The Last Book. A Thriller

by Michael Collins

  It seemed he wasn’t the only one with a short fuse these days. Shortly after the release of his second book, Zack was stunned by events inside his favourite coffee shop, The Black Drop.

  The café was full that particular day. A mean, rain-laden easterly was sweeping in from the sea, compelling patrons to scuttle across rivers of water overflowing from the hard-pressed drains. Inside, they shrugged off dripping overcoats and grumbled until their coffee arrived.

  Zack had been in there for a while. The previous evening had been a penthouse extravaganza in one of the multi-million dollar pads on a new waterfront development. The latter part of the gig was a confused blur, but this morning’s crushing migraine was real. Hunched over his third espresso, all Zack could think about were the words of his agent, Dominic La Salle, who’d conveniently forgotten the different time zones and called him at an unholy hour to rant again.

  ‘For Chrissakes, Zack, give me a break,’ Dominic had whined, ‘Nick Cavalos over at Johnson is ringing ten times a day wanting to know how the fucking book’s going.’

  With a mouth full of fur and the feeling that his head had been skewered to the pillow with a large rusty bolt, Zack had managed a long and barely audible mumble before Dominic rang off in frustration. No more phone in the bedroom, Zack thought morosely, staring out at the rain before remembering that he’d slept in the study again last night. The stairs had presented an insurmountable and dangerous problem for one so totally smashed. Anyway, he knew he wasn’t welcome to join Kristen in the matrimonial pit, and his own bedroom up there was cold and didn’t have a secret stash of single malt.

  Apart from an elderly woman at one of the tables against the main wall, and a couple of gawp-eyed German tourists who were jabbering away in their own language, it was the usual crowd of regulars in the café. The Germans, a man and a woman in their mid-thirties, were clearly bemused by the patrons sitting around them. Zack thought it was the way the locals were bickering, and there was a fair amount of that on a shitty rainy day.

  His attention drifted over to the woman. About seventy, dressed in a thick, old-fashioned brown serge coat and grey hair pulled tightly back into a severe bun, she was what Zack would describe as having a retired school ma’am look. Actually, she had a far more kindly look than any of the school teachers he remembered. She was reading an old-fashioned paperback, looking very cozy.

  Things seemed to go awry when someone brought her coffee. At the table next to her, a cranky bastard Zack recognized as the guy running the news agency a couple of doors down, became upset. He’d been there before her, he whined. The girl running the coffees shrugged, incensing cranky pants even further. Zack had seen him in action before, but this time he was wild. He stood over the old girl and ranted, spitting indirectly her face with rage.

  Small pockets of silence descended around the room. Zack looked around and saw no sympathy for the woman’s obvious distress, only the tutting and head shaking of rising irritation. Zack and the Germans watched in fascination as the elderly woman, frightened and disgusted, tried to stand. With two hands on the table in front of her, she managed to get to her feet but, in turning to bolt for the exit, caught the hem of her coat on a corner of the table. The results were disastrous.

  When she tumbled to the floor, Zack was first on his feet to help, but was pushed roughly aside by a woman and a man darting across his path. Unfortunately, on her way down, the old girl had managed to tip over the newsagent’s table, spilling super-heated coffee into his lap. He was now dancing from foot to foot with both hands flapping at his crotch and screaming obscenities. Zack worked hard to stop laughing out loud, but what happened next took every ounce of humor out of the situation.

  The couple Zack assumed was going to the fallen woman’s assistance bent over her and roughly dragged her upright. Zack’s objections stuck half-way in his throat as he watched them quickly frog-march her to the door and shove her into the thundering rain. It was over in seconds. As the woman reeled in confusion and despair outside the steamed up windows, the pair returned to their seats and resumed their conversation as if nothing had happened. Outside, the woman’s purse lay open, contents scattered across the sidewalk. An old-fashioned compact, probably plated silver and an heirloom, rolled into the gutter and spun away in a solid torrent of storm water.The two Germans, shaking their heads in utter disbelief, lunged into coats, grabbed their bags and went out. As he watched them hustle the old lady away he heard someone comment that people’s manners were rapidly deteriorating and, with sickening realization, he understood that they were probably referring to the old woman, the Germans, or both.

