“—thousands, actually. And each rejection brings me closer to a contract. You know that’s what I always say. Each failure brings me closer to success.”
“Yeah. I know that’s what you say. But what’s the lucky number? One million? Do you have to get a million rejections before you get a contract?”
“Hey, there’s a reason they call me ‘Lucky Larry.’”
“Yeah, yeah, I know the story. You got the big inheritance right when you dropped out of college. Then you won $3 million in the Texas Lottery. And then you got me. It’s true—you are a lucky guy. You’re lucky at everything—except writing.”
“Publishing. I don’t need luck with my writing. I’m an gifted novelist.” He held his pipe with dignity as he puffed. “I just need a lucky break with a publisher.” He began typing at full speed.
Erin sat down at the small table and poured herself a glass of Merlot. At least he brought along my favorite, she thought. She just hoped he had more than one bottle.
“For book seven, I’m taking a totally different approach. I signed up for a free account on this new website, DirectFromTheAuthor.com, using the name ‘Barry Undermine.’”
“Okay…that’s a strange name. But it’s about time you started using a pseudonym. It’s no wonder you get rejected, with a name like Larry Luzor.”
He had always been proud of the Luzor family name. His grandfather was a successful industrialist, Joseph Alfred Luzor, who named his son Philip Karl Luzor, who named his son Lawrence Igby Luzor.
But he had finally decided Erin was right. Besides, after six books, agents were probably rejecting his work before they even read it. They probably saw the name of the author and immediately stamp the manuscript REJECTED.
“I’m publishing each chapter on that site, as I write it. And I’m already getting some great comments from my readers. So, maybe an agent or a publisher will take notice and offer me a contract.”
“What’s the name of this one?”
“Illusion of Luck. It’s about this guy who’s been very lucky in life. But when his luck finally runs out, he decides to impose his will and make his own luck, so to speak. And everybody thinks he’s still lucky. But in truth, he’s doing whatever it takes to get his way. So, it’s not luck anymore—it’s the illusion of luck.”
“Gee, that character sounds a lot like you, Larry—except the part about him having the balls to make his own luck. The only luck you have is whatever drops in your lap.” She poured herself another glass of wine. She thought it tasted a little funny, but she continued to drink it anyway. “Now, I would appreciate it if you’d stop typing for a minute and tell me why I’m here!”
Larry completed the paragraph, and then turned his chair around to face her. He knew Erin wouldn’t be able to resist the wine. She was a border-line alcoholic. “It’s about money, Erin.”
“Look, I really needed the new BMW. Surely you didn’t expect me to keep driving the old one. I’d had it for nearly two years.”
“We’re broke.”
“Funny.” She sneered at him.
“I’m serious. In the five years we’ve been together, you’ve been spending money like there’s no tomorrow. Well, guess what, Baby? You’re right—there really is no tomorrow. Cause there’s no more money.”
“Oh—I see what you’re trying to do. Now that you’ve used up my best years you want to trade me in for a younger model. Well, you’re not gonna get away with it, Larry. I’ll take you for all you’re worth. You’re gonna be sorry you tried to dump me.”
Larry wondered why he had put up with her. He had long suspected she was doing the pool boy. Or one of the neighbors. Or all the neighbors. Because he knew she was not going without. Yet he was paying for everything. The spoiled brat had never worked a day in her life.
Meanwhile, Larry had cranked out six top-notch mystery novels. Sure—they hadn’t been published. But he had worked hard to make them great pieces of literature. “You’re not hearing me. There’s nothing left. The bank is about to foreclose on the house.”
“Liar! When my lawyer gets finished with you…”
“Yes? Go on.”
“I’m feeling kinda weird.”
“Really? Are you dizzy and nauseated?”
“Yeah. And my heart’s beating like crazy.”
“And your throat feels sore?”
“My mouth too. Larry, what have you done to me? Did you put something in the wine? I thought it smelled funny.”
