Dastardly Bastard

by Edward Lorn

  She squeezed the phone tightly, depressed buttons beeping in the process. Before she realized it, she was crying. The phone hit the mattress with a dull thwump.

  From the corner of her eye, she spotted her son standing in the doorway of her bedroom. Lyle’s frame appeared small under the too-large pajamas. His yellow hair, so much like Paul’s, shined in the light of the lamp. His eyes were bloodshot, set above dark bags that looked deeper in the shadows on his face than they probably were.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I just wanted to hear his voice. I didn’t mean to upset—”

  “Come here.” Marsha’s heart shrank when he didn’t come to her. “Please?”

  When he still didn’t move, she went over and wrapped her arms around him. Even though only twelve years old, he already came to her chin.

  He kept his arms by his sides.

  “You didn’t upset me.” She tousled his hair, letting him step back from her. “I’m still getting used to him not being here, Lyle. Just like you, it’s gonna take some time.”

  He nodded and turned to leave.

  “You don’t want to talk about it?”

  He shrugged, his back to her. “Just wanted to make sure I didn’t piss you off.”

  Lyle’s defenses were up. She’d get nothing else out of him. As he moved back down the hall to his room, a soft glow flashed in front of him. He had that cell phone out, playing some game. She didn’t know what to do with him. It had been two months, and nothing had changed.

  Marsha wiped the leftover tears from her eyes and closed the door. Figuring her day had started—there was no going back to sleep after that—she decided to get dressed.

  On the bed, the phone pulsed red. She had the thought to just let it go to voicemail, just let Lyle listen to his father’s voice play out over the message prompt, but things couldn’t keep going on as they were. She bent over the bed and snatched the handset, pressing TALK as she brought it to her ear.

  “Please stop, Lyle.”

  “Good morning to you, too, Marsha.”

  “Bobbi?” She hadn’t expected to hear her mother-in-law’s throaty voice. “My God, it must be just after…” She quickly calculated the time difference between Ohio and California. “… one in the morning there. Is everything all right?”

  “Here? Sure. Not so much where you are, though.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Lyle’s been texting me all night. Not that I mind, Marsha, but the boy needs more than I can offer him from the other side of the country.”

  “I’m trying, Bobbi.”

  “I know you are. When Paul and I lost his father, things seemed to fall apart. My Randy wasn’t much different than Paul. Could say both men were cut from the same cloth.” Bobbi’s voice hitched on the last word. “Now, I have my own hang-ups about my son’s death, so I can’t just tell you to get over it, because I know that’s not entirely possible. But you must remember, you still have Lyle. He needs to be everything right now.”

  “He won’t let me in.” Marsha didn’t like the whine in her voice.

  “Is there anything you can do to take his mind off things for a while? Go see a movie? Play catch? I know that’s more of a father and son activity, but it’s worth a shot.”

  “I can’t get him off that phone long enough to do anything. I want to just throw it away. Make him focus on his feelings. Focus on me. Something.” Marsha opened the top drawer of her dresser for some clean panties, but stopped when she realized she’d opened Paul’s side. His undershirts and boxers stared up at her.

  “Throwing his phone away is just going to make him draw away from you even more. You need to keep him active. Paul used to take him hiking, right? What about that?”

  “I’m not the nature type, Bobbi.” Marsha brought a T-shirt to her face and smelled it. She felt foolish, like a high school girl snuggling with her steady’s letterman jacket. Plus, the shirt smelled just like her own, of laundry detergent.

  “This is not about you.”

  “Right.” Marsha laid the shirt back down in the drawer and started sifting through the other garments.

  “Is there anything he and Lyle were going to do before… Paul died?”

  “He wanted to take Lyle out to that chasm thing down in Pointvilla. I thought it was too dangerous and talked him out of it. Maybe I should have let them go.”

  “There you go. Are they open today?”

  “I don’t know, Bobbi. Isn’t it just going to be like I’m trying to make up for the fact that Paul isn’t here?”