  During the following week, Zack stayed clear of the café. A series of podvid interviews replaced his visits kept him both partly sober and too busy to wallow in self-pity over his lack of productivity. Actually, he’d almost decided to give the place the complete flick. The incident with the old woman had left him very unsettled. On the other hand, where could he go? Normally, wherever he went in public, he was crushed by enthusiastic throngs of well-wishers, or inundated with loud and insistent advice for the next book—all of it worthless. The regulars at The Black Drop, seemingly out of consideration, chose to ignore his ever-expanding media profile, and that was something he really valued.

  Seven days later he was back, sitting at his usual table, politely passing the time of day and a moan with the locals. Nobody mentioned the incident but he couldn’t help noticing the new sign on the door as he went in—Regular Patrons are Welcome. He was later mildly dismayed to realize that reading the sign had given him a pleasant jolt. For once he felt he belonged somewhere.

  5. New York

  Whatever it takes

  ‘Grab some more tea, whatever you want, and read this here. Take your time because, believe me Ethan, it must never leave this office.’

  Mark Payne handed Cross a thick, plain beige folder and went back to his desk.

  ‘Let me know when you’ve finished and we’ll talk.’

  Payne didn’t wait for Ethan’s response. Lifting his phone, his voice faded to a faint grumble as the plush carpet and distance between the two men absorbed the sounds. Breathing deeply, Ethan opened the file and stared at a photo on the first page. Still surprisingly sharp, it was obviously shot by a surveillance camera over a very long distance. As his eyes bored into the face, memorizing every detail, his mind flew over what Payne had told him. When he’d finished, if he was impressed with Ethan’s grasp of the facts, he certainly hadn’t shown it. Neither had Ethan given any indication that what he’d heard was almost too outrageous to be believed.

  His boss had slowly and precisely touched his fingertips together.

  ‘Including myself, you’re the only one to hear the full details of this. You need to understand that. And you need to appreciate that any breach of confidentiality will have the direst consequences for you personally.’

  Are you threatening me?

  As if reading his mind, Payne lifted his eyes from his fingers to stare directly into Ethan’s face. They were a flint blue and, at that moment, lacked any warmth.

  Ethan felt an icy prickle between his shoulder blades and suppressed an urge to shiver. For the first time in his life he wondered if the shit he’d stepped in was too deep. His boss’s next words confirmed that fear.

  ‘Ethan, this is the time to walk out, if you feel you’re not up to the game. There’ll be no turning back.’

  His mind began to blur as an unaccustomed feeling of panic welled up inside. He continued to hold Payne’s stare, driving every nuance of emotion from his body. What the fuck was this? It had to be huge. He felt his mouth begin to open and tightened his jaw muscles to hold it closed. No words—not yet. He’d give this prick a run for his money. With fluid grace, and still holding Payne’s stare, Ethan stood. With a deeply primal sense of satisfaction he saw the slightest flicker of concern cross the older man’s face. Instead of making for the door, Ethan casually turned his back on his boss and walked over to the floor-to
-ceiling windows. It was a billion dollar view, but Ethan wasn’t interested. Reflected in the glass, he watched Payne’s expression turn to relief. Clearly he considered Ethan in his net. I have you, you old bastard. It’s just a matter of time and you’re fucking toast.

  Ethan turned abruptly.

  ‘As I said, I will do whatever it takes.’

  A mask of practiced sincerity lit Payne’s face as he came over to join him at the window.

  ‘I knew I had the right man,’ he chuckled, gripping Ethan’s upper arm. ‘Good to keep me guessing too. Old men need to be sharpened up like that from time to time. Now let me get you some reading material. From now on you’re working from the office down the hall. Your personal property’s already there, along with your electronic toys.’

  *

  As Ethan finished studying the long-range photo and started to read the file Payne had given him, he wondered who had really won that round.

