Underwood, Scotch, and Cry

by Brian Meeks

  "I just got off the phone with Dave, who knows Wendy over at Buzzfeed, and her friend Venus just wrote a piece that's going up tomorrow."

  "Don't make me use GPS to follow your ramblings. I've got

  important things to do."

  "I'll just give you the headline. Writing Wars: Arthur Byrne Finishes Manuscript."

  "That's absurd. We've barely even begun."

  "Apparently, he's done."

  "Your friend's friend's colleague's cousin's therapist's... whatever doesn't know what they're talking about."

  "True or not, the world will think he's finished. How are you doing?"

  "My manuscript is a thing of beauty, but it will not be rushed. Anyway, we've got time. He still needs to get it published, and his publisher is slower than molasses. I have assurances that when I'm done my people will rush it to press."

  "There aren't that many people who know about your little

  contest, but that changes tomorrow."

  "And why do I care?"

  "You need your legions of fans to start hyping your book. Do you want Arthur Byrne," she said slowly to get his goat, "to be the only one people are talking about?"

  "I have to go."

  "But we need to figure out our plan."

  "We will. I'll call you later."

  James hung up before she could make further objections, and before her Olympic-caliber cajoling could begin. He texted Winifred: Find the troops, the war has begun.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  The Salon de Paris was slower than usual, and Jenkins let one of the hostesses handle his greeting duties. The call from his brother was bothering him more than he wanted to admit. The thing is, he hadn't really known what he was getting into. Paul had jumped at the chance to be a part of it and had never once said he thought it was a bad idea.

  The call had started out with the perfunctory wife-and-kids story, a reminder to go visit their mother at the end of the month, and a couple of forced pleasantries. Charlie Jenkins had adored his big brother up until high school, when Paul had started to ignore him to hang with his friends on the football team. Paul had been a star midfielder, but dreams of the premier league had to be put on hold when he got his girlfriend pregnant the summer after he'd finished school. He got a job as a bookkeeper because he was good at math and numbers. Two promotions later, with two kids and a home in a respectable neighborhood, all traces of the fun-loving brother whom Charlie Jenkins had so looked up to were gone. Paul was dead inside, and they both knew it. The only thing that gave Paul a moment of respite from his life was the constant nagging about the loan he'd cosigned with his younger brother to allow him to open the club. The nagging had always been playful.

  Today, though, Jenkins could hear genuine fear in his brother's voice. The bank was starting to make demands, and Paul had never told his wife about the second mortgage he'd taken out. Jenkins hadn't known either, and now that he realized his failure might take his brother's family down, too, he wanted to fade away into some mist where none of this had ever happened—a place where his wife and kids were still there when he got home from work and where weekends were full of gawd-awful recitals and birthday parties.

  Jenkins was brought back to the present by a soft knock from Ami, who stood in the half-open doorway of his office.

  Your wife just walked in and is up front. I thought I'd give you a heads up."

  "Thanks, close the door and tell her I've gone."

  "I'm not great at lying."

  "That's okay, if she wants to come back, let her." A less tired Jenkins would have said something clever and then made a cowardly retreat through the basement and out the delivery door. He loved his wife and missed her every day, but today he just didn't want to deal with whatever fresh hell she was no doubt there to deliver. He turned his chair to the side and looked at the wedding picture on the filing cabinet.

  It could have been minutes or hours from the time Ami went back to work until Mrs. Jenkins walked in. He had leaned back and closed his eyes as a carnival of memories sprang up and crashed down around him. Their first date was clear in his mind, and he tried to hold on, but too quickly there was the wedding, the kids, and one after another all the good ones zipped past, and the deafening arguments filled in their spots. How could so much happiness disappear so quickly?

  "Charlie, may I come in?"

  Jenkins spun around to face the door and stood. He put on his best greeter face. "Molly, what brings you out tonight? Are the kids okay?"

  Molly took Charlie's hands and kissed him on the cheek. "We're all fine. You look tired."

