Ghost Rider: Stories by Jonathan Lowe

by Jonathan Lowe

  Whatdayasay?

  Wally Pascot, Jr.

  * * * *

  Oct. 6

  Dear Wally,

  I'm afraid the handwriting's on the wall on this one. No go. Nice try, though. Are you aware that we are being sued by nine school districts in four states? It would therefore be inappropriate for us to publish such a book, even if we felt there was any hope the public might buy it. I would suggest you try finding a small press with a niche market for such humor. I've enclosed a case of sample spray paints in case that doesn't work out, but good luck anyway.

  Best wishes,

  John Cordlandt, VP, Richland Publishing, a division of Truebright Paint Products

  * * * *

  Nov. 27

  Dear Editor,

  Enclosed find my manuscript, titled THE NEXT BESTSELLER. You will note that I have left off my name from the manuscript. I wish to be referred to as “Anonymous.” The novel is about a man who mails letter bombs to publishers, book reviewers, and agents with whom he has—or has not—had dealings with in the past. He is a philosopher, a bit of a poet, and now follows the outline of his last unpublished novel, which is discovered in his abandoned apartment in manuscript form. He is a driven man, with repressed urges and desires—a lonely man with a twisted past, and an obsession to be recognized and published at any cost. He has spent his entire adult life writing, while calling out for pizza and avoiding family or potential friends. An abused child with limited self esteem, his primary diversion has—indeed—been surfing internet web sites linked to porn and high explosives. But once, late at night, he called out for pizza and got the Oval Office by mistake. The President told him a secret, again by mistake. Pres told the CIA. So now he is in hiding, fearing for his life. Why? Because they have traced his phone call, afraid he will publish what he knows. He is on the run, this sick, twisted killer, but still angry at everyone in general, and the press in particular.

  Et tu?

  Anon

  * * * *

  Dec. 9

  Dear Anon,

  We have read your manuscript with great interest. The vivid imagery of the writing is evident throughout, and the anger which forms the motive force behind the plot is incredibly believable. Your main character possesses an original flair for succinct truths and askance moralizing which does not detract from his obsessive compulsion to exact revenge on those who have snubbed him. The novel has all the elements we look for in a story, too, including dramatic tension, intrigue, irony, wit, and insight into the human dilemma. Told with such power and imagination, we wonder what your real name is, and have, in fact, a pool of editors and janitors here who have placed bets that you are really Stephen King, James Lee Burke, Tom Wolfe, Christopher Buckley, or William F. Buckley. Which is it? It is difficult to decide, as your writing possesses elements from all these writers. It is enigmatic and fascinating, too, the references you make to Greek gods, and to gang graffiti, basketball, the Papacy, and the U.S. Postal Service. We are still trying to figure out how all the subplots fit together so well, and how you managed to achieve it. We really believe you have a potential bestseller here, and would like your permission to publish the manuscript in hardcover, and to represent it to a major house for paperback and audio rights. Our standard contract is for fifty percent of subsidiary and foreign rights, including movie rights, but we are prepared to offer you seventy-five percent as your share, if you sign with us within the coming week. Please contact us or have your agent contact us regarding a negotiable advance on royalties. {I see no reason why we cannot talk six figures, here. I will mortgage my house for it, if I have to.} You will not be on Oprah, of course. After all, this is not her kind of book, and you do wish to remain Anonymous, right? But we can almost guarantee a Book of the Month club main selection, and quotes from every big wig in the business, including, perhaps, the President of the United States himself.

  Thank you for submitting your manuscript to my attention. The discolored and soiled envelope really spooked me, I have to admit. Especially since there was no return address, and it had oil stains, and a piece of wire sticking out. But all's well that end's well, they say. And yours does end well. Very well, indeed, sir.

  Gratefully, respectfully yours,

  Thomas F. Sinclair, President

  Aardvark Press

  NOVEL EXCERPTS:

  From FAME ISLAND

  (originally published by Blackstone Audio, narrated by

  Emmy winning actor Kristoffer Tabori. Now an e-book at Fictionwise.com. About a lotto winner who secretly intends to be famous for more than just 15 minutes ... by disappearing!)

