'Millions. You know what I get paid to write what I write? Not millions, but close.'
'You never had a story like this one before.'
'I've had plenty of stories over the years. This town's up to here with stories. Stories are like assholes, everybody's got one and most of
'em stink.'
'This was different. You told me so yourself.'
'They're all different while you're writing them. You have to think they're special at the time. Then they run their course and you move on to something else and tell yourself it's special, and twice as special as the last one.'
'Will was your creation, Marty. You gave him the idea. And he addressed all his letters to you. Every time there was a new development, you were first with it. You showed what you got to the cops, and you were the first person they shared with.'
'So?'
'So you couldn't bear to see the story end. Regis Kilbourne was closer than he knew when he compared the case to a Broadway play.
When the star left the stage, you couldn't stand the idea of closing the show. You put on his costume and tried to play the part yourself. You wrote letters to yourself and wound up giving yourself away, because you couldn't keep from quoting your own failed play.'
He just looked at me.
'Look at the three men you put on Will's list,' I said. 'A union boss who threatens to shut down the city and a judge who keeps unlocking the jail-house door. Two fellows who manage to piss off a substantial portion of the population.'
'So?'
'So look at the third name on the list. The theater critic for the New York Times. Now who the hell puts a critic on that kind of list?'
'I wondered that myself, you know.'
'Don't insult my intelligence, Marty.'
'And don't you insult mine. And don't ride roughshod over the facts or all you'll get for your troubles is saddle sores. You know when The Tumult in the Clouds opened? Fifteen years ago. You know when Regis Kilbourne started reviewing for the paper of record? I happen to know, because it was in all the obits. Just under twelve years ago. It was another guy reviewed Tumult for the Times, and he died of a heart attack five or six years ago himself, and I swear it wasn't because I jumped out of a closet and yelled 'Boo!' at him.'
'I read the Times review.'
'Then you know.'
'I also read Regis's review. In Gotham Magazine.'
'Jesus, where'd you find that? I'm not even sure I read it myself.'
'Then how come you quoted it? In the same letter where you talked about Peter Tully's withered hand having the city by the throat, you had this to say about Send-'em-Home Rome.' I found it in my notebook. ' 'You have not the slightest sensitivity to the feelings of the public, and no concern for their wishes.' That's what you wrote. And here's what Kilbourne wrote about you: 'As a journalist, Mr.
McGraw presents himself as one who would rather keep the common touch than walk with kings. Yet as a playwright he has not the slightest sensitivity to the feelings of the theatergoing public, and no concern for their wishes.' '
'I remember the review.'
'No kidding.'
'Now that you read it to me, I remember it. But I swear I didn't recognize the line in Will's letter. The hell, he quoted my play, he could quote my reviews while he was at it. Maybe the son of a bitch was obsessed with me. Maybe he thought throwing some quotes around, which I didn't even happen to recognize, maybe he thought that was a way to curry favor with me.' He looked at me, then shrugged.
'Hey, I'm not saying it makes sense, but the guy's a nut. Who can figure someone like that?'
'Give it up, Marty.'
'The fuck's that supposed to mean? 'Give it up, Marty.' You sound like some fucking TV show, anybody ever tell you that?'
'Kilbourne's review in Gotham was scathing. The play got negative notices all around, but Kilbourne was vicious, and all of his venom was directed against the play itself and the man who wrote it. It amounted to a personal attack, as if he resented a columnist presuming to write a play and wanted to make sure you never tried it again.'
'So? That was fifteen years ago. I had a couple of drinks, I kicked a chair and punched a wall and said a couple of words I never learned from the nuns, and I forgot about it. Why the hell are you shaking your head at me?'
'Because you quoted the review.'
'That was Will quoted the review, remember? Will Number Two, and I don't know who he is but he ain't me.'
'You quoted the review in your column, Marty.' I opened the notebook again and cited chapter and verse, quoting lines from Kilbourne's review that had found their way into various columns Marty had written both before and after the death of Adrian Whitfield. When I finished I closed the notebook and looked at him. His eyes were
