Les Edgerton
“Those are little things I know, but don’t you agree they can sure mess a guy up? Especially a madcap criminal genius like you surely are.
“Like I was saying, I was gonna do the righteous thing, but thinking it over got me to remembering how all my life I’ve been running around trying to catch scuzzballs like you. And mostly losing. We get a few, but more get away. End up like you thought you was going to, sitting on some beach in the Bahamas, different fuck every night, Dom Perignon in the water taps. And me? I sit in my little two bedroom and worry about how I’m going to pay for the roof that’s ready to fall in. So I got to thinking. I got to thinking about you killing Jack along with a shitload of other people you probably wasted in your miserable life. I got to thinking that the way things are nowadays, if I was to catch you and send you to jail, you’d probably get out someday. Probably sooner, the way things are with the namby-ass judges and lawyers we seem to have these days. Yeah, you’d be out and I’d still be worrying about that roof.
“So I decided to do the smart thing for once. I decided to take the money. Be the only one on the beach that probably wasn’t a master criminal. Think about you sitting in a stinking jail cell worrying about me enjoying your money. That way even if you get out someday, you suffer. If I give this money back to the cops, you don’t suffer near as much as you will thinking about me having a high old time on it.”
“Ummmmphf!” Reader was screaming through the tape. “Arrrgh. Mmmmmpf!”
Grady hefted the box to rest along his hip, grinning at the man’s frustration.
“I’ll be leaving, Reader. I know you want to be alone with your thoughts. I can see you want to tell me something, don’t you? Sorry. I don’t have any more time to sit and chat with you although I’ve got to say it’s been enjoyable.”
At the door he paused for a second. He could see the veins on Reader’s neck standing out and he was making a humming sound, similar t the sound a jet engine makes when it’s warming up. Perspiration ran in droplets off his nose.
Grady was relishing every bit of this. Especially the various looks that passed over Kincaid’s face. “Oh yes--there’s one more little thing. I don’t have to tell you what will happen when those batteries wear down--I mean, after all, you’re the guy who came up with this brilliant little brainstorm, aren’t you? Well, I don’t mean to be instructing the professor. I’d like to remind you what will happen if you wait too long and those babies wear down. You’ll be a whole lot of little geniuses, ol’ buddy. And I did a stupid thing, Reader. That old car of mine--it’s a real lemon--radio doesn’t work. I got this cassette player, this portable I been playing. All the way from Ohio. I didn’t want to take the time to have to shop for new batteries for your little hookup there so I used the ones from it and to be honest, I don’t know how much juice is left in them. Not much, I’m afraid. Maybe only minutes. Maybe a few hours. Who knows? I know I wish I’d bought Duracells. Aren’t those the ones with the bunny? No, that’s the Energizer ones. Well, no matter. On a cop’s pension you don’t get the real expensive ones. I bought the cheaper ones. Now, I could kick myself. Try and get a bargain and you get what you pay for I guess. Try being on a fixed income. It’s a real bitch.”
Through the bedroom window he could see the sun beginning to emerge. It was going to be a gorgeous day, not a cloud in the sky, looked like. Too much humidity, though. The heat was fine, just the humidity fucked it up. He wondered what the weather was like in Vermont this time of year. He bet it wouldn’t be this humid.
“I’ve got to be going now, Reader. Makes me nervous to be around you, ‘specially with those cheap-ass batteries. You take care now, and don’t forget to make that call.”
Pulling onto the highway, Grady smacked his forehead in mock anger. “Damn!” he said aloud, turning on the radio and searching for jazz. The stations came in loud and clear. “There’s one more thing I forgot to mention to ol’ Reader. Should I go back and tell him?” He pushed down harder on the gas pedal. “Naw. He’ll find out eventually.”
***
“Fuck my rights, and fuck you,” he said. There were cops all over the place. His hands were cuffed behind him now, and somebody had given him a cigarette which dangled from his lips. In front of him stood a beefy detective in a bad suit that looked like something from the ‘70s and matched the skinny tie he was wearing. He was holding a plastic bag containing Reader’s knife. He waved it at one of the policemen standing near him.
“Would you look at this!” he said. “Regular pig-sticker!”
“Yeah,” said the other officer. “It’s got blood on it, too.”
“Say,” another uniform chimed in, walking over. “Wasn’t old man Derbigny stabbed?”
The detective holding the knife looked at it again. “Yeah.” He looked down at Reader. “I got a feeling this was the knife used. Looks like this scumbag got his granddaughter, too. You’re in a lot of trouble, podner. Let’s see, we got drugs, a neat little story somebody was nice enough to leave for us about some business up in Ohio...yeah, I’d say you were royally fucked, ol’ buddy. That turns out to be Derbigny’s blood and your prints on that knife, you ain’t even gonna be safe up in Angola. That’s one powerful man you whacked, partner. He’s got friends in the weirdest places.”
“Hey, Roy,” somebody called from the doorway. “You won’t believe this!”
“What?” said the detective turning to look. A uniformed cotood there, a wide grin stretched across his face. He was holding up the pipe.