“Ever heard of potassium cyanide?”
“You poisoned me?” Erin threw her glass at him.
He deflected it to the wooden floor. “Yeah. I pretty much knew how you would react when I told you I was broke. I figured you’d threaten to sue me and take me for all I’m worth.”
“But I was already drinking the wine before you told me about the money. What if I had been kind and understanding?”
“Then I would have used this.” He picked up the box that was sitting beside his laptop and held it up.
“What’s that? The antidote? Give it to me!”
She stood and tried to walk toward him, but fell to the floor. “Please, Larry…”
He opened the box, studied the contents and read the labels in no particular hurry. “Let’s see…we have two bags: one is a 3% solution of sodium nitrate…and the other is a 25% solution of sodium thiosulfate.”
“Please, Honey, save me. I promise I won’t sue you. I’ll just walk away if that’s what you want. I won’t even take the car.” She started choking. “Just send me away on a bus.”
“I don’t believe you.” He walked over to the kitchenette and dropped the two bags into the sink and reached into a drawer for a steak knife.
“No!”
He stabbed the bags repeatedly.
She gasped for air as the antidote, and her life, gurgled down the drain.
He walked back to his laptop, sat down, and began to type, ignoring Erin’s convulsing body just behind his chair.
Her family had long ago disowned her when she slipped away during the night at the age of 18. She had caused her parents considerable heartache over the years. And if the little tramp thought she could make it on her own, then more power to her.
Her Miss Bikini title was just the beginning of her fame and fortune according to the smooth-talking photographer from Dallas. She gave him all the sex he could handle before realizing she would get nothing in return.
But then she met a writer at a party. He seemed sort of odd. But when she found out he was loaded, she decided to latch onto him and never let go.
Now all his money was gone. And so was she.
Larry finished the paragraph and clicked the ‘Publish’ button. They’ll love this chapter, he thought.
Larry was more like his new character than Erin could have imagined. She just didn’t understand the true power of his luck, because she had never seen it in action. He himself had lost the faith. For ten years, he had been sitting safely on the edge of the freeway, watching the cars go by. Now it was time to jump in front of an 18-wheeler and force his God of Luck to save him.
He couldn’t just wait around for the things he wanted. He needed to be proactive—and just go for it. Because, where is the faith if he didn’t step out blindly, believing?
He checked for Erin’s pulse and felt nothing.
His cabin was at the end of the road. It was a fishing cabin. But he had come there to write a mystery novel—not to fish. He had never come there to fish. And he had never used the barbecue pit. Until tonight.
It would be dark soon.
He eyed her body. Good thing she was short.
3 - HAPPINESS GLITCH
For Greg, the second run-through was much different from the first. He tried to forget about the anonymous call, but couldn’t help wondering if he really knew the beautiful woman who was reciting vows to him.
“I, Cynthia, take you Greg to be my husband, my partner in life and my one true love. I will cherish our union…”
Then he noticed the necklace. Why hadn’t he seen it before? It looked expensive. He had not given it to her, and he wondered who had. Could it have been a gift from an ex-boyfriend—some guy she had hypnotized like Greg.
Some women like to treat a man like a piece of bubble gum. The poor sap thinks everything’s fine. And it is—until the taste runs out. Then she’ll just spit him out the car window of her life and never look back.
So, what was the worst-case scenario? He would marry her, and then go off to Orlando and enjoy the rides and shows at Disney World. Every night they would make love. Maybe some days they would take a midday nap after some midday sex. Wow! His body ached for her. Whoa. Not a good time to get aroused though.
The wedding would be in two days, on Saturday. They would drive to Dallas, spend their first night together in the Marriott near DFW Airport, and then catch their flight to Orlando the next morning.
Greg decided to forget about the stupid caller.
**********
It was about 7:00 PM, and pitch black. As far as Larry could tell, there was no moonlight at all. The gas pole lamp provided just enough illumination for nighttime barbecuing. But now that his eyes had adjusted to it, he could barely see anything else. His only real point of reference was the light coming from the cabin windows. Without it, he could imagine himself getting lost and walking right into Lake Texoma.
