Print the Legend: A Hector Lassiter novel

by Craig McDonald

  That was the way for a writer to position him or herself in the canon—tacit cooperation with the literati.

  “How much further is this place, Richard?”

  “Not far, I think.”

  So far, she was still setting the pace. “Do you even know where this store is?”

  “I have a pretty good idea,” he said.

  She said, “This thing with Mary—it’s a fascinating notion. But, it seems a reach.”

  “Don’t subscribe to my theory?”

  “I’m skeptical, but supportive. Given Papa’s celebrity, and his calamitous departure, surely there was an inquest.”

  Richard nodded. He expected this one—he’d already worked the ground in his head…knew just how to mount his case in the face of skepticism like Hannah’s.

  “Look around this place,” he said. “This is still the outback. Some of the streets aren’t even paved. They haven’t poured sidewalks in most places. And Idaho law only stipulates an inquest when there is a suspicion of foul play. The Blaine County coroner performed an autopsy, but he didn’t specifically rule the death a suicide. Mary claimed Papa shot himself while cleaning his gun, yet the coroner pointedly told the press no gun-cleaning equipment was found near the body. Shouldn’t Mary’s lie have sparked suspicion?”

  Hannah said, “Not necessarily. Mary was in denial. Papa killed himself on her watch. The coroner gave Mary her shot at launching a face-saving myth. I’d guess it was a favor for a famous local widow.”

  Hannah would take that too-facile tack. His peers—those assholes who would sit in an audience eventually, trying to pick apart his assertions—would go deeper and smarter. They’d pose the tough questions, informed by years of study. As he anticipated his fellow academics’ attacks, and mused over his retorts, he said, “The coroner met with the area’s prosecuting attorney at the time, and the county sheriff, and Papa’s eldest son, Jack…and Mary.”

  A bit short of breath now, he said, “A strange collection of people to decide whether or not there was any foul play involved, isn’t it? Particularly since Mary was alone in the house with Hem the morning of the shooting. She had no business weighing-in on whether or not there should be an inquest. Whether there was evidence of something other than a self-inflicted shot.”

  “What put you on this trail, Richard? What started you thinking Mary murdered Ernest? And how much further to this damned place?”

  “Not far.” He said, “And to the other—you’re the one with the minor in journalism, Hannah. What’s the reporter’s rule?”

  She stifled a sigh. Here they were. Again… Sliding into another of Richard’s classroom-style, Socratic interrogations that increasingly seemed to pass for conversation between them. In the past weeks, Hannah had come to see even their bedroom exchanges were less pillow talk than recitations. Was a time that was okay: Hannah thought Richard had things to teach her. But she’d learned all his lessons, and so swiftly….

  She wanted to say, “What’s the first rule of good writing, Richard? Show, don’t tell.” Or if he insisted upon journalistic maxims, she knew a fine one for good reporters: “Don’t talk; listen.”

  She really didn’t want to debate with him, but simply rolling over—going along with him—that only emboldened Richard to push things farther, it seemed. Besides, suicide—based on Hem’s own works and his obsession with self-destruction—made sense to Hannah. It completed a tragic arc. The notion of Papa’s death as nothing more than the bloody last salvo in a long-running domestic dispute lacked…romance.

  Annoyed and hungry, Hannah shrugged and said, “Follow the money.”

  “Precisely,” Richard said. “As the primary beneficiary in Hemingway’s will, Mary stood to gain and to gain and to gain. The evil old witch stands to make a mint with Papa dead. More importantly, however, hell, Mary has effectively appropriated Papa’s identity.”

  Hannah raised her eyebrows. “What?”

  “Since Hem died, Mary’s divulged plans to issue a bookcase-full of novels, anthologies, omnibuses, and even his letters, of which Hem expressly forbid publication. And she’s going to oversee it all!”

  A black sedan swung curbside and the driver, a priest, leaned over and rolled down the passenger-side window. He smiled and said, “You should be off your feet, ma’am. How about if I give you two a lift wherever you’re going? I don’t mind turning around to do that. Not at all.”

