Vanity Fire

by John M. Daniel

“You and Lorraine are—”

  “Kaput. Finito. History City. But I’m still her God damned agent, and the royalty checks still come to Marburger Enterprises. I still own a piece of her ass, pardon my God damned French.”

  For a moment I detected a sadness I had never seen before in Fritz Marburger’s eyes, but the expression quickly turned to steel.

  Chapter Three

  Ten thousand copies of Lorraine’s book were already on a truck somewhere between Ann Arbor and Santa Barbara, and we had to get the warehouse ready to receive them.

  It was filthy. Lit by a sprinkling of fifty-watt bulbs, I guess it had a romantic look, but the dust on the floor was thick enough to leave deep tracks in.

  I phoned Fritz Marburger and asked him to get the place cleaned up for us right away and he said it would be less expensive for us and less trouble for him if we did the work ourselves. I told him it was customary for landlords to rent property in clean condition. He told me the property in question was a warehouse on the south side of town, not a condo on the Riviera for Christ’s sake. I told him it was a lot of work, and I wanted some help. He advised me to get help from Roger Herndon, and get Herndon to pay half. I asked when Herndon would be showing up, and he said, “Guy, I’m not my tenant’s keeper.”

  Ooooo-kay. At least we didn’t have to worry about cleaning any windows.

  I changed the bulbs to 125-watters, making the space look even dirtier, and I strung a lot more bulbs around the rafters. Now we could see it all: dust, rusty nails, scraps of wood, rodent turds, spider webs, the works. Not to mention the bathroom from the Black Lagoon.

  No Roger Herndon. Carol and I were on our own. We dressed down, way down, rented a small pickup truck, and went to Scolari’s Market, where we bought a Styrofoam ice chest and filled it with ice, sodas, and bottled water. Then on to the Home Improvement Center, where we bought a battery of cleaning supplies.

  We drove to the warehouse and got to work. It was ten in the morning.

  We broke for lunch at one, with sandwiches and beer from Johnny’s Greek and Italian Deli. We ate at a folding table I found against the wall, sitting on two cleaning buckets turned upside-down. After lunch we got right back to work.

  It was dark outside long before we finished inside, so Carol drove off and returned with a couple pizzas from Rusty’s and a sixpack of Bohemia. By the time she got back I had finished the job and was wiping off the folding table again. Only the bathroom remained to be cleaned. We’d tackle that after dinner.

  She served and we dug in, too hungry, too exhausted to talk.

  We were just starting on the second pizza and had drunk two of the beers when the squeaky warehouse door rolled up and in walked a strange man and a stranger woman. Strange in that we had never met them before. Strange in other ways as well.

  “Hey hey hey!” said the man. “Pizza! Aw right!” He and his companion approached the table. He had the grossest smile I’d ever seen; she wore no expression whatsoever and I already liked her better than I liked him. “Name’s Roger,” he announced. “Roger Herndon. Mind if we join you?”

  Carol made a certain sound, something like “rrrrrmmmm,” which only I knew the meaning of, because she didn’t change her facial expression as she rose to offer the young woman her seat. I offered my bucket to Roger Herndon.

  I sat on the edge of the table. “I’m Guy Mallon,” I said. “This is Carol Murphy.”

  “Figured as much,” said Roger Herndon, his mouth full of pizza. In the bright light I watched him chew with his mouth open. He was a tall, beefy middle-aged man with a stringy red comb-over and freckles all over his face. He wore a crimson sweatshirt and a dark blue windbreaker, and he had a scarf around his neck. To hide wrinkles, I was willing to bet; it wasn’t all that cold. Which was a good thing for the young woman, who was skimpily dressed in a sleeveless purple tee shirt with the words “Kountry Klub” across her chest in hot pink.

  “So we’re sharing this space, huh?” he said. “Looks good. Lot better than when I checked it out earlier. The landlord must’ve cleaned it up.”

  “We cleaned it up,” Carol informed him. “It cost us—”

  “Cool,” Roger said. “Thanks a lot. I guess I’ll be moving my stuff in here tomorrow morning. Lot of heavy equipment. I could sure use a hand. You guys doing anything tomorrow morning? That your truck out there?”