  "A little, but I'll get caught up this weekend. Can I get you a drink?"

  "I talked to Paul today."

  "How is my brother?"

  "I talked to him after he spoke to you."

  "He's worried about nothing. Things have really begun to pick up around here."

  "Oh Charlie," she said with a heavy sigh. Molly reached up and laid her hand on his face.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Kat rolled over, put her arm around Arthur's waist, and whispered into his ear, "Your phone is ringing."

  He turned to lie on his back and said, "It's a rude little bastard, ringing at this hour."

  "Maybe you should answer it."

  Arthur gave her a peck, then held up a finger. "See, we just needed to wait a moment, and it stopped."

  The phone started to ring again.

  Kat smiled. "Those little guys are nothing if not persistent. It might be important."

  "If I answer, how will it learn that what it's doing is

  wrong?"

  "Just answer it."

  The phone stopped, and Arthur's grin had a look of triumph to it.

  Kat's phone rang. She answered and then handed it to Arthur. "It's for you."

  "Who is it?"

  "Just take it."

  "Hello?"

  "Arthur, it's Carolyn. Since when do you screen my calls?"

  "I didn't. I ignore all calls before noon. Why did you think that you could reach me by..."

  "I knew you two were shacking up weeks before you started."

  "What does that mean?"

  "Shut up and listen. Buzzfeed ran a story today saying you've finished your manuscript, and people have been calling for an interview."

  "That's nice."

  "Give the phone back to Kat. You're ridiculous."

  Arthur did.

  "Yes?" Kat said, and then there was a long pause followed by "Yes, you're right, that's a good idea. I appreciate it. We definitely will. Yes he is," she said with a laugh.

  Arthur got out of bed and asked, "What am I exactly?"

  "The most magnificent lover the world has ever known."

  "You're going to mock yourself right out of the breakfast I was going to make."

  "You don't believe me?"

  "At least tell me what it is we will definitely be doing?"

  "A press conference about the launch of your book."

  "Carolyn wants to do a press conference?"

  "No, not even a little, but she said we should, and I agree," Kat said as she got up and grabbed a robe from the closet. "I think we should do it at Le Salon."

  "I don't think Jenkins..." Arthur started to say but stopped when Kat held up her index finger before his face. He watched her pacing about the bedroom in his robe like a panther. Her first call was to Mr. Jenkins, and she apologized for calling him at home. How did she get his home number?

  Two more calls went to people Arthur hadn't heard of and then a third to her assistant. A series of instructions poured forth, and it was apparent that a presser was being crafted before his eyes.

  It frightened him a little. Who was this marketing ninja?

  Kat said, "Thanks. Call me back when we have a time" and slid the phone into the robe pocket. "Weren't you in charge of breakfast?"

  It wasn't until the French toast was done that Kat started to fill him in on her plan. As she talked, her fingers flew over her phone
sending out texts or emails at a ridiculous pace. It would have been sexy if it wasn't so damn scary. There wasn't any hiding from the bet now. The world would know about the wager, and Arthur couldn't begin to imagine how he was going to pull it off. He would lose everything and be ridiculed by James Walcott for the rest of his life.

  Winifred, after two days of James's renewed vigor, had made a significant breakthrough in her mental state. She just didn't care. The people in the other room taking his abuse, well, they were there by choice. Her feeling badly for them didn't help. She had made sure they were properly fed, but other than that she remained in the kitchen with her own story.

  The notebook she had bought was starting to fill with ideas and characters. Her favorite character thus far was one of the two antagonists, Klar Zeit. She was the CEO of Mars Mining and Exploration, though most of her holdings resided in other parts of the galaxy. “A powerful woman with a dangerous agenda” was how Winifred described her. Winifred hadn't figured out how old Klar might be, but she was certainly at least a few hundred years old, and was not from Earth.

