Someone’s got his head clamped down as he’s being displayed through the aisles. This is their lesson to the rest of us. See! This is what happens. You’re next.
This could have been done differently, with dignity, but this is not about dignity, it is about disgrace, and seldom have I seen a man so disgraced.
This is today’s version of a public hanging, or an auto-da-fe.
Then it’s over. They’re gone. He’s gone.
There’s no time to reflect. Back to work. But this hurts.
Howard Glass, there he is, as usual, drooling down his shirt, at his Wild Cherry machine, and I spot him before he spots me. I walk over, taking giant steps, and when he sees me he leans back and gives me that grin and is ready to insert the needle. He thinks he’s got me again. Before he can open his mouth, I point my finger in his face and tell him that I know where he lives. He turns pale.
* * *
A week after all that, after they took Toledo Vasquez away in handcuffs, Franco DeLima crashes through the eighth floor of our parking garage. The eighth floor is a new addition and six months earlier two elderly women had the same deadly tumble. The concrete barriers had since been rebuilt and declared safe by State Inspectors. Still, nobody wanted to park up there, it made the papers. So that floor, the eighth, was reserved for employees only. We all parked up there, Toledo included.
Franco DeLima’s death is ruled an accident. But there are suspicions that it may have been suicide, or foul play.
Chapter 19
I’m on the bus to New York and Sylvio and though I expect the best, I’ve developed a new strategy, or a new attitude, which is that whatever will be will be. I know this is the oldest strategy there is, but it’s new for me. I figure, look, I have done my best, what more do you want, what more can I do?
As Melanie is driving me over to the Mount Laurel bus station, I start getting fidgety. Here we go again, another trip to New York and another bottom of the ninth. How much of this can you take? But then, as always, we pass Cole’s Cemetery, and for the first time I give it a thoughtful glance, and am comforted, because what more can life do to you than that, and isn’t this the sum of it all anyway? Does anything really matter?
Is this a thunderclap, I wonder, an epiphany, that nothing matters, that we’re all in the same boat? Big is the same as small, rich is the same as poor, smart is the same as stupid, success is the same as failure, strength is the same as weakness, faith is the same as disbelief, because, as the man said, all is futile.
Granted, as we have it from another wisdom; you may not succeed, but that does not absolve you from persisting.
So I’m persisting.
Melanie had wanted me to wear something else. For luck. They’re always wanting you to wear something else. Maybe even a suit, a suit and tie. Are you kidding? I asked her what it is with you women anyway, you women and clothes? What is this fixation on shoes? Don’t you know that’s the last thing we notice? No, it’s the only thing we NEVER notice about women.
So for this power meeting with Sylvio I’m dressed casual, as usual, and still have two hours to kill, so I stop off at the Big Library, to do some browsing, and find that there is no such thing, it’s all so overly systemized that you can’t find a single thing and you sure can’t take some book off some shelf and sit down and have a read. No, you have to know exactly what you want and then go through a whole rigmarole. It’s all too confusing. The librarians were nice, though, if unhelpful.
But the library is a frightening place. A billion books! Why would anyone want to read one of yours? Why would anybody care? Nobody cares.
When I got on that network Morning Show right after the movie came out Matt asked me if I got into any bar fights, given the fight scene in the movie and the book.
“You’ve never been challenged?”
I said I never go to bars. Most of the time you’ll find me in libraries and it’s been quite some time since I’ve had a fist fight with a librarian.
Actually he didn’t refer to the book, only the movie. They only want the movie. Amazing.
But it is different when one of them writes a book, TV personalities, where it’s all self-promotion and cross promotion. I’ll scratch your book, you scratch mine; meanwhile there are thousands, maybe millions of real writers out there who go unseen, unheard. No thank you. I guess this is sour grapes. Yes, it is sour grapes. But still, there ought to be a law.
