“I mean I want it. Listen, I’ve got to finish it, and there are a few people I want to show it to. But as far as I’m concerned, you can tell your friend there that he can expect to be rich and famous real soon.”
“I’m not sure he cares about rich, and I have a strong feeling he’s dead set against famous.”
“I think,” said Al, “that we won’t be able to avoid the rich part. Preserving his anonymity can probably be done. Still, eventually I’ll need to talk with him.”
“I’ll see what he says.”
“No disrespect, Brady, but you know you’re superfluous here. The agent’s the one who handles all the legal stuff, and I’d prefer to deal directly with the writer.” He hesitated. “Or are you interested in a piece of the action?”
“I have no interest in the action,” I said. “I’m just helping out a friend here.”
“Whatever,” he said. “I’ll get back to you in a couple weeks. Meantime, ask—what’d you say his name was? Daniel?”
“Daniel, yes.”
“Tell Daniel that he and I will have some work to do. I don’t want to mess with his story, but there are some loose ends and rough spots. You might mention the rich and famous part to him, too.”
I called Daniel as soon as I hung up from Al Coleman. I got his answering machine at the house, so I tried the shop. A male voice I didn’t recognize said, “Yo?”
“Is Daniel there?”
“Hang on.”
I heard him yell, “Hey, Daniel. Phone.” There was a murmur of male voices in the background, a burst of laughter.
A minute later Daniel said, “McCloud.”
“It’s Brady.”
“Yes?”
“Daniel, I’ve found an agent who’s agreed to handle your book. He hasn’t quite finished reading it, and he wants to show it to some other people. But he loves it.”
“Yes. Fine.”
“His name is Al Coleman. The Coleman Agency in New York.”
“Okay.”
“Listen,” I said. “Do you understand?”
Aye.
“It means you’ve got a helluva chance of getting it published.”
“I understand that.”
“You don’t exactly sound elated.”
“It’s what I expected, Brady.”
I paused for a moment. “Can you talk?”
“Not really.”
“You’ve got a gang in the shop?”
“Aye.”
“And you don’t want them to know about the book, right?”
“Right.”
“Well, that’s a damn shame, because your most appropriate reaction right now should be to jump up onto your woodstove and dance a jig.”
“Hold on, will you?” he said. Then I heard him say, “Hang this up when I tell you, Vinnie.”
A minute later I heard a click, and Daniel said, “Okay, Vinnie. Hang it up.” Then he said, “Brady, you there?”
“I’m here.”
“I’m in the office now. Noisy out there.”
“And you didn’t want to be overheard.”
“Aye. I want to tell you something.”
“Go ahead.”
“I don’t want to dance a jig, lad. I don’t want to celebrate. This book is not an ego thing. It’s just a story that I wanted to tell. Do you get it?”
“Shit, Daniel, most people—”
“Most people who write books want to be writers, see their name on the jacket of a book, be on television.”
I found myself nodding. “I hear you.”
“Not me.”
“Okay.”
“You understand?”
“Yes, Daniel.”
“Well, fine.”
“What about meeting with Al Coleman?”
“No.”
“But if he’s going to represent you—”
“He’ll do it through you. And I don’t want you to tell him who I am.”
“Right.”
“Or the publisher, or the editor, or anybody else.”
“Okay.”
“That’s your job, Brady. To make sure nobody knows.”
“That’s what I’ll tell Al, then.”
After I hung up with Daniel, I called Coleman back. “He won’t meet with you,” I said.
“Not good,” he said.
“He’s adamant.”
“I’ll have to live with it, then.”
“Something else you should know, Al.”
“Go ahead.”
“I doubt if this guy intends to write another book. I mean, it’s not that he burns to be a writer. I suspect he’s got this one story in him, and now he’s told it.”
“You trying to discourage me?”
“No. Just being straight with you.”
“Normally,” he said, “that would be important information. In this case, I don’t care.”
“It’s that good, huh?”
“I told you. This story’s dynamite.”
Julie buzzed me in my office after lunch on a Tuesday a couple of weeks later. “It’s the Coleman Literary Agency,” she said.
“Hot-damn,” I replied. “I got it.”
I pressed the blinking button on my phone console and said, “Al?”
“This is Bonnie,” came the voice in the phone. “Please hold for Mr. Coleman.”
“Hey, Bonnie?” I said quickly.
“Yes?”
“I remember you.”
“I remember you, too, Mr. Coyne.”
“You and Al used to come to our place. I should’ve made the connection before.”
“It was a long time ago.”
“I guess I just didn’t expect that you and Al Coleman…”
“Would end up married.”
“Well, yes.”
“Because I’m taller than him.”
“Well—”
“And he’s not as handsome as, for example, you.”
“I didn’t—”
“Al Coleman, Mr. Coyne, was a terrific lover.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Still is. Here. I’ll put him on.”
I heard a click, then, “Brady?”
“Hi, Al.”
“Brady, I’m sending back the manuscript.”
“Huh?”
“I’ve decided not to handle it.”
“But I thought—”
“Dynamite. I know. I said that. I thought it was a fucking novel.” He paused. “Listen, Brady. I shouldn’t’ve even called you. I should just send it back with the standard rejection form. But—listen. How well do you know this guy?”