  * * * *

  1

  Just for the record, let me tell you about Sal Valente. Picture a fat, middle-aged former union thug with one rolled up cotton sleeve revealing a tattoo of himself. Sal's a redhead whose perpetually rosy cheeks are not due to embarrassment, but rather from being slapped so often his chameleon face had long decided to stay that way. Flush and ready to print anything, he has come to inhabit a once tidy wood-paneled office with a nasty green Amazon parrot in a antique brass cage, and there he sits behind a cluttered mahogany desk with his hands resting palms-up on the edge. Call me delusional, but his wriggling fingers always reminded me of the legs of giant Brazilian roaches trying to turn over and escape being featured on page fourteen of the Celeb-Ration. That would be Benny's column on the bizarre in the world of science. Oh, and Sal's voice? It's not unlike the Godfather's, but with a pronounced nasal quality, as though he'd spent too much time underwater. Salt water, by the look of his red eyes.

  "What ya got there for me, Jude?” Sal asked me, rendering his patented don't-disappoint-me stare. “Another humor column, I hope?"

  Sal worked in a meat packing plant in Dallas before coming to Miami to take the reins of the tabloid. No one knew exactly what his connections were to get the job, but it was rumored he'd done some sort of illegal service for Martin Weinstein, the little prick publisher of the Celeb-Ration. The job probably involved the breaking of bones. Wishbones, most likely, because whatever education Sal possessed in the area of magazine editing and English grammar wouldn't have been able to parse The Cat in the Hat.

  "What I've got,” I replied, “is a migraine, Sal. Sorry, but have you got anything real for me is the better question. That's why I come in here with this hang dog look, see it? Any leads on the South Beach party tonight?"

  "Stick to satire,” Sal said. “Mark and Russ are coverin’ that."

  I sighed. Mark Messna and Russ Wells were fresh out of journalism school at FSU, having failed to make the recruiting cut to the Miami Herald or the Orlando Dispatch. True, they hadn't picked up anything of compromise in the way of ethics or self respect as roomies in college, thanks to frat parties and online term paper purchases. But their actual field experience was limited to those contacts who scouted for resumes, not for celebrities snorting coke with known felons. The little matter of how to keep their student loan creditors from holding a pocket mirror to their noses as they slept in a dumpster had brought them to Sal in the first place. And Sal, being inept at everything but delegation himself, always admired desperation more than he did credentials. In this way he was similar to the old curmudgeon he'd replaced, back when I'd first applied, after my failed career as a travel writer.

  "You know, Giselle is supposed to be there tonight,” I said, angling to be included somehow while I voiced my complaint.

  "Forget ‘er, she's eye candy,” Sal declared. “Too skinny, anyways."

  I chuckled as I admired the cheese Danish next to his telephone console. “Too skinny for what?"

  "Huh?"

  "Anyway, you can't be too skinny or too rich,” I reminded him, quoting a fashion bible I hadn't read in a long time.

  "Oh no?” Sal said. “Then what was that series on anorexic stars ya did last year?"

  "That was different,” I told him.

  "How zit different? Nevermind. Look. If ya gotta get outta the office and write somethin�
� that might actually get us sued ... well, ya come up with your own dirt, okay? Just remember—I need something big. Unusual. Gimme somethin’ with teeth."

  "You mean like the biggest Everglades croc? What?"

  "I dunno. What do I pay you for? Fadricate something."

  "You mean fabricate?"

  "Yeah. That's it."

  "Lie?"

  "Well, ya don't have ta do that, exactly,” Sal said. He swiped at a fly, slapping his tattoo in the process. Then he picked up his cheese Danish and studied it. “Just make sure it's big and juicy,” he said, and sank his yellow incisors into the pastry. “And be careful out there."

  "Right,” I told him. “Thanks for your wonderful input, Sal."

  He glanced up as I was leaving, and clutched the three new Hollywood News satire pieces I'd reluctantly just airplaned him. “Hey, Jude,” he said, still chomping on pastry.

  I frowned as I turned at the door. “Yeah?"

  "Good rhymes-with-luck."