He figured the temperature to be around 50 degrees. Probably about average for late February, he thought. He wasn’t wearing a jacket, but felt plenty of warmth from the hot barbecue pit.
“Catch any big ones?” A deep voice boomed from somewhere out in the darkness.
Larry jumped.
The man’s voice was approaching. “Me and my boys pulled in quite a haul today. I caught me an 8 lb. largemouth bass.”
Larry strained to see the man, but couldn’t. For all he could tell, it could have been a ghost, floating around in the darkness.
“Something smells good.”
A big plaid shirt materialized at his side, and Larry jumped. Then he saw the jeans and the boots, and looked up to see the face. The guy was huge.
“Hi. My name is Jim.” He grabbed Larry’s hand and gave it a bone-crushing shake. “Me and Barb brought my three boys up for a long weekend of fishing. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking: shouldn’t them boys be in school? Nope. Cause I sent a note to their principal explaining how this is a part of the boys’ education. Know what I mean, Guy?”
“Yeah…sure.”
“Well, the principal didn’t like it. He didn’t like it one bit, and he got all huffy with me. But I told him I didn’t give a durn what he thought. Sure, they gotta learn their three R’s: reading, writing and ‘rithmetic. Everybody knows that. But you gotta have some balance in life. Know what I mean? Gotta have your three F’s, too. You know what the three F’s are?”
Larry could only imagine. “No, I don’t.”
“Fun, fishin’ and fryin.’” He laughed. “Yeah, I made that up. Pretty good, ain’t it? The fun and the fishing go without saying. But you gotta have the frying, ‘cause that’s what we do, Guy. It’s a family tradition. We don’t broil ‘em like you do.” He glanced at the barbecue pit. “But there nothing wrong with broiling, I guess—if that’s what you like.”
Larry had nodded along with everything, hoping the big redneck would soon run out of things to say and leave him alone.
“But that ain’t fish, is it, Guy? I’m sorry—I don’t believe I got your name. That’s just rude of me to keep calling you ‘Guy’.”
“Larry. And no, it’s not fish. It’s…uh…”
“That’s okay. No need to be embarrassed. You must be one of them fellas that likes to fish, but doesn’t like to eat ‘em. You’d rather have a big juicy steak, right?”
“Uh…yeah, that’s right.”
“Probably one of them expensive cuts. Mind if I have a look-see?”
“Uh, no. I mean, yes, I do mind. The uh, particular way I cook my steak…you have to keep the lid closed until right when it’s done. Yeah, because if you don’t, it’ll get tough.”
“I see. Never heard of that. But you might oughta take a look at that thing soon, Larry. Smells like it’s starting to burn.”
“Yeah. Well, I was just about to check it. Thanks for dropping by. See you around, Jim.”
“Yep. We’ll probably see you out on the lake tomorrow.” Jim started walking away, then stopped and looked back and said, “But if you catch some you don’t want, no need to throw ‘em back. I’ll take ‘em.” He chuckled.
“Okay, Jim. Thanks.”
Jim started whistling as he walked back toward his cabin. Larry recognized it as the theme to the Andy Griffith Show. He wondered how Jim could see his way back to his cabin. He half expected to hear him yell when he tripped over some stump or armadillo.
Larry watched in satisfaction as the smoke drifted upward, beyond the soft glow of the lamp, into the night. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, he thought. This was one steak that would never cheat on him again.
He had never felt so alive. Putting that sleazy tramp in her place and taking control of his life had cranked up the engine of his dark soul. And now, thanks to the close call with Jim, he was drenched in sweaty fear, pedal to the metal, fuel-injectors kicking in hard. What a rush!
**********
Greg, Cynthia and Beverly had decided to catch a ride with Sandy from the church to the rehearsal dinner at Coreyville Pasta House.