“Look.” The policeman turned the pipe upside down. Nothing happened.
“What is it, Bill?”
“There’s nothing in it, Roy. Only a note.” In his other hand he held up a scrap of paper.
“What’s it say?”
The policeman named Bill held it up for effect, glanced at the prisoner, showed perfect teeth in a cheek-to-cheek grin. “It just has one word.”
“Which is?”
“Gotcha.”
The whole room exploded with laughter. Except one.
***
Grady was half a mile away when he heard the sirens coming. Two black and white units passed him and a block up two more roared by, a fire truck following close behind.
“I win, Reader,” he said softly, under his breath. “I would have liked to have played poker with you sometime.” He kept an eye out for a gas station, someplace to buy some cigarettes. Tomorrow would be soon enough to quit.
***
Some hours later Grady was kissing Whitney goodbye at the front door of her bungalow. He’d already made a phone call to Sally’s bar, talked for a few minutes with both the proprietors, hung up laughing. After that, he and Whitney had busied themselves for the next two hours wrapping packages in brown paper. Four of them, neatly addressed. Early Christmas presents.
Part of the time they used in making love. They made the most of it, being as it would be a week or so before they saw each other again. Whitney estimated it would take that long to tie up her affairs and join him.
“Next stop the post office,” he said in leaving. He gave Whitney one last squeeze before walking out to his car. He threw the garbage bag containing the packages in the back seat and waved as he pulled away.
He thought about Sally and his wife Veronica as he pulled out onto Veterans Highway and merged into the traffic. One package went there. He thought about the other people the packages were addressed to. A couple of anonymous policemen, one in Dayton and one in New Orleans. He imagined their kissers when they tore the wrapping off packages addressed to the Policemen’s Benevolent Fund. Merry Christmas, folks, he whispered softly under his breath. He smiled and inhaled deeply.
He thought of the last package, the smallest one of all. This one wasn’t addressed. There was six hundred thousand in unmarked hundred-dollar bills in that one. Enough to take care of Jack’s bill with about enough left to make a down payment on a fishing camp and a small building in which an animal clinic could be housed. Maybe there’d be enough left to
pick up a couple of those ice boats.
Maybe he’d look into a glass eye. Or were they plastic these days?
He thought briefly of his father as he pointed the car due north for the bridge across Lake Pontchartrain. Of the lessons his dad had drilled into his two boys. Honor and family.
Well, Dad, he mouthed silently as he pulled up to the toll booth. I did what I thought was right. Whaddya think?
Somehow, considering it all, he thought his dad would approve of his choice.
The chill of the air conditioner blasting across his face gave him a good feeling. So did the thought of the woman who was going to soon be joining him in Vermont.
The End
A BACKGROUND for THE PERFECT CRIME
THIS NOVEL HAS A history. I wrote it back in the nineties and at the time my agent, Jimmy Vines, was arguably the hottest guy in agenting. If you’ve ever seen the movie, Jerry Maguire, the title character played by Tom Cruise was Jimmy to a T. A slick-talking (in machine-gun bursts), expensively-dressed, stereotypical polished New Yorker smart-ass type, Jimmy could easily have been the originator of the phrase, “Show me the money.” Lots of publishers did just that for his writers.
Jimmy received so much initial excitement from publishers when he first sent out feelers on THE PERFECT CRIME that he decided that even though this was a first novel, this was a book that needed to go to auction. For those writers here who’ve had a book go to auction, you know that’s one of the biggest thrills for a writer to be had, up there almost with getting a nomination for the National Book Award, or a travel agent calling to check on your drink preferences for your flight to Stockholm, or, even getting a message on your unlisted cell phone from Kim Khardashian giving you her private number and inviting you to a “personal and up-close” slumber party and something she called a “sesh” with her and her sisters, ending her message with a cheery, “Call me, ya big lug!”
In other words, a literary auction is a big deal.
It was… what’s the word?... exciting. I’m sitting here in the Great Flyover in Fort Hooterville, Indiana, and every three or four minutes, Jimmy was phoning me breathlessly from the Big Apple, giving me up-dates. Between his calls, I’m screaming at my wife Mary to “Don’t go near that phone!” and ignoring the withering looks she was shooting my way. Offers were being messengered to Jimmy every couple of minutes, and he’d be calling to tell me who’d offered what, what the bidding was up to, who’d joined the fray and who’d dropped out.
Finally, everyone had dropped out except two players, Random House and St. Martin’s. Both made their final bids. Random House offered $45,000 for their advance and St. Martin’s offered $50,000.
“It’s your call,” Jimmy said. “We’ll go with whoever you want.”
We talked about it and I tried to weigh the offers. Both were big, well-known, respected presses. Both were talking about a probable three-book deal, a series based on the same characters, and depending on how the first book did, the advances for the next two would most likely go way up. Jimmy figured the final tally would be in the healthy six-figure range. Enough money that I would be able to achieve my version of true wealth—being able to fill the gas tank up completely each time on my car instead of the normal two buck purchase. He talked about the excellent chances he saw for a future movie deal.
Finally, I made my decision.