After the library I visit the Grand Hyatt to check myself out in the bathroom. You don’t want to arrive sweaty over at Sylvio’s. I like the Grand Hyatt because it’s got a busy lobby and the help in there can’t tell you apart from a guest to a loiterer, which is what I am, technically, a loiterer. I don’t have a room. If someone should ask, I’d be in trouble, but no one does. That’s why I like this place.
Because I am a loiterer I pretend that I’m waiting for someone and I have a name picked out just in case, Mr. Collingsworth. I don’t know such a person but it sounds right. Sounds like a businessman and an important businessman. This lobby is itself a place of business, people in groups poring over papers and individually tapping on computers and talking into their cell phone. I’ve also got a cell phone.
In the bathroom, this is where I worry about getting trapped and someone yelling, “There’s a loiterer in there!” In fact, as I’m worrying about this, a cleaning man does step in and as I’m washing up he does seem to be giving me the once-over, but it’s probably my imagination. After he leaves a guy walks in and he’s not kidding me, he’s right off the streets, and I wonder how he got in here…he’s not one of us.
I think maybe I’ll have a drink at that bar upstairs, and that’s what I do, I have a drink, vodka straight up. The bartender asks what kind, what brand, and I tell him any brand will do, as I really cannot tell one from another. Can anyone? Can anyone really? “Oh,” I say, “Smirnoff.” I figure that sounds professional. So I have one Smirnoff and then another and then a third. I figure we’re all supposed to be drunks anyway, writers. All writers are drunks or something.
There are peanuts and snacks, quite exotic snacks, on all the tables and I help myself and keep helping myself until I am quite full. This is supposed to be lunch with Sylvio, but I know about such plans. Lunch will come if we’ve got a deal. Before that, no lunch. So I fill up. Back in my hungry days in New York I knew every hotel, the good bathrooms from the bad, and where you could fill up, just from going from hotel to hotel, from snack to snack. You never had to pay.
Sometimes, when I needed a full course, I’d become a guest at a wedding, or Bar Mitzvah, or any of a hundred business receptions.
Sometimes you’re stopped but usually nobody asks, or you get so good at this that you wait until a crowd arrives for distraction.
There is no excuse for starving in New York. The man who said “there’s no such thing as a free lunch” just never knew his way around hotels.
So now, a bit tipsy, but in control, I’m in the lobby of Sylvio’s building and decide to take the plunge, take the elevator, as a test of my new philosophy, which is, who cares? Really, who cares, and so what if the elevator gets stuck and the doors never open. I don’t care. I don’t give a damn. It’s out of my hands. Fate will decide. Fate always decides. You’re just a flunky in all this. You’re nothing.
That was my old philosophy, merely merging into the new. I’m nothing. You are nothing. We are nothing. We are all nothing.
Is it possible that I really want the elevator to crash? Yes, it is possible. Is it possible that there is a death wish ticking somewhere inside me? Yes, it is possible. Is it possible that I do not value life as I once used to? Yes, it is possible. Is it possible that I am fed up? Oh yes, that is very possible. Is it possible that they have smashed you against the rocks so many times that you don’t even care if you win or lose? Indeed, very possible. Is it possible that bitterness is all you can taste and that nothing, absolutely nothing, will ever make you happy ever again?
You’re gone. You’re
as gone as Maurice Richard is gone, the Maurice Richard you eulogized in your novel The Ice King. You wept for him and all that passed with him. They never saw him. Those grainy film clips don’t do him justice. He really was the ice God! The majesty of this man and his kingdom at the old Forum in Montreal! Those blazing eyes, the black hair sweeping back as he swooped down the ice. Does anyone remember? Is there anyone left?
So tell us, Mr. Richard, how do you manage to score all those goals?
“I shoot da puck.”
He never took to English. He was too proud. He was French, French-Canadian, and so he would remain until his dying day.
I shoot da puck.
That lesson surpasses hockey.
I shoot da puck.
Beat that for hard-boiled.
He died a gentle old man, Richard did. They gave him a State Funeral. Thank goodness somebody cared.