  * * * *

  I was reading the society pages of the Herald in Clancy's Bar on west 13th Street off Biscayne when Julio Martinez finally showed up twenty minutes late with some guy in an open denim vest looking to show off his washboard stomach. The tight, tough little weasel was introduced to me as Carlos Figueroa, a local pool shark with bleached hair who wanted to be called Carl. They both slid into the tooled red leather booth opposite me and ordered a pitcher of Dos Equis Amber. I studied their vacant expressions as a wan sense of queasy disquietude invaded my torpor.

  "So what's new?” Julio asked me, dredging up a smile that left his teeth hidden. “Been a while. Where ya been? Busy?"

  I contemplated my prospects grimly. Here was Julio, a thirty year old doorman at the Fontainebleau Hotel, and sometimes stringer for our rag, wasting my time by asking me nothing original. I figured if he had a story, and ‘Carl’ was partner to it, they would be probably angle for a cash advance next. And since Sal appeared to be abandoning me for younger talent, that meant any upfront cash might come out of my own pocket.

  "Yeah, lots going on,” I lied in reply. “Busy week. Now, please tell me something I don't know."

  Julio looked me over with a flat scan, like an x-ray for hidden malignancies. Then he nodded around at the bar, a comforting space that nodded back—an earthy, enveloping cocoon from which one might never want to emerge. “Hey, Jude,” he said to the mostly empty booths around us, “lookin’ almost human. Lose some weight, or what?"

  Almost. The word was key. I didn't look down at my visible paunch. It knew it was still there. I knew that Julio knew, too. I made an indelible impression. Still, his detectibly nervous attitude had more of my attention for the moment. “No,” I replied, dully. “You don't sit around swilling beer with stringers and snitches, and come out of it looking like Val Kilmer."

  "Who?” Carl asked.

  "George Clooney,” I told him.

  "Oh,” Carl said. “Oh."

  "Doesn't Jude look like Nick Nolte to you?” Julio asked Carl.

  "Who?"

  "Drew Carey,” I said.

  "Oh,” Carl says. “No."

  I sighed again. “A younger Nick Nolte, before his bad hair days and boot from the B list. Now cut the crap, and tell me what you got."

  "We ... need to talk about price first, Judy,” Julio confided, his deceptive green prizefighter's eyes dancing around mine with obvious caution.

  "Price? Who am I, Bob Barker? Try that one on Ebay."

  "This is big, Jude dude,” Julio declared.

  "Big,” I repeated, recalling Sal's use of the word.

  "The biggest,” Julio insisted.

  "Let me guess. One of the Grays landed on top of the Fontainebleau last night, took over the penthouse, and ordered room service. Its instructions were to snooker the human race, so it wanted to learn how to play the game from Carl here, first. Am I right?"

  "You're close,” Julio said.

  I leaned back and studied him. His pretty boy face didn't change expression. The pitcher of Dos Equis came, and I accepted it to refill my own glass. Then when the waitress left with my credit card, Julio leaned closer and commanded my attention by lowering his head a bit and raising his eyes.

  "A thousand bucks each,” he said.

  "How's that?” I blinked rapidly, and accidentally spilled beer onto my shirt, then brushed it away into little droplets that landed on Carl and prompted a similar reaction.

  "Five thousand more if you want us to keep our mouths shut."

  "Each,” Carl added, his tone cryptic.

  I laughed, like a spasm, then looked between them as though between nuns after being ass kicked. “Wait a minute. What are you trying to—"

  "Per day, plus expenses,” said Carl. Then he nodded at Julio for approval, and Julio nodded back. They had begun to enjoy this.

  "You can't be—"

  Julio waved over at me like a traffic cop, and leaned in. “We are, though, Judy. Very serious. Can't you see that?"

  I downed my beer in one long guzzle, then refilled my glass. “What is it?” I asked again. “You know an old fart doorman named Elvis, and you got the DNA to prove he's the King?"

  "Better,” Julio said, and now let some teeth into his smile. “No one would want to see Elvis now, anyway. He'd look like you, plus twenty years and minus the hair, except for what's growing in his ears. Maybe a couple more pounds, too."

  "Thanks,” I said, just before imagining the aging heartthrob on The Larry King Show, now a bloated whale blowing blood from his nose while he complained that the paparazzi were oh so cruel. “Who, then?"

