“What would you change?”
“A thousand little things…and of course I’d write a new ending.”
“Of course?”
“The ending leaves the impression that the Graysons died in an accident. Just some tragic twist of fate.”
“Which is…?”
“Not true.”
“They were murdered, you said.”
“Read the book, then talk to me again. Just keep in mind that the last chapter wasn’t what I would’ve done, then or now.”
“If you didn’t do it, who did?”
“It was sanitized by an editor in New York. The problem was, I had produced this monster-sized book and it was ending with more questions than it answered. They didn’t like that, they felt it would not be satisfying for a reader to go through seven hundred and fifty pages and come out with the kind of questions I was asking. Especially when the experts seemed to agree that it was an accident and I couldn’t prove it wasn’t. The book really didn’t need to end with any unanswered questions at all. They died. That was the end of it.”
“But not for you.”
“I still keep my finger in it. As you can see.”
“You must have something in mind.”
She smiled into the sudden pause that stretched between us. “I’ve been doing some fiction lately. I’m finding a voice, as the literati say. I’ve had three or four pieces in the literary reviews and I’m working on a novel. Maybe that’s how I’ll finally get rid of the Graysons. I read somewhere that fiction’s the only way you can really tell the truth. I never even understood that when I was learning the ropes, but I sure believe it now.”
She gave me a look that said,
I said, “I’ve got a deal for you.”
“I already own the Space Needle, I bought it last year. I never could resist a deal.” She got up and came around the desk, patting me on the shoulder. “Let’s go get some breakfast. I don’t think I want to hear this on an empty stomach.”
21
It was a lick and a promise, all I had time for. My reading on her would have to be the abridged version, once over lightly. This is your life, Trish Aandahl, a tour of the high spots. From that I’d decide: move on alone or bring her to the party.
Conventions and courtesies, five minutes. She had grown up in Ohio, her parents simple people who lived for the moment. Life was what it was: you worked at it every day and got up the next day and did it again. Her father had worked for wages in Cincinnati; her mom found jobs in restaurants, dime stores, car washes, wherever there was women’s work that demanded no special skills. They had produced a child unlike either of them, a daughter who didn’t believe in women’s work and grew up thinking she could do most anything. At least the parents had had the wisdom to indulge her differences.
She beat the clock with a minute to spare. She knew I was fishing, but she had tapped into my growing sense of urgency and was willing to give me some rope.
Personal color, three minutes. Trish was her real name, listed that way on her birth certificate. Her mother had named her after a best friend and had never known that the name was a diminutive of Patricia.
She was alone in the world. Her parents were dead and there were no other children. If there was a man in her life, it wasn’t readily apparent. She wore no rings, but that doesn’t mean as much as it once did.
She was amused now, wondering how far I’d go into this Dick-and-Jane style personal Baedeker. I wondered about her gripes and dislikes and gave her one minute for that.
She didn’t need it. Phonies, stuffed shirts, chiselers, and liars. Her code was much like mine, her hate list virtually identical.
Extra bit of business, thirty seconds. She was a chronic insomniac, able to sleep undisturbed only about one night in four. That’s why she had been sitting there by the telephone, reading a novel, when I called.
I knew everything about her by the time the waitress brought our breakfasts. What more do you need to know about anyone, until the chips are down and you discover that you never knew anything at all?
“I’m ready to tell you about Slater,” I said.
“Why the change of heart?”
“Because the circumstances have changed and I want something back from you. Isn’t that how life works?”
“If it’s an even trade, sure. Is the Slater story worth anything?”
“I think you’ll find it interesting. The entertaining part is trying to figure out where it’s heading. It’s still