“Daniel?”
“Yes. Is he really a friend of yours?”
“Well, yes. He’s a client. Most of my clients are friends.”
“Known him for a long time?”
“Not really. Look. What makes the difference?”
I heard Al clear his throat. “Brady, I probably shouldn’t be telling you this. But I’d feel guilty if I didn’t, okay?”
“For Christ sake, Al—”
“If I were you, I’d avoid this man like the plague.”
“What?”
“Just give him back his manuscript, tell him it’s unpublishable, and get the hell out of there. You don’t want to be mixed up with this guy. He’s a very scary man. He’s dangerous.”
“Come on, Al. I mean, shit, it’s just a book. You—”
“You should trust me on this, Brady.”
“Look, if you don’t want the book…”
I heard him sigh. “I’ll return the book. You read it. Then you can judge for yourself, okay? Hey, someone’ll probably publish it. Good luck to you. But not me. I don’t need it. I don’t need the money that bad. I’m just not gonna get involved with a guy like that.”
“Jesus Christ, Al—”
“Read the book, Brady. Then you’ll see what I mean.”
7
I SWIVELED AROUND AND stared out the window onto Copley Square. Al Coleman had loved Daniel’s book,
wanted it, thought it had bestseller potential. Then suddenly he hated it. He didn’t say it was a bad book, boring, poorly written, any of the usual things that get books rejected. Instead, he talked about Daniel. A scary, dangerous man, he called him. What kind of reason is that to reject a book?
I knew Daniel. Not well, maybe, but a helluva lot better than Al Coleman. I suppose anyone who had survived the Vietnam jungle nightmare could be seen as scary. Daniel struck me as troubled, perhaps. Depressed, edgy, maybe a little paranoid. But he wasn’t scary or dangerous.
And so what if he was? Lots of scary, sick, perverted people published popular books. It made no sense.
I’d make sure to read it when I got it back. Maybe then I’d understand Al’s reaction.
I went back to the library and photocopied the entire three-page listing of literary agents from a volume called The Writer’s Handbook I called every one of them, told them about Daniel’s book, and found four who agreed to bypass the usual narrative outline preliminary and look at the manuscript, and who said they didn’t mind what they called a “simultaneous submission.” As soon as the manuscript came back I would make copies of it and send it to all four of them.
I told Daniel what had happened. He accepted that news with typical stoicism. He didn’t ask why Al had changed his mind, and I was relieved that I didn’t have to tell him. I told him I’d try to find another agent to handle it.
Two weeks passed from the day that Al Coleman had called to reject the book. The manuscript didn’t arrive.
I called the Coleman Agency. A machine answered. I tried several times over the next two or three days. I would always get the machine with Bonnie’s voice informing me that I should leave my name and number and my call would be promptly returned.
I did as instructed. My call wasn’t returned at all.
This irritated the hell out of me. I decided I’d call Al Coleman at home. At dinnertime. Or late at night. I can’t stand being ignored.
So I once again scurried over to the library and copied all of the Albert and Allen and Alan and Alfred and Alvin Colemans out of the Manhattan phone directory. There were twenty-three of them.
After supper that evening I began calling.
On my fourteenth try I got a machine with Bonnie’s voice on it. I left a message there, too. I tried again at midnight, just before I went to bed. Again the machine answered. I didn’t bother leaving a message this time.
I decided Al and Bonnie had gone on vacation.
A week later they were still on vacation.
And they were still on vacation five weeks later. It was the last week in September, and Al Coleman still hadn’t returned Daniel McCloud’s book to me.
When the phone beside my bed began jangling, I tried to reach for it. But I found that my arm, draped over Terri Fiori’s hip, had gone to sleep and refused to awaken as fast as my head did.
“Someone’s at the door,” Terri mumbled.
“It’s the telephone, hon.”
“So get the phone already.”
“I can’t move my arm.”
Terri moaned, turned, kissed my neck, reached across me, and picked up the phone. She had to slide the entire front of her body against the front of mine when she did it. It helped to wake me up. She held the receiver to my ear. She rubbed her smooth leg against mine and nuzzled my throat.
“Cut it out,” I whispered.
She bit my numb shoulder.
“Hello?” I said into the phone.
“Brady?”
“Yes. Who’s this?”
“It’s Cammie Russell. Brady, something’s happened.”
I pushed myself up so that I was half sitting in the bed. “What’s the matter?”
Terri pulled away from me and frowned.
“It’s Daniel,” said Cammie.
“What—?”
“He’s… he wasn’t in the house. I went to the shop. He’s… they killed him.”
“What?”
“He’s dead. An arrow. Brady, I’m trying to keep it together here, but I don’t know if…”
“Call the police and sit tight, Cammie. I’m on my way.”
“No.”
“No?”
“I can’t call them.”
“You’ve got to.”
“No. I can’t. It’s—”
“Because of Oakley?”
“Yes.”
“You think…?”
“I’m not calling them, Brady.”