  “Rental,” I said.

  “Good through tomorrow, I hope?”

  The young woman turned to me and said, “Could we shut that door? I’m freezing in this miniskirt.”

  “I’ll get it,” I said. “What’s your name, by the way?”

  “That’s Gracie,” Roger said. “My right-hand man.”

  “By the way, Roger,” I asked. “We still have a toilet to clean, if you want to pitch in.”

  Roger turned to his right-hand man. “What about it, Gracie?”

  “Can’t,” she said. “I have to be at the club at nine o’clock.”

  Roger gave me a shrug. “Sorry,” he said. “Give us a raincheck.”

  ***

  Max and Art were already at the warehouse when Carol and I got there early the next morning. Maxwell Black and Arthur Summers, two of America’s most celebrated contemporary poets, whom we were lucky to have in our stable of authors. We were even luckier to have Art and Max as friends that foggy March morning, since we had a lot of heavy lifting to do and they had volunteered to help with the move.

  They stood grinning in the open door to the warehouse, which meant Carol and I weren’t the first tenants to arrive. We hopped out of the rental truck and approached them with smiles. Shook hands.

  “Who’s this guy Roger?” Art asked, pointing over his shoulder with his thumb. “Is he in charge here?”

  “No,” Carol said.

  “Acts that way.”

  “He’s renting the back third of the space,” I said.

  “That’s what he told us,” Max said. “That’s why we have to move his stuff in here first. Makes more sense, he says. I didn’t know we were working for him.”

  “He’s an asshole,” Art said. “I’ll help him move his stuff, if that’s what you two want, but I’m not taking direction from him. I’m too old to be bossed around by a stranger.”

  Carol and I walked into the warehouse and back to where Gracie and Roger were plotting out their office space with a tape measure and a stick of chalk. Roger looked up and said, “Hey, Guy. Ready to roll? I see we got some strong backs on board.”

  “Listen, Roger,” I said. “Those guys, those strong backs, are friends of ours.”

  “Hey, any friends of yours are friends of mine. Friends in need, right?”

  “They’re good friends,” Carol said. “They’re also good poets.”

  “I got nothing against poets,” Roger said, grinning. “Especially poets with strong backs. I’m not sure I get your point.”

  “Our point,” I said, “is that they’re doing this as a favor, for free, because they’re friends. Don’t go telling them what to do.”

  “I wasn’t telling anybody what to do. I just suggested that we get my stuff moved in first. Makes sense, doesn’t it? Since I’m in the back of the bus here?”

  “Just what’s coming in here?” I asked.

  “Oh, the usual,” he answered. “Couple of desks, filing cabinets, chairs, computers, bookcase, and a TV.”

  “TV?” Carol asked.

  “Gracie likes to watch her soaps,” Roger explained. “And a few cartons of books, inventory, and the DocuTech machine. And a shitload of paper.”

  “Where’s all this stuff now?” I asked.

  Roger grinned and clapped me on the shoulder. “That’s the good part,” he said. “It’s all in storage units over there at Budget U-Stor.”

  “That’s where we’ve been keeping our stock,” I said.

  “So Marburger told me. Convenient, no? Let’s get cracking.”

  “How big is a DocuTe
ch machine?” I asked. “And what’s it do, exactly?”

  “It makes books. On demand. And it’s one big mutha. It’ll fit in the back of the truck, though. I measured last night.”

  “Our truck, you mean,” Carol said.

  “Yeah. Our truck,” he agreed.

  “Our? You paying half the rental fee?”

  “We got a lot of work to do,” Roger Herndon said. “We can work out the details and settle up later.”

  ***

  One big mutha was right. We moved that first, and it took the whole pickup truck to do it. Good thing Max and Art were both strong, tall guys, because I’m neither, and Roger didn’t seem to want to get his hands dirty. We backed the truck right into the warehouse and Roger showed us—us included Max and Art, Carol and Gracie, and me—where to set the components of the machine. It stretched across half the back of the warehouse.