  “Maybe that’s what Lyle needs. Just to know you want to do those same things with him. Think about it, Marsha. I need to get to sleep. Tell Lyle I love him, won’t you?”

  “Sure. Good night, Bobbi.”

  “Good night.”

  “Are we going to go?” Lyle was back in the doorway.

  “How long have you…? Never mind.” She offered him a smile, but let it die when she realized he had his face buried in the screen of his cell.

  “You actually gonna take me out there?” He lifted his head and met her eyes.

  “Do you want me to?”

  He shrugged.

  “You have to give me a little more than that… Brody.” Marsha wasn’t too fond of her son’s middle name, but Paul had chosen it, and while alive, had called Lyle by the moniker more often than not. Calling her son Brody was a last ditch effort at getting his attention.

  It seemed to have worked.

  The corner of Lyle’s mouth lifted into an almost smile. “Sure. Let’s go.”

  “You going to leave that here?” She pointed at the phone.

  “Yeah, right.” He actually laughed. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d heard his laughter.

  3

  DONALD ADAMS WOKE UP THAT morning just a little bit taller. His newest book, eMurder, had been announced as number one on the New York Times Best Seller List. The hotel room was colder than he would have liked, so his first order of business after checking his email was to adjust the thermostat.

  It was almost seven o’clock in the morning, an hour later than his normal waking time. He’d set the alarm so he could catch the announcement about eMurder the minute the news dropped. Rumors had him at number one, but he wanted to make sure. Wondering why the alarm hadn’t gone off, he checked the settings on the clock. He’d set it for p.m., not a.m.. Honest mistake, but he wondered why his internal clock had let him sleep in. If nothing else, he would doze until a quarter past six. Never an entire hour over.

  To the literary world, Donald Adams was H.R. Chatmon. His alter ego was a five-foot-nine model named Jeff Carter. Donald used Jeff for all publicity photos and book signings. Jeff’s pockets were amply lined for his services and appearances by Scribner, Donald’s publisher.

  The decision to use Jeff had been Donald’s, not Scribner’s. Donald was three-foot-nine with dwarfish features—over-large forehead, stubby arms and legs—and he felt a taller, more attractive man would sell more books. Other little people would definitely take offense at Donald’s decision, but he couldn’t have cared less. He didn’t want to be known as the first dwarf to have made it to the bestseller list, because in the end, that’s all anyone would see. Most would even attribute his stature to the reason he was selling so many books. He would be the literary equivalent of a sympathy-fuck.

  Donald had heard through the grapevine that Stephen King had published as Richard Bachman for an experiment. Could King publish under another name and receive the same success he’d enjoyed with Carrie? The prolific author had, and Donald envied the man that. One day, somewhere over the horizon, Donald would let the world in on his little secret and watch his own sales spike. For the moment, he would remain H.R. Chatmon, the five-nine, sexy version of himself. Thanks to Jeff.

  His morning shower was hot, relaxing. Donald could hear his cell vibrating on the tile counter over the thrumming of water in his ears, but tried to ignore it. No doubt, it was Lars Stillstead, his agent, wanting to
let him know the glorious information he’d received in his email.

  “Yeah, yeah, Lars… New York Times… best seller… blah, blah, blah,” Donald droned as he washed his hair with the vanilla-scented shampoo the hotel provided. He always used the stuff, having never brought his own toiletries along on trips. What was the point when four- and five-star places—the only hotels suitable for a best-selling author such as himself—carried the best of the best? If Donald were to go out and buy the shampoo he was currently using, he’d spend over a hundred dollars for a sixteen-ounce bottle. His frugality was the reason Donald was sitting on over four million in his savings account. That, and the fact he had no place to call home.

  During his book signing tours, which lasted six to eight months, there was no need for a permanent address. When Donald wasn’t on tour, he stayed with friends and family. None of them knew he was technically homeless, all of them so happy to see him they would offer a guest room or guest house for his use. He would feign shock, adding phrases like, “I couldn’t impose,” and “I have other arrangements,” until people actually begged him to stay.