As Greg was getting into the front seat with Sandy, he said, “By the way, Baby, that’s a beautiful necklace you’re wearing tonight. I don’t think I’ve ever seen it before.”
“Thanks, Honey. Mom gave me this necklace.”
“I did?” said Beverly.
“Yeah. Remember, it was Aunt Judy’s.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. You gave it to me three or four years ago.”
“Oh. That’s right. Now I remember.”
Greg wondered if Cynthia had winked at her mom to get her to go along with the story.
“I could eat a cow,” said Sandy.
“Would you settle for spaghetti?” said Beverly.
“Sure, that’ll work. As long as they have plenty of that good bread.”
Cynthia was sitting behind Sandy. “So, Greg told you all about the bread, huh? I’m not surprised. The man loves a great loaf of bread.” She put her hand on Greg’s left shoulder. “That reminds me, Sweetie. You told them you’d call when we were on our way.”
“Oh, that’s right.” Greg took out his phone, flipped it open and noticed that he had missed a call. He keyed in the number for the restaurant. “Hi. This is Greg Tenorly and I have reservations…that’s right—the wedding party…we’ll be there in five minutes…okay. Thanks.”
Just before Greg closed his phone, he saw that he had a message, so he hit the voicemail button.
You’re not gonna take my advice, are you? You’re gonna marry her anyway. But you’ll be sorry, Man. So sorry.
“Who was the message from?” said Cynthia.
“Nobody. I mean, it was a wrong number.”
“I hate that,” said Sandy. “A couple of weeks ago I had this message from some guy saying his flight had not been delayed after all, and could I please be at the airport by midnight.”
“So, you had to call him back and tell he had the wrong number?” said Beverly.
“I couldn’t—it was an anonymous call.”
“Serves him right for blocking his number,” said Cynthia.
“Yeah,” said Greg. “I want to know who’s calling me.”
“When they do that, I just want to ignore the call,” said Sandy.
I wish I had, thought Greg.
“But then sometimes it’s important,” said Sandy. “So, what can you do? You really can’t take the chance.�
��
“Just let it go to voicemail every time,” said Cynthia. “That’s what I do.”
“But then you still end up listening to what they have to say,” said Greg. “You’re not likely to just delete the message without listening to the doggone thing.”
“Are you okay, Sweetie?” said Cynthia. “You seem kind of upset.”
Greg changed his tone. “No, uh, I just hope they have the tables set up right.”
“You worry too much, Man,” said Sandy. “Chill.”
Greg wished he could chill. He wished he could enjoy what should have been one of the best nights of his life.
He wished he could rewind the evening and start over.
Without his cell phone.
4 - BARRY UNDERMINE
Larry sat down at his laptop and logged in as Barry Undermine to complete another chapter of his serial novel, Illusion of Luck. He jittered with excitement at the realization of what he had just done. His clothing reeked of smoke from Erin’s incineration. Hopefully by morning her remains would fit in an urn. But she didn’t deserve one. So instead, he would dump her ashes into the rusty 55-gallon garbage drum on the other side of the dirt road.
His brain articulated the scene at hyper-speed, overloading his sixty-words-per-minute hands. It was so easy—just like the murder.
Wait. Not that easy, he thought. It wasn’t as though he was simply taking dictation. No, not at all. He was a craftsman, an artist. He had six novels worth of experience under his belt. This time his writing was much better—but only because he had a better story idea. It was still fiction.
He was taking a different approach to his writing—making it up as he went along instead of preparing a detailed story outline and following it to the letter. For this book, lucky number seven, he only had a rough sketch of the plot.
His original plot had called for his main character to confront his girlfriend about her affairs, and get into a nasty court battle over money. Then he would murder her and somehow get away with it and live happily ever after in Tahiti. Until the girlfriend’s father, an ex-Navy Seal, tracked him down and killed him in the final scene.
Greg Tenorly Suspense Series Boxed Set Page 40