Mirkwood: A Novel About J.R.R. Tolkien

businessman. They’re so close. Now, I think the businessman has the edge. He can start up anywhere. All he has to do is be whatever it takes at any given moment. The gangster, though, he’s gotta have a gang, otherwise he’s just a freelancer. So how does one find a gang? Should I be part of some family, like my prior employer? Should I be a Jet or a Shark or a Crip or a Blood, part of NG Purples or the Stony Hill Gang? Maybe join a club. Like eBay? All I know is I’m tired of working for the man. So I’m gonna freelance, just see what comes up. Not bad for an orphan kid from the other side of a dark and stormy rainbow, huh?”

“You could care less about orphans. You don’t have the balls to care.”

“Again, I’ve touched a tender spot. Well, before I go, let’s play a game, with a prize.”

“What’s the prize?”

“Well, normally I’d say we had already bargained for your life, so I can’t negotiate over that. But since you’ve already given me this,” he hefted the tooth in his hand, “I feel like I can put it back on the table, your life that is. That’s my specialty, after all.”

“Liar!”

“Now, now. Relax. If you do this right you’ll come out alive. It’s not like fairy gold. You’ll be real and walk and talk like the other boys and girls.”

She squirmed, knowing he wasn’t kidding. Not one bit.

“This isn’t going to involve riddles, is it?”

“Oh no, that would put you at, shall we say, a grave disadvantage. That is an art lost to your times.”

“So what is it?”

“Just names. Trivia. You guess the name of the person I’m thinking of, sort of, becoming. That’s the great thing about your world, Cadence. Aspiration. Ambition. You can be anyone.”

“I can’t just guess names.”

“Oh yes you can. I believe you know them already. And I shall give you a few clues.”

“How could I know the names?”

“Because they are in the little box that people and places live in. The television. I’ve been spending time with it. It’s everywhere. People have told me people and places inside it aren’t real, but believe me, I know a thing or two about reality. I’m going to become someone different and you’re going to guess who it might be.”

“You mean TV and movie stars?”

“That’s what you call them. You know something of them, yes? Here’s your real chance to use your learning. Only not stars, villains. It’s a weakness of mine.”

“Do I get a clue?”

“Three. Just to keep with tradition. I just gave you your first one. And … I’ll throw in a comment when you’re wrong.”

“How many guesses?”

“I’ll let you know. So start.”

She thought for a second, Mel’s warning about never … ever betting her life on movie trivia rocketing around inside her head. Then she focused, thinking about weighty bullshit thrown about in a class on cinema history.

“OK, uh, I’ll start with … Norman Bates.”

“Come on, I may be from another world but I’m not crazy.”

Then she took her absolute best, intuitive guess. “The Alien.”

He scoffed. “You know I have affinity for blood that melts swords and armor. Like Beowulf’s moment facing Grendel’s dam. Great talent, but not so good for these times.”

Now she was truly at a loss. “Uh … the Wolfman.”

“Well, I know the night-blooming wolfbane, but I am most certainly not pure of heart.”

“HAL. T-1000.”

“Enough of the nonhumans.”

“Hannibal Lecter.”

“Better. Nice selection. Too gruesome, though. Not my style.”

“Say warmer or colder.”

“Huh?”

“If I’m close, say ‘warmer.’”

“Very well. I’m ready.”

“Jack Torrance.”

“Uh, warmer. I like his mind, but I’m too pragmatic. Anyway, I never drink … wine.” He laughed at his own joke.

“Tony Montana.”

He laughed. “Scarface? A loser. Also no drugs. You people obsess with such false realities. They are like stinks of fart-clouds. Your fool of a grandfather was one of those druggies.”

“OK, let’s see…”

“I think we’re on our last leg here, Cadence. Think of coin, scratch, silver and gold. That’s your last clue, and you have three guesses left.”

“OK. Hmm. Auric Goldfinger.”

“Ah, very warm. But he’s too arrogant. He should’ve killed Mr. Bond and moved on.”

“Noah Cross, no … no … Gordon Gekko!”

“Whatever you may think of me, I don’t necessarily think greed is good. It’s a fine distinction, I admit. So now, this guess is your last one.”

“My last one?” She only then realized how she had wasted her guesses on some of the unlikeliest movie villains.

“Yes, my dear. Alas, we’re there.”

She took her time, looked at him carefully, thinking about his style. It came to her. Something in his manner suggested it, the same world-weary, dissipated sang-froid. Besides, she remembered the movie Die Hard was on TV late earlier in the week. It was worth the gamble. “I’ve got it.”

“I doubt that.”

“Hans Gruber!”

He seemed surprised, and then raised his hands to give a soft clap clap clap. “Very well done, my dear! Ordinarily, I would say you have won. But, as you might expect, there’s a catch. I must confess.”

He paused.

“Come on,” she said, “there’s no John McClain that could stop you.”

“No, I’m afraid not. These police detectives are a joke. They could never, as they say, get the drop on me. As for you, there’s no way you could win. It’s like life. You play, but you don’t know the rules of the game.”

“You are a bastard. Now you do sound like Tony Soprano. You don’t have the balls to have rules!”

“Now, now, there you go again. I truly did enjoy our conversation. I will now pay a visit to your meddlesome gramps at ye olde Algonquin. And then all this will be finished.”

She looked down and saw the sweep hand on the pocket watch quit moving. It chimed softly, with each note she seemed to stiffen, and the world went an uneasy gray.

Chapter 39 OCTOBER 31. 2:40 P.M

So in tune had Jess become with the syren melody of the Elvish writings that, when they so desired, they could speak on their own and his translations somehow ended up scrawled across the pages. Almost without effort, the story of the final chapter of Ara’s Tale was now creating itself. He awoke to find his scribbled pages spilling onto the floor. He leaned back and stretched.

At that very moment, outside the very room in which Jess sat and stretched, a very real, steel blue Beretta