  When his first book, Timber, had become so popular ten years back, he’d been living in a trailer on the outskirts of Flagstaff, Arizona. The entire book had been written on an old Brother typewriter, a clickety-clack machine Donald would hear in his nightmares after day-long writing sessions. He had since moved on to a three-thousand dollar iMac, so quiet he didn’t know he was working half the time.

  He stepped out of the shower, drying off with a plush towel that would probably cost most of America a day’s wages. He used the stool he brought with him everywhere to stand on while he combed his hair and tweezed his eyebrows in the steamy mirror. He was using his electric clippers to trim his reddish-brown beard when he heard the room phone ring.

  “Shit.”

  He turned off the clippers and followed the trill of the phone into the main living area, where the handset lay on a bar in the kitchen nook. A red light blinked in tandem with the tone. Donald pressed the answer button and screwed the speaker to his ear, holding it with his shoulder as he returned to the bathroom.

  “Hello?”

  “Mr. Adams?”

  “Yes?”

  “This is Robert from the front desk. How are you doing today?”

  “Fine. What can I do for you, Robert-From-The-Front-Desk?”

  “I have that information you requested. It will be waiting for you at the front desk.”

  “Information?”

  “On Waverly Chasm, sir.”

  Trying to remember where he’d heard that name before, Donald thought back to the evening before. After dinner at a popular restaurant in downtown Pointvilla, he had taken a taxi back to the hotel and was met by a sexy chick in a hotel maid uniform. Her name was Candice, and her black hair shone in the bright lights of the lobby chandelier. He normally would have ignored the giantess, but there was something in her eyes—a faint attraction. Donald felt drawn to her, to her beauty, to the possibility he might get laid by someone over four feet tall.

  “Are you in town long?” she asked.

  “Just for two days. I leave the day after tomorrow.”

  “You should check out Waverly Chasm, might give you something to write about.” She winked.

  “Sorry, I don’t write. The guy I’m here with does all the writing. H.R. Chatmon. Ever heard of him?”

  “Everyone needs an avatar, Donald.” Another wink.

  Donald hadn’t liked where the conversation was going. He left it at that and went upstairs to confront Jeff, sure that his friend must have dropped the ball. Candice had certainly caught Jeff in a lie. Donald could think of no other reason why Jeff would chance losing his meal ticket over a piece of ass. Plus, Jeff’s role as H.R. Chatmon got the man plenty of tail. The man had no reason to admit to anyone that he wasn’t actually the author, never mind telling someone the actual writer was a dwarf named Donald Adams.

  Jeff didn’t answer when Donald knocked. Confused and mentally tired from a long day, Donald had gone back to his room and gotten ready for bed.

  “Sir?” Robert-From-The-Front-Desk broke in.

  “I’m sorry. What?”

  “Was there anything else?”

  Donald thanked Robert-From-The-Front-Desk and hung up the phone. Before putting the handset down and continuing his daily clean-up session, he dialed Jeff’s room number. While the line rang in his ear, he paced from the toilet to the door, door to toilet, then stopped in the middle of the bathroom, breathing hard. Something was wrong. He was suddenly very sure of that fact.

  Jeff stayed in his room on book signing tours. Even when he got lucky, he would always bring the woman back to the hotel room for the fling. Jeff always did as he was told. The last thing Donald or Scribner needed was H.R. Chatmon’s model running around strange towns making a fool of himself in public. Chatmon, the persona, was a recluse. He needed to be. If too much was learned, Donald would turn into Lucy Ricardo with some serious ‘splainin’ to do.

  The phone continued to ring in Donald’s ear, until Robert-From-The-Front-Desk answered, “I’m sorry, but your call doesn’t seem to be going through.”

  “Mr. Chatmon might be asleep,” Donald said. “Could you send someone by to—”

  Someone knocked on the door. “Never mind. Someone’s at the door. It’s probably him. Thanks, Bob.”

  “It’s Rob—”

  Donald hung up and moved to open the door.