So I make it through the elevator trip all right, but Sylvio has a new assistant, a guy, a guy named Krew. He tells me it’s spelled with a K. I guess it counts. For him it surely counts. What’s worse than having your name misspelled? Mine was nearly misspelled in the early copies of the book. I caught it just in time.
“I hope you don’t mind waiting,” says Krew.
The problem is, Sylvio had to run out on an errand. Should be back shortly.
“He won’t be long.”
Like it matters? I’ve got all day. But it’s always something with these people. I wonder where he goes when he’s out like this. I only know he keeps making deals, so wherever he goes, it must mean a deal or some such thing. Maybe he’s visiting Roe Morgan to finalize that deal with me. Maybe it’s about me. Wouldn’t that be nice? Seems that it’s always about somebody else.
I love those rejections I used to get, even before my Big Book, the editor writing back to the agent, “We’ll have to pass on Jay Leonard, but I wish to speak with you on that other book you submitted. I think we can make an offer on Gerald Gould.” I told my agent (of that time) to never show me a rejection ever again. Just tell me yes or no, forget the details. I don’t want the details.
“That was Sylvio on the phone. He’ll be here shortly. Look around.”
So I do, and most of the books on the shelves are fitness and motivational; not much fiction. So Sylvio is big on self-help. One of his writers made it big, I think.
I think it was Weiss.
I did not know that Sylvio is weak on fiction. I did not want to know. He called. He made the pitch. He called himself the hottest agent in New York.
I checked. He was.
Only I did not know he was weak on fiction. Well, so what? He’s an agent. He always sells. What’s the difference what he sells.
Always six figures, too.
Melanie would love six figures. I know she’s waiting back home, waiting for my phone call, waiting to celebrate. I can only imagine how she feels right now. I can almost cry. She’s waited so long, so long to celebrate. She still has that dress from the premiere in Hollywood. She refuses to wear it, even to soirees in Haddonfield. No, she’s saving it for the next book, when we celebrate.
I know she’s got two, actually three reviews to get out. She’s on deadline. But I’ll bet she’s not able to pull herself together.
She was so nervous about this.
No, she said, she wouldn’t be disappointed if lunch didn’t pan out; all she wanted was an offer.
Then we’ll celebrate.
I’ll bet, I said, you’ll probably buy new shoes.
She laughed. I love it when she laughs. Her cheeks get all red and rosy, and how her eyes light up.
“Are you a writer?” I ask Krew. He’s busy doing things.
“No, I’m just filling in.”
“Then you’re an actor.”
“Yes.”
Tough to converse with Krew.
“Actors Studio?”
“I haven’t been accepted yet.”
“I once met James Lipton.”
“I never have.”
“I wonder if he’s related to those Lipton tea people.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
I ask him who he acts like. I figure it to be a legitimate question. It’s always asked of writers. Who does he write like?
“Pacino,” he says.
“Oh, one of my favorites.”
“I’ve got a ways to go.”
“Well, he also had to start someplace.”
“But I’m twenty-eight.”
“That’s not old, for an actor.”
“They say it is.”
“That’s crazy. That’s old for an athlete, but you won’t be scoring any touchdowns when you do Hamlet.”
That’s as far as I get with Krew.
Not quite.
“Actors are a dime a dozen in this town,” he says after some business on the computer.
“I know what you mean.”
“You keep on auditioning but you’re just another number.”
“I’m a writer, so I know.”
“I know you’re a writer.”
Of course, why else would anybody be here – and we’re also just another number.
“Writers and actors,” I say, “have much in common.”
“You mean so far as being meat.”
“Hey, that’s good. That’s right.”
“I understand you’ve had a big movie.”
“Long time ago, Krew.”
“I’ve read your new book.”
I’m hoping this isn’t a complete sentence.
“I like it a lot.”
“Thanks, Krew.”
“Think it’ll make a movie?”