  6. Sunnyside

  The ghost

  Sarah always managed an involuntary sigh of contentment when she unlocked the door of her ’50’s two-bedroom apartment on 40th Street, anticipating the welcoming high ceilings, polished hardwood floors and atrium-style entry hall. The place seemed to breathe a wholesomeness that restored her.

  Bought for $200,000 less than two years back, when a well-paid contract to ghost-write a top golfing personality’s bio had eventually been completed to everyone’s satisfaction, it marked a high point in her career.

  Sarah hadn’t anticipated any major problems with the client. She’d written thirty two non-fiction books and four novels for people over the years. Every project had been successful with fourteen of them becoming best-sellers. Working with her ‘authors’ to get the best out of them not only took enormous patience, she had to relate to them on every possible level. It was often a voyage of discovery with the seas not always calm. One client made her laugh after one day of tough interviews when he suggested she take some string when she climbed inside his head. It was pretty dark in there and she’d need it to find her way back out.

  Having established a discreet reputation within the publishing industry for delivering excellent work on time, Sarah was constantly under pressure from publishers and agents to co-author and ‘get her name in lights’. But she knew that involved more than starry-eyed dreams of fame and fortune. Realistically, getting a book out there meant hundreds of hours promoting it on radio and TV, weeks of exhausting non-stop travel, interminable book signing queues at best, and lonely embarrassing ones when the store hadn’t promoted the event and nobody showed up. Every successful book she ghost-wrote made her grateful for her anonymity, happy to help her ‘authors’ find their feet in the spotlight of celebrity—from the sidelines.

  At first the golfing guy, Marko Stiles, already severely mauled by the media, had been a complete turkey, resenting the pressure put on him by his management team to clean up his act, go public and earn some brownie points with his life’s story. He was sick of being told that with his reputation and popularity in tatters, millions in sponsorship deals were teetering on extinction. And he was sick of having no privacy. As the third writer to be called on, they told her, she would have to find a way through the impasse.

  ‘My life is out of fucking control,’ he finally admitted to her one night.

  She’d been scheduled another interview, the fourth in a series of glowering standoffs as Marko chose to sit morosely opposite her each time, steadily sipping bourbon. That’s when he wasn’t staring at some distant point on the ceiling with his arms folded tightly across his chest.

  That night had kicked off no differently. Marko, drink at hand, was in his usual armchair as Cal, his manager, turned the massive plasma screen TV off, rolled his eyes at her and left them to it.

  Instead of sitting, Sarah walked through to the kitchen, returning with a clean glass and pointed toward the bourbon bottle.

  ‘May I?’ she asked.

  The sportsman shrugged his broad shoulders.

  Pouring herself a large slug, Sarah settled into her chair opposite Marko and, without a word, stared at the ceiling. This time she had no notebook open and hadn’t put her recorder on the table between them. After a long fifteen minutes, she lowered her eyes and took a swallow of her drink.

  ‘I was born and raised in Brownsville,’ she said, quietly.

  Marko’s eyes flickered, but remained fixed on a spot on the ceiling. He was waiting for the follow-up question so he could ignore it.

  ‘I know places like that aren’t on your radar,’ she continued, ‘but that doesn’t mean you didn’t have a shitty childhood.

  Sarah knew about Marko’s father. He was a car salesman, small-town politician and a complete prick right up until the day he died. Marko’s mother had bolted for the city after her husband attacked her with a car jack one time too many and Marko, the only child, was left to bear the brunt of his father’s violent mood swings. It was a little known fact that his father had keeled over with a massive heart attack in the middle of thrashing the eleven-year-old with a studded belt. When the paramedics arrived they found the boy curled up next to his father’s body.

  ‘Both my parents were gunned down working their butts off to give me an education.’

  ‘Yeah? At least they liked you,’ Marko murmured.

  ‘I guess so, but I hated them for a long time.’

  Marko’s eyes left the ceiling and settled on her. He took a sip of bourbon and Sarah did the same.