  The more Winifred wrote, the richer the world became, and it was starting to settle in her mind as a place where she'd like to spend time. That's how she'd always imagined novel writing. When Winifred was in high school, she daydreamed about faraway places and interesting people, all intertwined in an epic adventure.

  As she flipped through her notebook, ready to start writing in her journal, the first two chapters were there waiting for her to return. Winifred reread the last few pages and then grimaced when she noticed an error. She'd taken her time to get it perfect, but there it was: "an" instead of "a".

  With a neat thin line, she edited out the "n" and then sat there staring at her once perfect story with its correction of shame.

  She didn't notice Billy walk in until he said, "Hey, Winifred, how's it going?"

  "I should be asking you that. It's been pretty loud out there."

  "We're actually making progress. Is there any tea?"

  Winifred slid off her barstool, walked around the kitchen island, and pulled open a drawer. "If you make a pick everyone will like, I'll put the kettle on. Oh, that sounded so British."

  "It really did. Any biscuits?"

  "I don't think so, but I'll pick some up for tomorrow, so we can go full UK around 5 pm."

  "Is that tea time?"

  "I think so."

  "Thanks, Winifred. I better get back to the word mines."

  "As long as the canary keeps singing you'll be fine."

  Billy smiled. "You're on fire today."

  "Thanks."

  She filled the kettle and put it on the stove. The error still bothered her. Old Winifred might have let this get under her skin for a few days, but new Winifred's little voice said to move on. It reasoned that if she was a monk in the 13th century copying ancient manuscripts by candlelight with a quill and inkwell, she might have the discipline to write a novel mistake-free. Of course, they were copying not crafting, and she wasn't a monk. Also, it wasn't the Middle Ages. She opened her laptop.

  The first order of business was to transfer all her notebook notes into digital, and then she could get back to writing. She could write a new chapter, and then when it was perfect go into monk mode and copy it into her journal. Winifred was over her mistake and back to being thrilled with her project. She couldn't remember the last time she'd been this happy. It all came from something so tiny and so simple as having a purpose.

  James stormed into the kitchen, screaming on his phone, "What do you mean, he's called a press conference?" He was waving his arms, pointing at Winifred, and snapping his fingers. She had no idea what he wanted.

  Finally, he grabbed a pad of paper from a drawer, rolled his eyes at her, and started writing. "I don't care what you think. He outmaneuvered you, and it better not happen again."

  "What's going on?"

  "Arthur Byrne is having a presser later today to announce his new book."

  "He's already finished it?"

  "I guess his monkeys are better than mine. Damn, this is a disaster."

  "How's your book coming?"

  Still pacing back and forth on the other side of the island from her, he said, "I would call it a piece of garbage, but I have too much respect for refuse." James pulled a bottle of wine from the refrigerator and poured himself a glass. He didn't offer one to Winifred.

  She may not have known what his sign language was for pad of paper and pen, but she knew when he wanted quiet.

  After what seemed like an insufferable amount of time watching James grouse to himself, the tension was broken by the kettle's whistle. Winifred asked, "Would you like a cup of tea?"

  "Tea!" he yelled. "You think this is a time for drinking tea? Arthur Byrne is going to tell the world all about his new book today at four o'clock and then take to skewering me and my reputation, and you think we sit around having an Earl Grey with cookies?"

  "We're out of Earl Grey and cookies. It's Keemun. Why don't you go hijack the conference?"

  James stood like a bull ready to charge for a full three count and then took a long breath. "Okay, I'll have some tea. That's a good idea. I'll steal the show. Make sure you pick up more cookies."

  "Now, go back out there, be nice, and figure out the title of your book. As long as you know that, I'm sure you can use your charm to grab all the really good headlines from the press conference. I'll bring the tea out."

  James gathered himself and left without thanking her.

  Arthur opened the door to let Barry in. "Welcome to my humble abode. There are snacks on the counter, the cat's name is Maltese, and I may need you to shoot me later."

  "Hey man, thanks for inviting me. So, you're putting on a show."

  "Kat is a whirling dervish of promotion."