  Hannah said, “That’s so kind. We—”

  Richard shook his head and waved him on. “Thanks anyway, padre. Not too much further.” He wrapped his arm around Hannah’s shoulders. “And she’s on me all the time about getting more exercise.” Richard patted his gut. The priest nodded uncertainly and rolled back up his window, sliding off the curb.

  Hannah glanced back over her shoulder at the priest’s distant car, stopped for a light at the intersection. That’s when she saw the man following them—the man from the restaurant with the widow’s peak and the cheap suit. He looked down at his feet when he saw Hannah’s startled reaction. But he kept on walking down the hill behind them, his head down and his hands in his pockets.

  She took Richard’s arm, started to alert him to their shadow, but then hesitated. “Of course he’s going our way, Hannah,” Richard would likely say with exasperation if she pressed it. “I’ve already established he’s a Hemingway scholar. Naturally he’s bunked in the lodge with the rest of us.”

  That’s how it would go, Hannah knew it. She looked back over her shoulder and the man again dipped his head, cigarette smoke trailing from his nostrils and bony fist.

  Hannah’s hopes were raised again: a turquoise and white, ragtop ’57 Bel Air was pulling over to the curb. Hannah couldn’t see much of the driver’s face but he seemed a stylishly dressed older man.

  Before he could roll down his window, Richard waved him along, too. Hannah watched the man drive on, shaking his head.

  Reconciled to having to walk the distance now with that strange man following them all the way there, to distract herself, Hannah played devil’s advocate in her head: So what if Mary published Papa’s scraps? The books would certainly sell like crazy.

  Some of the stuff would maybe even be good, and there was undeniably still a terrible hunger for more from the man. Everybody would win and so what? Where was the wrong in that? The same thing with the letters which all of the scholars would slaver after when they finally saw the light of day.

  If Hem truly wanted his correspondence suppressed he could have destroyed the letters himself over the years instead of assiduously archiving them; preserving even the carbons.

  Papa’s claims to want all of his letters held back or burned struck Hannah as disingenuous. Hem knew publication of his correspondence would reignite interest in his work when he was gone.

  And the letters, like the posthumous manuscripts, really served to keep men like Richard in business, too. Richard certainly knew that.

  Richard was still playing lecturer: “Mary lies. A shotgun blast, and Mary gains the ability to steal Hem’s work and his identity. Two lucrative commodities, to say the least.” The professor smiled crookedly. “In the final analysis, it could justly be said his death became her.”

  Hannah rolled her eyes. Clearly, the last was a key line in Richard’s manuscript, perhaps even the title of a major section. Not continuing—at last pausing—Richard expected a response, and a positive one, Hannah knew, but maybe a tad recklessly, she pursued the middle ground, tentatively testing her theory: “I suppose that’s a line from a draft of your manuscript.”

  Hannah twisted her engagement ring around and around her finger, frowning at its tightness. “But darling, if Mary could ape Papa’s style so convincingly, why wouldn’t she be writing her own stories and novels?”

  “Call it testament to the strength of the original material,” Richard said. “Plus, you don’t need to make a line-by-line comparative study of Hem’s bastardized work—I’ve also got a pattern of behavior. Try this on for size: Dr. Jos�
� Luis Herrera Sotolongo once found Hem and Mary holding one another at bay with shotguns at the Finca.”

  Hannah nodded. “And?”

  “Jesus, Hannah, hear me! Hem and Mary were pointing guns at one another! At the very least that smacks of self-defense on Hem’s part, too.” Richard raised an eyebrow. “Tell me I’m not right, Hannah.”

  Hannah looked again at the man walking in their trail; Richard was still oblivious to him. Hannah stepped up their pace, said, “Lord, I feel like I’m back in your class, Richard.”

  “So answer the question posed.” Richard was huffing now; maybe finally regretting waving on those two Good Samaritans.

  Hannah thought a tempered maybe, at best, was in order. He was so fond of the Socratic method, well, she could argue back. She came from a warring people, quick to provocation; long memories and short tempers. And Celts just weren’t that squeamish about death. Her kinsman believed drinking water from a suicide’s skull could cure epilepsy.

  She said, “Where I’m from, the old ones contend the corpse of a murder victim bleeds if touched its killer.”