  ‘Strong words.’

  ‘They left me Marko. They went somewhere else together—without me. For a long time I would have preferred to have bad parents than dead good ones. It really hurt.’

  Marko began massaging his temples with his thumbs. Sarah looked away as his knuckles swiped quickly across his eyes.

  ‘That doesn’t make much sense,’ he muttered.

  ‘No it doesn’t. I guess I felt guilty. They were in that shop because of me and it got them both killed. Maybe if I hadn’t been so much of a smarty-pants. A bookworm, raving on about being a famous author every minute of the day, they might still be alive instead of trying to earn the cash to keep me at school.’

  ‘Bullshit,’ Marko whispered. ‘When your number’s up—it’s up.’

  ‘Maybe you’re right,’ Sarah replied. ‘It took time, but I got over it. I still miss them and I only feel gratitude now.’

  The silence became almost comfortable as they sipped away at their drinks.

  ‘Got your recorder?’ Marko asked, when their glasses were empty.

  Sarah nodded and looked at the percolator on the sideboard.

  ‘Want some coffee?’

  Marko smiled. It was a first.

  ‘Are you planning for a long night?’

  Sarah laughed, switching on her recorder.

  ‘How long is your best drive?’

  *

  If Sarah had been unable to make any progress that night, she’d decided it would be her last attempt. She was ready to throw the contract and move on. But, after her breakthrough, the session turned into an unexpected marathon, ending well after they stood on the balcony for a breather and watched a watery dawn splitting the skyline.

  It wasn’t an easy ride. Marko’s freshly exposed emotions were raw and his anxiety and anger bubbled close to the surface. But Sarah’s mission was to dig, and go deep.

  When Sarah left Marko, his eyes red-rimmed from weeping and emotionally ripped, he was more at peace with himself than he’d ever been. She had enough material for the body of the book. It would take many more weeks of meetings to smooth off the rough edges and fill in the gaps, meetings they mostly enjoyed as they wrestled with Marko’s dissipating demons. She encouraged him to tell all, making him feel safe in the knowledge that he could veto anything she wrote before publication.

  As it turned out, Marko elected to include everything. The book hit the shelves, warts and all, and flew off them just as quickly. It was a resounding success and when Sarah and Marko celebr
ated with a private dinner and only one bottle of champagne, of which Marko had barely a glass, he presented her with an envelope with the instruction to open it later.

  ‘I was heading down a very dark tunnel,’ he told her. ‘I’m back with my wife and children and I’ll admit it’s not a birdie every day, but I’m treating people right and I’m OK with myself, thanks to you.’

  Later, when Sarah opened the envelope and stared at the cheque, she was shocked and called Marko immediately.

  ‘You can’t do that Marko, I was paid for the work.’

  He chuckled.

  ‘Sure, but the book wasn’t all you delivered, was it?

  ‘I only say what I think is right.’

  ‘Sarah,’ he continued, ‘if I could give you more, I would. You know I could easily afford ten times that. But I know the amount on that cheque is as much as I can persuade you to accept. Use it to buy a home for yourself, but never forget Brownsville. It made you the good person you are.’

  A month later, Sarah moved into her own place, converting half of her enormous bedroom into a study and decking out the second bedroom with bunk beds for the boys. Until today, everything had been perfect. In the neighborhood of Queens and close to transport, cafes and funky shops, she fell in love with what she began to call her Sunnyside. When work had her stay out-of-town, she had a share-nanny arrangement with the neighbors whose younger children needed only a few weekday hours to even things up. How quickly everything could change.

  *

  Sarah pushed open her front door, carelessly dumping her bag onto the mahogany table she and the kids had spent hours sanding back and polishing during last winter. Feeling guilty for doing something she asked the boys never to do, her mind registered a small patch of white dust on one corner and she made a mental note to see to it next dusting day. Nothing would be done now. It had taken a three hour wait to have four tiny stitches fix the wound above her eye. It had been a horrific day, her head clanged and she was bushed.