  A red-cheeked girl stood on the other side with her face downcast. The front of her shirt showed a laptop with a soft S&M scene on its screen. Above the picture, in bold italics was eMurder.

  “I think you have the wrong room.” He was closing the door when the girl placed her palm on the wood. He could have shut it if he tried hard enough. She didn’t appear to be very strong, but her confidence was palpable, or maybe her anger.

  “We respected you,” she said, her eyes still on the floor. Her auburn hair cascaded down in front of her face. The girl couldn’t be more than sixteen.

  “I don’t—”

  “You fucking lied to us!” She snapped her head up and gave him a nail-studded glare. “You’re a goddamn midget?”

  He put his shoulder into the door, slamming it in the girl’s face. He backed away slowly as she pounded for entrance. Luckily, hotel doors locked automatically from the outside when shut. He said a silent thank you for that one.

  After a moment, Donald heard other voices out there, new ones, male and female. The girl had brought an entire brood with her. Donald wondered, distantly, if they were carrying torches and pitchforks.

  “Shit.”

  Jeff. He needed to find Jeff. And quite possibly castrate the bastard.

  Donald moved as fast as his small legs could carry him. He ran through the foyer into the great room and on toward the bath, where he snatched up his cell from the area next to the sink. He’d forgotten all about the vibrating he’d heard while showering.

  1 Missed Call

  3 New Messages

  The call was from Lars Stillstead, and in the subsequent voicemail he only said something had gone terribly wrong. The other two were text messages—one from Lars telling Donald to call him as soon as possible, the other from Jeff.

  The last simply read: good luck lil buddy ttyl!

  “Motherfucker!” Donald roared.

  Jeff had given him up. For whatever reason, Donald had been betrayed. He’d known Jeff for almost twenty years, even since Sunne died, and he’d thought the man a true friend. What the hell had happened over the course of less than twenty-four hours?

  Donald called the cops to deal with the unhappy mob at his door. Then, he called Lars to find out what came next.

  ~ * * * ~

  By the time the police arrived, the throng of angry villagers had dispersed. Donald supposed they had thought better of their actions. The Pointvilla Hotel might have had something to do with it, as well. It didn’t look good for a five-star hideaway to be
harboring possibly dangerous fans, especially since someone on staff must have given away Donald’s room number. Donald would let his lawyers have a field day with that once everything died down.

  Lars Stillstead was not happy. “I just can’t believe Jeff would do something like this.” Lars sighed into his end of the phone, so loud Donald thought he could feel the wind in his ear. “I think he sold the story to Newsweek.”

  “What?” Donald almost screamed as he finished packing his suitcase. “You’re shitting me!”

  “Afraid not, Don.” Lars always called him Don, and Donald hated it. “The only other emails I got, other than the one about eMurder placing numero uno on the best seller list, were from John Clarence over at Newsweek.”

  “The Man with the Two First Names,” Donald scoffed. He hated John’s gossip column.

  “That would be him.” Lars’s breathing sounded labored. “I’m going to need you to keep your head down, Don. At least until all this shit blows over. I’ll handle John Clarence and the rest of the press. They can’t go live with this bullshit until they get a confirmation from the source. But what I’m worried about is—”

  “The Trash.”

  “Yep.”

  The Trash referred to the tabloids housewives frequented while waiting in grocery store checkout lines. Those women couldn’t care less about the spine of a story; they wanted the bleeding heart. True or not, the story would break in the tabloids first if Lars didn’t do his job.

  “So I hide?” Donald asked.

  “Exactly. Leave that hotel. Go find some place where no one will give you a second look.”

  “Have you not noticed I’m a wee bit short, Lars? I get attention wherever I go.”

  “Damn it, Don!” The outburst was unlike the agent, but Donald let it slide. “I’m trying here, pal. Really, I am. Just keep out of sight.”

  Something occurred to Donald, something Candice had mentioned. “Waverly Chasm,” Donald whispered, not meaning to make the thought audible.

  “What? You losing it on me, Don?”