  Carolyn sauntered in. "I don't believe we've met, but Kat's told me all about you, Barry. She says you're quite talented."

  They hit it off, and Arthur went back to the kitchen to putz around. Eric was taking the train up from Beckerston. If he hadn't been so stressed out, Arthur would have been excited to see his best friend. Off by the window, Kat was on the phone negotiating something, maybe peace in the Middle East. She'd been on a roll, and he wouldn't put it past her.

  The virgin screwdriver Kat had made him tasted a lot like a glass of plain orange juice. Kat had said he couldn't drink before the press conference, but afterward he could drink like a Russian accountant for the mob after accidentally transferring seventeen million dollars to an offshore account that wasn't one of theirs. She had said the last bit with an accent that was both sexy and frightening. Kat was short for Katarina after all. He'd ask her if she was an international spy later.

  Arthur didn't know why he was so nervous. He'd done press conferences before, and he regularly got up in front of students to teach them stuff they didn't really want to learn. Why was this different? Maybe it was the questions he imagined. Dr. Byrne, why would you get in a pissing contest with someone who sells ten times the number of books you do every year and then bet everything you own and a bit more on it? Why is your publisher refusing to publish your book? That shirt makes you look fat. Who dresses you?

  He made a mental note to ask Kat what he should wear.

  Kat's assistant showed up with more food and wine, and directly behind her was the voice of reason, Eric.

  "Where's the condemned man?" Eric asked as he walked in.

  Arthur, with his drink in hand, donned his best look of indifference and left the kitchen to greet his friend. Eric wasn't alone. "Kyle," Arthur said with genuine surprise, "how are you doing, my friend?"

  "I'm great, Dr. Byrne. How are you?"

  Arthur, not prone to hugging former teaching assistants, the male ones at least, couldn't help himself. "It's so good to see you. How's Lawrence? You're living with him now, right?"

  "Yeah, for the whole summer. We both just got jobs in L.A. He leaves next week, and I'm heading out in ten days."

  "Is your boyf
riend going with you?"

  "No, we broke up, but there are lots of fish in the sea."

  "Don't you mean ocean? I hear they have one of those on the edge of town."

  "No, The Sea is a gay bar downtown," Kyle said with a wry smile.

  "Did you just make that up?"

  "Yes."

  Eric said, "It seems the horrible influence you've had on this promising young man may be permanent."

  "I'm so proud," Arthur said pretending he was about to cry. "Little Kyle's all grown up and snarky, just like we'd hoped."

  Kyle said, "So, Eric's told me all about this bet mess you've gotten yourself into. Do you write science fiction?"

  Kat put a hand over her phone. "He does now, and it's fantastic. Have a look. I printed a copy." She pointed toward a stack of paper near the guacamole.

  "I'm all over the guac. I'll try not to get too much on your masterpiece."

  Arthur said, "It's definitely the sort of piece that needs a condiment to bring out its subtle nuances."

  Eric nodded at the glass in Arthur's hand. "I'd love one of those."

  "You'd be surprised by how much you wouldn't, but I can make you a proper screwdriver in yonder kitchen."

  Eric followed. "So, Kat's not letting you drink before the big show?"

  "I'll have you know I make my own decisions around here."

  "Really?"

  "No, she said I couldn't until afterward."

  "I've never seen you wrapped around a woman's finger like this," Eric said with less mockery than Arthur expected.

  "Let's be honest, Wen did a pretty good job of getting me in line, too."

  "True. How do you suppose she managed that?"

  "Wen?"

  "Yes, I mean, your utter contempt for women is only matched by..."

  "My utter contempt for men."

  "Exactly."

  "It's either that I find brilliant women intoxicating, or I'm spiraling into a pit of decay that's completely devoid of self-loathing and angst, so much so that at the bottom all that can be found is a stinking pile of happiness, and I'm unable to claw my way back to a proper level of general disgust that's appropriate for the times in which we live."