  “Great,” Roger announced. “Gracie and Carol can hook all the pieces together and string the wiring, while us guys go and shlep the rest of the furniture and books and shit.”

  Carol asked Gracie, “You know how this thing fits together?”

  “It’ll be easy without Roger here helping us,” Gracie replied.

  So the guys and I went back out to the truck. The poets climbed into the back and the publishers sat in the cab. “So how does this DocuTech work?” I asked as we drove back to Budget U-Stor, which was only a few blocks away. “I’m still in the Stone Age.”

  “Simple,” Roger answered. “Stick a disk in one end and books come out the other, all bound and everything. Like sex in the front and a dump in the back. Of course the disk has to be perfect, and that’s Gracie’s department. She knows about computers.”

  “What’s your department?”

  “Sales.”

  “Selling books?”

  “Nah. Selling book contracts.”

  “How much did that machine cost you? The DocuTech.”

  “Not a cent. I’m leasing it.” He grinned and gave me a wink. “Other people’s money. That’s what publishing’s all about, right?”

  It was twelve-thirty by the time we had moved all of his furniture.

  “Anything else?” I asked.

  “That’s about it,” Roger said. “There’s a few cases of paper for the machine and a dozen cartons of Freelance Reader. You can bring those things over when you bring your stock. Here’s a key to the unit they’re in. Number eighty-seven.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Carol and the boys and I are going to go get some lunch.”

  Roger said, “Want some company?”

  Carol said, “Are you offering to take us to lunch?”

  Roger said, “Come to think of it, Gracie and I better get this office set up. Just bring us back a sandwich or something.”

  ***

  “So Guy, what I want to know,” Carol said as we were eating fish ’n’ chips at Castignola’s, “is why the hell you let that asshole push you around all morning. Us around, I mean.”

  “Well, we’re going to be neighbors with Roger a long time,” I began.

  “My point exactly. The relationship’s off to a bad start.”

  “Well, I just figured it would be easier to avoid an argument and go along with his program, just this once.”

  “That guy’s a sidewinder,” Max said. “You better keep your eye on him or he’ll steal all your books.”

  “I don’t think so,” Art said. “I don’t think he can read.”

  “Maybe his publishing company’s a cover for dealing drugs,” I said.

  Carol said, “Nope. He’s a talent agent and filmmaker in the porn industry, Gracie told me. But he’s getting out of that business. He’s gone legit. Now he’s a vanity publisher.”

  “Other people’s money,” I said. “Pass the vinegar.”

  “I’m going to make that man pay for half the truck,” Carol said. “And he owes us two beers and four slices of pizza from last night.”

  “Good luck,” Max said.

  “I’m serious,” she said. “If he messes with us, I’ll put him out of business.”

  “Oh?” I asked. “How—”

  “Today I learned how to hook up a DocuTech machine. I also know how to make it break down if I have to.”

  ***

  By about five in the afternoon we were finished. Poetry books were stacked in towers eight cartons high, in rows like an arrangement of dominoes covering most of the middle of the warehouse space. “Let’s hope we don’t have an earthquake,” Carol said.

  “It’s like a cornfield,” Max observed. “Feller could get lost in there.”

  “Like the columns at Chichen Itza,” said Art. “Love among the ruins.”

  “You guys want some dinner?” I asked. “You worked twice as hard as you bargained for. We’ll treat and then get Roger to pay us back.” But they both had other plans, so we thanked them again. Carol hugged them both. They walked out into the darkening lot and climbed into Art’s car.

  Carol and I took another stroll through the aisles of our new warehouse, holding hands. “I don’t know what we’ve got ourselves into,” Carol said, “but I have to admit these last two days have been fun. Even Roger and Gracie and all. I’m glad it’s over, though. I’m looking forward to a long hot bath and a big, cold martini.”

  “We can pick up some take-out from the Shanghai on the way home.”

  We kissed. My shoulders began to relax.

  That’s when we heard the high-pitched beep in the warehouse parking lot. We looked out through the gaping roll-up door at the back end of a Yellow Freight semi which was approaching us slowly and unstoppably.