Worst decision of my life, bar none. The financial fall-out from that decision destroyed me at the time and actually, I’ve never recovered. More about that later...
“Random House,” I told Jimmy. “Why them?” he asked. “Because,” I said. “They’re Random House.” The House of Bennett Cerf and all those legends of literature. I didn’t care it was for less money than St. Martin’s was offering. This was Random House.
Jimmy understood. He called St. Martin’s, told them my decision, and the editor who had been doing the bidding, Charlie Spicer, was disappointed, but before he hung up, told Jimmy, “If Edgerton ever has another book and is looking for a publisher, we want first crack at it.” Just a pure gentleman. I just wish...
Next, he contacted Scott Moyers, the senior editoo had been doing the bidding for Random House. Scott had just come over from Villard Press and been appointed a senior editor. Mine was the first book he’d signed for his new publisher.
The day I signed the contract was one of the happiest of my life.
I was at a crossroads in life. Up to that point, I had made a terrific living for thirty-plus years as a hairstylist. My wife Mary and I had our own salon, Bold Strokes Hair Design, and we were booked solid for six months in advance. But, our lease was up and we had to make a decision. To sign a new 5-year lease or close the salon. Up until then, even though I had sold several books, I had never considered quitting my day job. I’d heard and listened to all the advice about not doing so until one was absolutely certain he’d be able to make his entire living from writing.
Now seemed the time. I’ll relate the rest of what turned out to be a horror story by including the gist of an exchange of emails between myself and one of the most respected agents in the business a couple of years ago. I won’t name the agent as I don’t want to reveal his identity as he was honest with me about what had probably happened but didn’t want to be identified for clear reasons.
Here’s is the email I sent this agent:
Dear________;
I’ll try to be as concise as I can be. A few years ago, when I was a client of Jimmy Vines, I wrote a crime thriller that he was ecstatic about. So ecstatic that he took it to auction, which, as you know is a rarity for a first novel. It was an exciting time—phone calls and emails every few minutes for several days—you know the drill. The upshot was that it came down to two houses, Random House and St. Martin’s. St. Martin’s offered $50,000 and RH offered $45,000. Jimmy said we’d go with whoever I wanted. I decided on RH because... well, it was Random House. The company that Bennett Cerf built and with all that glorious history. I was going to be a Random House author!
The editor who took it was Scott Moyers who had just that week come over from Villard to become a senior editor at RH and this was the very first book he signed. They were going to bring it out simultaneously in hard and soft cover, from Ballantine and RH. Jimmy told me that Ann Godoff, who was the president at the time, personally phoned him and raved about the book, telling him how much she loved it. She said they were going to guarantee me that not only would it come out on the NY Times bestseller list; it would come out as #1 the first week. She said she could guarantee that because the lists weren’t derived from sales but from copies printed, etc. She and Scott then asked that I change the title as they saw a trilogy in the future and they wanted the name to be one that would lend itself to that. The original title I had was The Perfect Crime and they asked that it be changed to Over Easy, a play on the “Big Easy” since it was set in New Orleans and they wanted the other two to be as well. As soon as it came out, they wanted to create a new contract for a new two-book deal. But, my God—I couldn’t believe what she was telling me—that my book was going to be Number One. That’s a cloud I’m probably never going to reach again. From the lips of the president of Random House, that’s something you can take to the bank. Or so I thought. (I’m bad on dates, but it seems to me this was around ‘97.)
I know this is all very interesting and all, but so far everything’s going well and why am I telling you all this you’re probably thinking. Well, that’s when the bottom dropped out. The time period here is crucial as you’ll see. A week after I took RH’s offer, Bertlesmann took over Random House. Being out here in the “great flyover” I had no clue as to what was proably going on in NY and London, in the power centers of publishing, but it’s obvious to me now that the Bertlesmann takeover is what impacted my deal.
For the next several months I rewrote the book entirely for Scott four times. I’d already rewritten it twice for Jimmy before he’d sent it out and I had no problem with either guy requesting rewrites. I’m a
firm believer that writing is rewriting and I do it cheerfully and professionally. At the end of the last rewrite, Scott emailed me and said he was regretfully going to have to turn it down. During the process, he had me eliminate a major character and do some other things. In his notes for the last rewrite, he said he wished I would write like Russell Banks! For the first time I got mad. I told him if he wanted Russell Banks, why didn’t he just sign him? Just weird stuff. I told him I’d done everything he’d said without question as I didn’t want to “be that guy” editors talked about—the difficult writer. To that he said, “You should have pushed back.” My bad, I guess... I talked to Jimmy and he was furious with Scott and RH and said he’d never ever do another deal with Random House the rest of his life—that he’d never heard of a major publisher treating someone this way, etc. At this remove, I confess I’m a bit skeptical now of what he was saying, considering I was this little guy out here in Indiana and he was claiming he’d never again deal with the biggest publisher in the business because of what they’d done to me. Lots of things I thought at the time have changed the more I think about it. I have a strong suspicion that he was... how do you say it? Blowing smoke up my ass? Yeah, that’s a good way to describe what I think happened.