  Julio picked up the Herald from beside me. Gently, like it contained either a gram of plutonium inside or the World's Largest Silverfish. “We got a deal?"

  "Do you think we have?” I asked.

  He nodded. “I think so."

  "Then let's say we do. Theoretically."

  "Wait a minute,” Carl interjected. “Where's the thousand?"

  "I'll write you an I.O.U.,” I told him.

  "Why not a check?"

  "Checks can be stopped, and they can bounce."

  "Yeah, but ... we can't take an I.O.U. to the bank,” smart boy Carl complained.

  Julio waved a hand at Carl, dismissively. “We'll take it to his boss if we have to, no problema. If he won't cash it, we'll sell it to Vinnie Mustafa.” He looked back at me. “He's a local gangster Carl knows. Likes gamey meat. Venison steaks, ostrich."

  "Who cares what he likes to eat,” Carl said, “long as he gets the job done?"

  "I think Judy does,” Julio replied.

  "Quit with this stuff, already,” I warned, “and spill it."

  "The I.O.U. first.” Julio aimed one forefinger at my gut. “Write it on a check, and sign it. Date it due Friday. Two thousand."

  I did it. I didn't think he could cash it at the bank because his name wasn't I.O.U.. Julio took the check, then opened my newspaper as if to read. I looked for a silverfish, but there wasn't one.

  "So?” I said.

  "Hold on.” He folded back a page, then slapped the paper back in front of me again, and tapped an image there.

  I looked down.

  It was an old image, but my eyes widened with interest anyway.

  "Have we got a deal, my friend?” Julio asked. “Was I right?"

  * * * *

  2

  With the Herald tucked securely under my arm, I reentered Sal's office with what might pass for a grin on another stoic's face. Sal was working on lunch by then. A Ruben on rye, with chips and a Miller Lite. He also talked on the speaker phone to some woman in Orlando who claimed to have a walking catfish in her parlor the size of Louie Anderson's cat. Sal used the Celeb-Ration to wipe sauce from his mouth. At least my satire column was good for something other than catching his parrot's droppings.

  "Sal,” I said, trying to interrupt.

  Sal stabbed a finger toward the stained couch near the door, meaning for me to sit. But I declined. You don't sit to deliver
the kind of news I had. If he didn't give me his undivided attention in the next minute, I decided to take what I had to the Enquirer in Lantana. Maybe I would anyway.

  "Sssshit,” said his bird.

  "I'm not kidding, Sally,” I whispered. And so when Sal finally clicked off I told him I needed five grand to pay a stringer for a lead on a story. Sal laughed, so I used his word on him, like he occasionally used my word—bullseye—on me.

  "Big,” I repeated the word. “You wanted big, right? This is big."

  He frowned at me. “That was quick. How big ... is big?"

  "The biggest,” I said. “As in ‘none are bigger.’”

  His eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Howard Rosen big?"

  I shot him an index finger, and made a clucking sound while my grin cracked an area of my face rarely used. “Bullseye."

  "So what is it?” he asked me. “Jacko went to confessional, and the priest wants ta sell ya the transcript, or whaaat?"

  "It's better than that,” I told him. “It's Howard Rosen, himself."

  He gave me a quick brayed belly laugh, but stopped short when he eyed Rosen's photo on his desk. Then his eyes’ fleshy rims stretched back to reveal the red pulp around his veined whites. I understood his reaction, too, although his trust in my veracity came as a surprise. Because Howard Rosen had not merely won the largest lotto jackpot in the history of the world a month previously, but he'd delayed coming forward, then promptly vanished with $358 million and change, after taxes. A bad year-old photo of his face was featured on the cover of Newsweek, a copy of which lay within view on the edge of Sal's desk. The big question mark beside Howard's face was WHO IS THIS MAN—AND WHERE? No one knew for sure because Rosen apparently spent his life savings to hire a computer hacker to erase his identity just before he cashed in. Between the time of verification and followup—just after lump sum disbursement—the money had apparently been wired to some numbered offshore account, and Howard Rosen's records had vanished even from the Social Security mainframe via a targeted virus. With no close living relatives or friends, the reclusive self-employed bookkeeper had so far eluded the clamoring press, which quickly became ravenous for photos and interviews when his mystique grew to epic size.