  The brakes sang and the truck stopped. The engine shut off, the cab door opened, and the driver climbed down and walked back to us, a clipboard in hand. “You Guy Mallon Books?”

  “That’s us,” I sighed.

  “I got twelve pallets for you. Sign here.” He held out the clipboard.

  Carol and I exchanged a look that was somewhere between despair and hilarity. I signed.

  The driver walked into the warehouse and looked around, his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “You’re not scheduled for an inside delivery, but looks like you’re going to need it. Lucky for you this is my last stop of the day. Lucky for you I got a lift gate and a pallet jack. So. How do you want me to arrange these pallets? I guess you don’t have much choice. You got just exactly enough room here. My name’s Dennis, by the way.” He held out a greasy hand. “So you guys are publishers?”

  “We sure are,” I said. As tired as I was, this truckload of books had given me back my spirit. Naming Names was going to put Guy Mallon Books on the map.

  “So what kind of books do you publish?” Dennis asked.

  “Well, poetry, mostly,” Carol said. “But as of now—”

  “No kidding,” Dennis said. “Hey, great. I write a little poetry myself. You got a card I could have? I’d like to send you some of my work.”

  Chapter Four

  Carol and I went to our office the morning after the shipment arrived and loaded her Volvo station wagon full of all our shipping equipment. Carol pulled the accordion folder of advance orders for Naming Names; it was already fat with orders—hundreds of orders—thanks to the favorable reviews in Publishers Weekly, Library Journal, Booklist, and Kirkus Reviews. We’d been stickering, stamping, and mailing brochures every day for two months, and the orders were flying back to us just as fast, while our toll-free order number rang furiously every day with credit card orders. The brochure had a box to check if the customer wanted an autographed copy, and every order that came back had a check mark in the box.

  When we got to the warehouse we rolled up the big door and turned on the lights—Roger and Gracie hadn’t shown up yet—so we could admire our phalanx of pallets stacked with cartons full of books. Then we got to work rearranging the cartons on the first row of pallets, creating three four-by-four work surfaces. Two shipping tables and a
shorter pile to serve as a desk. Short stacks worked as desk chairs.

  We brought our equipment in and set ourselves up in the shipping business. I started building cardboard boxes to get ready for the day’s work while Carol began typing shipping labels.

  “Too bad Roger wasn’t here to help us move those cartons,” I said.

  “That reminds me. I have to create an invoice for him. Half the pizza, half the beer, half the truck, half the cleaning supplies. I won’t charge him for our time and labor.” She punched the calculator as she spoke, then announced, “Eighty-seven fifty.” She rolled a piece of our letterhead into the typewriter, then looked up and said, “Speak of the devil.”

  I followed her glance out into the parking lot. There they were, climbing out of a hot pink Datsun. While Carol typed I watched them walk toward us, Gracie carrying what looked like two heavy briefcases, and Roger carrying nothing. They were dressed for the chilly March morning, Roger in a turtleneck sweater and Gracie in sweats.

  When they got to the warehouse entrance they stopped and stared with wondrous eyes. Gracie said, “Whoa.”

  Roger said, “Hey hey hey! It’s the North Pole.”

  “Come on in,” I said. “Let me show you around.”

  Carol continued to type while I proudly showed them our shipping operation, the twelve pallets of Naming Names, and the piles of poetry.

  “Not too shabby,” Roger pronounced when we got back to the front. “Not bad at all. Looking good. What do you think, Grace?”

  “Awesome.”

  Carol rolled the sheet of paper out of the typewriter, folded it, and handed it across the desk to Roger. “This is for you,” she said. “Send it to Accounts Payable.”

  Roger said, “Thanks, doll.” He handed the sheet to Gracie and said, “Well, we better get back to our office and get to work. You guys make us look like lazy bums.”

  ***

  At noon Carol and I took a break and drove to the post office, then had lunch at the Sojourner Restaurant. After that we went to our office to pick up phone messages. There were fourteen, and they were all orders for Lorraine’s book. Carol sorted through the mail; it, too, was almost all orders for Naming Names.