  Richard snorted: “What? So we dig Hem up — rub what’s left of him ’gainst Mary to test that adage?”

  Hannah chewed her lip; looked over her shoulder again. Richard was perspiring now; breathing through his mouth. She’d probably regret it—knew it would send Richard off on some new diatribe or assault on her sanity, but goddamn it, at this point, it seemed worth it.

  Slowing to allow Richard to catch up to her, she turned and to him and said, “That man who isn’t following us is close on our heels, Richard.”

  “Hemingway has no particular love of the FBI and would no doubt embark upon a campaign of vilification… His judgment is not the best, and if his sobriety is the same as it was some years ago, that is certainly questionable.”

  — J. Edgar Hoover

  CREEDY:

  SPAIN, 1937

  Chicotes was a tangle of smelly, lice-ridden and drunken soldiers from the front, “journalists” on more than one payroll and working girls; spies, provocateurs, unemployed bullfighters and leftist cinema stars who’d come to get themselves some colorful press back home.

  Creedy saw Spain as a sewer—better, he thought, to simply stand back and let the bastards annihilate one another. And, hell, any success in tamping down Fascism in Spain only threatened the momentum of some of the promising things happening in Germany.

  Hemingway and Lassiter were side-by-side at the bar, watching it all behind them in the dusty mirror. Creedy had dared to take up a stool at Hector Lassiter’s right elbow—the only way in this raucous din to hear a sliver of what the two novelists were talking about.

  Hemingway said, “If Webster’s ever grows a pair and puts the phrase ‘cluster fuck’ in the dictionary, an engraving of this joint tonight would serve as a worthy illustration.” Hemingway picked up the Zippo lighter next to Lassiter’s hand, read the engraving there, said, “Lasso, one true sentence…”

  It was an old game dating back to Paris that Hemingway and Lassiter were noted for playing: one author would start an improbable, tough-to-deliver-on sentence and the other would try to drive it home with vigor and pith. Stumbling, tipsy Hemingway repeated, “One true sentence, Lasso,” then, “Just because you’re buggy—”

  “—doesn’t mean the cockroaches aren’t out to get you,” Lassiter finished for him.

  Creedy ground his teeth, frustrated he hadn’t come up with a quick retort of his own.

  “A-fucking-men to that,” Hemingway said. He tapped the bar twice and pointed at their empty glasses. “Two more, Ramón, and pour ’em like you don’t own them.”

  The waiter, strangely elegant and crisply dressed for the raucous surroundings, nodded and said, “Sí, Papa.”

  “Speaking of tails, there’s my latest,” Hemingway said suddenly. He pointed at Creedy and grinned meanly. “How’s tricks Donovan?”

  Lassiter gave Creedy a fleeting appraisal. Creedy had never been this close to Lassiter before—never fallen directly under the gaze of the crime writer’s startlingly pale blue eyes. Lassiter smiled uncertainly and thrust out a big hand. “Howdy, Donovan. Have we met?” Lassiter hesitated, then said, “I didn’t catch a last name….”

  Hemingway said, “This shit is named Donavan Creedy. One of J. Edgar’s boys. And maybe something even beyond that. Spotted Donnie here in the Stork Club before I left New York. Fucking Hoover—he might as well give you Bureau boys letter-jackets for the way he dresses you all, cuts your hair and deploys you. It’s no wonder the Italian mob thumbs its nose at the FBI. You can see you Bureau boys coming from next week. Put that in your next report to Hoover about me, right, Donso?”

  Hemingway took a swig of his drink and then shook his head. “Lasso, can you believe Creedy here actually wants to be a novelist? Can you fucking believe that?”

  Lassiter just smiled and dodged Hemingway’s leading, loaded question. “The Italians? You talking about the Mafia, Hem? Haven’t you heard? Organized crime is a myth. Mr. Hoover swears so himself.”

  Hemingway just snorted and drained the dregs of his drink. He gestured to the bartender for a refill.

  Looking at Creedy more closely, Lassiter said, “You look familiar, Don.”

  Creedy’s jaw tightened. He hated to be called anything other than Donovan.