I mouthed the word “coffee” to Terri. With the phone wedged between my shoulder and my ear, I fumbled on the bedside table for a cigarette. Terri kissed my belly and scurried bareass into the kitchen. I got a Winston lit and said into the phone, “Okay, Cammie. I’ll be there in two hours. Stay in the house and lock the door. Don’t answer the phone or let anybody in until I get there. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Are you all right?”
“I’m okay. But Daniel’s dead. He’s the only…”
“I’m on my way.”
When I told Terri about it, she insisted on coming with me. She said that Cammie might appreciate having a woman there. I didn’t argue with her. We filled a thermos with coffee and bought some crullers on the way to the turnpike entrance. I kept the needle on eighty all the way out the pike and was grateful that the state police had set no speed traps on that Sunday morning.
I pulled up in front of Daniel’s house a few minutes before nine. Terri followed me up to the front door. I banged on it and yelled, “Cammie. It’s Brady.”
The door opened almost instantly. I suspected she had been at a window watching for me. “Thank you,” she said. “I just…”
I put my arms around her and held her against me. Her body was limp and loose. Her head rested against my shoulder. I patted her back. “Are you all right?”
“Yes. I don’t know. I keep thinking maybe I was wrong. Can we go see him?”
“Yes.” I stepped back, then remembered Terri. “Cammie, this is my friend Terri Fiori.”
Cammie nodded. “Hi.” They shook hands.
We went down to the shop. I opened the door and went in. The two women followed behind me.
“Be careful not to touch anything,” I said to them.
Daniel was sprawled on his back near the woodstove. He looked shrunken and pale and incredibly still, lying there on the floor in a lake of his own dark blood. The feathered end of an arrow protruded at an angle from his midsection. It had sliced through his T-shirt and entered his body just above his navel, then penetrated upward under his rib cage, neatly avoiding bone along the way. About a foot of arrow was visible. Since hunting arrows are usually thirty inches long, I figured a good foot and a half had sliced its way up through Daniel’s diaphragm and into his chest cavity.
He had bled vastly from the entry wound. The front of his T-shirt was drenched, and a puddle the size and general shape of a bathtub surrounded his body. Broadheads are designed to maximize bleeding, and this one had done its job. An animal shot with a hunting arrow generally dies from blood loss, except when a lucky shot happens to nick its heart.
I guessed, in Daniel’s case, that his assassin had got off a lucky shot. There was no way that arrow hadn’t punctured his heart.
I squatted beside him, careful not to step in the congealed blood. His eyes were open and glazed and staring upward. He was obviously dead, but I pressed my fingers under his jaw anyway, seeking a pulse. There was none.
I got up, went to the phone beside the cash register, and dialed 911. I told the cop who answered that we had a dead body and gave him the address.
After I hung up, I turned to Cammie and Terri. They were standing by the doorway watching me. Terri had her arm around Cammie’s shoulders.
“They’ll be here in a minute,” I told them. “Let’s wait outside.”
The three of us sat on the front steps of Daniel’s shop. I smoked a cigarette. Cammie and Terri sat close to each other. Terri still had her arm around Cammie and was holdin
g her hand. The September sun filtered through the big maples that overhung the building. Somewhere behind us a few crows argued.
“Any thoughts?” I said to Cammie.
“Oakley,” she murmured after a moment.
“Come on,” I said. “So he arrested Daniel. That doesn’t mean—”
“I can’t think of anyone else.”
“Can you remember anything Daniel ever said that might make you think someone would want to murder him? Somebody other than Oakley, I mean?”
“No.”
“When do you think it happened?”
“Sometime after midnight. We were together last night until about then. We started to watch Saturday Night Live, but I was tired so we shut it off after the first couple of skits. Daniel walked me back to my place, kissed me goodnight, and I went right to bed. He mentioned he had a few things to clean up, that he’d be up for a while. Daniel would often go to the shop late at night. You know, to take inventory, work on his accounts, stack the shelves, look after the bait tanks. When he was working on his book, that’s where he went. He didn’t sleep much. He was always restless at night.”
“But he didn’t hint that he might be meeting somebody?”
She shook her head.
I looked hard at her. “He was running out of grass, wasn’t he?”
She shrugged. “He still had some.”
“But he knew he’d be needing more.”
“It worried him, yes.”
“Did he say anything about finding a source?”
She gazed away from me. “Not really.”
“What do you mean?”
Her eyes returned to mine. “He was trying to cut back. To parcel out what he had left. He talked about having to do something. You know Daniel. He never complained. But he knew he couldn’t live without his medicine. And he wouldn’t buy it from a dealer.”
“Nothing more specific than that?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“And you didn’t hear anything last night? A car, voices?”
“My studio’s way out back. I was asleep.”
At that moment we heard a siren’s wail racing toward us. Then a police cruiser came careening into the parking area in front of the shop. Two uniformed cops emerged unhurriedly. Neither of them was Sergeant Oakley.
I stood up and went to meet them. “Brady Coyne,” I said. “I made the call.”
They both nodded. Neither offered his hand or his name. The younger of the two, a compact, dark-haired guy in his twenties, wandered over to where Cammie and Terri were sitting on the steps.
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