“Has to make a book first.”
“I see a movie.”
I hope this isn’t the case. Not again.
“Book first, Krew. I don’t really care about a movie. Not yet.”
“I see a part for me.”
“You mean the craps shooter himself?”
“Maybe not, but maybe one of those goons. You do goons well. Very convincing.”
“Tell you what. You got a card?”
Yes he does and hands it over.
“Well, who knows?”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Please do me a favor.”
“Sure.”
“Don’t mention this to Sylvio.”
“Of course not.”
“I don’t want him to think I’m soliciting business on his time.”
“For sure.”
“Though I don’t think he’d really mind.”
“Probably wouldn’t.”
“He’s really a nice man. He’s been good to me.”
“This, or waiting tables, right?”
“I do that, too.”
I am getting worried that Sylvio may not show up at all. This has happened. Not with Sylvio, but with others. They just don’t show up.
Sylvio does show up. This must be said. But I’m thinking about Melanie. I hope she’s not sticking by the phone. I hope she’s not expecting too much.
She is actually expecting six figures. I know she is. She thinks our luck has changed. She thinks it’s time. She says luck has to change.
I know better. I know the racetrack and I know there is no such rule, that luck has to change.
Heeeer’s Sylvio.
“Just give me a minute.”
He dashes into his office. More waiting, but he’s here.
“You can go in,” says Krew.
So I’m in and Sylvio is just finishing up on the phone.
“We got a deal!”
Whoa.
I am ready to fly. Forget everything. I love life. Life is precious. So, how much? I’ll take five figures, okay? Anything. No more slot attendant. Hear that, Mel? No more green uniform. No more graveyard. No more…okay, I’m sorry about Haddonfield. We’ll go back and I will let you brag about me, me the AUTHOR, all you want. Yes, tell Gladdy to throw another party, just for me, just for us. You know Glad
dy. She’ll be thrilled. Imagine, a book party. How perfect. Just don’t call me an artist, okay? That’s all I ask. I am not an arteest. The rest is yours.
“Really?”
“Just got off the phone with him…”
“Roe Morgan?”
“Took some doing, but I got him.”
All that remains, says Sylvio, are the terms. But Sylvio is famous for six figures, so not to worry. I’m remembering how it was with Mario Puzo after he hit with The Godfather. He’d been plunged in debt and suddenly he’s rich. His wife is trying on dresses at Saks or someplace like that and she can’t make up her mind between the blue dress and the yellow dress. She’s in a quandary. Silly thing, he says. Don’t you know? You can buy BOTH! Soon I’ll be home with my version of that with Melanie.
“Only thing is,” says Sylvio, “we’re not getting the kind of offer we should.”
Okay, I’ll take $50,000.
“The back end looks terrific, though.”
He means secondary rights, paperback, foreign, Hollywood. Also, naturally, royalties from the hardcover itself, and sometimes, publishers toss in a signing bonus, just to make you happy. That in itself can add up to $10,000. Slight glitch, but only something that bothers me momentarily – back end. There is no back end. Take all you can up front. Back end never happens. That’s when literature meets accounting. Accounting wins. But anyway…
“He’s offering five thousand dollars.”
I am not hearing this.
“As a signing bonus?”
“Wish that were so. No, that’s the advance.”
“That’s lunch.”
“Lunch money, I know, Jay. I fought like hell.”
I am sure he did.
“It’s a take it or leave it deal. I say take. What have we got to lose?”
I like the “we” part but it also means he gets 15 percent off that five thousand dollars, which is fair, he fought, but still amounts to peanuts.
Now we’re not talking lunch money; tip money.
There’s more. Roe Morgan will want me to do book tours across the country. That’s lined up with the contract. That means I’ll have to quit my job, for five thousand dollars, minus 15 percent. No more paycheck. No more Benefits. There is still that one good part. I am getting my book published. “It’s something,” says Sylvio. “I know you’re disappointed, but hey, we got a deal.”
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