  “You already know the cocksucker, Lasso,” Hemingway said, waving a thick-fingered hand. “Or, at least, you two brushed shoulders a couple of times I know of. Creedy was in Paris with us, in the early days. Well, not really with us, were you, Donnie? You were always around the edges, a real breath of stale air. Gertrude gave Creedy a hell of a bitching out one night, Lasso. I think you were there.”

  “I’m starting to remember,” Lassiter said. He smiled awkwardly and slapped Creedy’s arm. Creedy seethed…and envied Lassiter his dimples. Lassiter said, “Well, pal, any of us who walked into that lion’s den that was Gertrude’s salon got our ass chewed as least once. Can’t count for you the tough shots Gert gave me in the early going. Let me get your next drink….”

  Hemingway said belligerently, “Fuck Stein. And fuck Creedy.” Then, leaning in confidentially, he said, “Hey, Don! Just between us and God, what’s the true gen on the Director and Clyde Tolson?”

  That one had Lassiter wincing. He said, “Better lay off, Hem. No percentage in throwing rocks at the Bureau. Best drop it.”

  That drew this dismissive hand wave from Hemingway, who was clearly still intent upon showing himself. He said, “Hey, Creedy! I’ve got spies of my own. What’s this business about J. Edgar not having any birth certificate on file? What’s that cocksucker hiding? Is he even an American? What’s Hoover hiding?”

  Other drinkers were listening now. Not good. In the charged atmosphere of Madrid, Creedy couldn’t afford to have his cover compromised.

  Creedy settled up; reluctantly shook Hector Lassiter’s offered hand again. He said softly to Lassiter, “You should talk to your rummy friend, Lassiter. Get him to show some restraint. Mr. Hoover has a long memory and a longer reach. This asshole is already on Mr. Hoover’s to-do list. Hard to imagine Hemingway could make it worse for himself, but he just might.”

  “Courage is grace under pressure.”

  — Ernest Hemingway

  6

  WITH THIS RING

  Hannah lay in bed, listening to the crickets and Richard’s breathing. He’d been asleep at least an hour. She was still struggling to find some comfortable position that would give her some peace. The past two weeks had been particularly hard in terms of getting anything like a real night’s sleep.

  When the baby came, sleep would be even more impossible to achieve. She wondered when she’d find the time and stamina to write then. She wondered if Richard would actually take some time with the baby so she could have a little time to develop her own writing career in the days ahead.

  At this early morning hour, life in some ways seemed so uncertain.

  And her hand was
throbbing. Her fingers were swollen and her wedding band and engagement ring were painfully tight on her finger—worrisomely tight.

  So far, she had resisted waking Richard to ask for his help.

  He’d resent being awakened, of course, but it would likely go well beyond simple irritation.

  It was a strange enough problem, so he’d likely seize on it—try to elevate it to some kind of Hemingway-style moment to revel in: something that would afford Richard the opportunity to display his own dubious sense of “grace under pressure” and command presence. He’d callously martial resources—demand the lodge van be made available…ordering around bellhops, desk clerks, and emergency room orderlies like he was Papa Himself reborn.

  It would be mortifying for Hannah; Richard would likely love it.

  By the time he was through, Richard would have worked it up to something on the scale of that dying writer with a gangrenous leg in The Snows of Kilimanjaro: something to repeat around the English department lounge at Hannah’s expense.

  Still, this was getting bad. She held her finger up closer to her face and frowned. Her finger looked black in the soft light; the rings felt like tourniquets.

  Now Hannah envisioned a worse scenario: rushed to the hospital and facing the prospect of her rings having to be cut from her finger—the bands sawed in half and twisted free from her suddenly thick digits. Richard would rage through all that—probably distract the doctor and it would end up with Hannah’s finger getting sliced to ribbons along with the rings.

  She looked at the rings in the moonlight through the window: not her mother’s Claddagh band which she had wanted to wear, but these other, rather homely rings that weren’t at all appealing—something Richard had found in a pawnshop somewhere after seeing a similar set of bands given Martha Gellhorn by Papa.

  She cursed herself: during her last doctor’s visit, her obstetrician had frowned at the rings and said, “Really, it’s time to take those off until after the baby’s born—profound swelling isn’t uncommon in the last months. You wouldn’t want to lose a finger, would you?”