As he stepped back to the bar and beyond the power of Zoe’s eyes, his radar popped on. Something was amiss. Of all the lads in the bar, why, he wondered, had the looker approached him, the one fella near old enough to be her aul da? Somehow he didn’t think it was his thinning hair, potbelly, or Phil Lynott’s singing that had called to her.
Waiting patiently to be served, McGuinn used the mirror behind the bar to study what was going on at his back. The fair Zoe kept a poker face, and a beautiful one it was. Her focus seemed fully on the juke, but he knew that if he watched her long enough, she would give herself away. One way or another, he supposed, women were always giving themselves away. Ah, just there, a subtle swivel of her head to the left and a shift in her gaze. As slight as her movements were, Zoe might just as well have painted a bull’s-eye on the poor fooker’s chest …
So entranced by what I’d written, I nearly jumped out of my skin when the phone rang. The phone hadn’t done much ringing since the day Janice Nadir moved upstate.
I picked up after catching my breath. “Yeah.”
“You’re such an asshole, Weiler. Don’t you ever return phone calls?”
Technically, I guess Meg Donovan was still my agent, a position her colleagues no doubt coveted as much as receiving placebos in a late-stage cancer study. Although I hadn’t seen her in years, Meg was still more friend than agent, really. She was my only remaining link to the Kipster.
“It was you who called?” I asked, pretending I’d noticed the red message light flashing. I hadn’t.
“You haven’t listened to the message yet?”
“Come on, Donovan. You know how it is with me and the phone. The last time someone called with good news, the Mets won the World Series.”
“You’re an asshole.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve spent the better part of my life lending credence to that assertion.”
“Shut up and listen. Your second fifteen minutes of fame might pay off.”
“A reality show? Survival of the Fittest Has-beens? I’ll kick Webster’s little black ass.”
“Very cute, but no. Besides, my money would be on the dwarf.”
“Isn’t it your job to be on my side, Meg?”
“It’s a lonely place, being on your side. My job’s to tell you the truth.”
“Agents and the truth, now there’s unexplored territory.”
“If you haven’t managed to alienate me after all these years, you’re not going to do it now.”
“Okay, Meg, what are we talking about?”
“A book deal.”
“What kind of book deal?” I asked.
“Haskell Brown at Travers Legacy has had a big Eighties retrospective series in the works for a year or so and-”
“A year, huh? And this is the first I’m hearing about it?”
“Don’t be a dunce cap, Weiler.”
“So I wasn’t part of the original retrospective.”
“Very good. You should take the
“Who was in the original deal?”
“Don’t do this to yourself, Kip.”
“If I don’t, who will? Names, ranks, and serial numbers, please.”
“The usual suspects: Bart, Nutly, Kate Silva, Marty Castronieves … ”
I couldn’t believe how much hearing those names hurt me. Surely the omission of my name should have come as no shock. I think maybe it was that I knew the Kipster had once been able to write circles around them all, even his Highness, Marty Castronieves.
“Earth to Planet Weiler, are you reading me? Over.”
“Sorry, Meg. I was lost there for a minute. Do the others know I wasn’t part of the original package?”
She hesitated. “Come on, Kip, of course they know. Publishing makes
“Sure.”
Meg wasn’t exaggerating. Travers Legacy was willing to pay me big bucks for my backlist, which-not having published a novel in about fifteen years-was all the wares I had to sell.
“They’re going to do big print runs on your first three novels and might send you guys out on tour. Lots of press, lots of stores, even late night TV. Think of it: you, Bart, and Nutly back on the road together, and you could get away from that dreadful Garden State Brickface Community College.”
“Yeah, it could be just like one of those British Invasion tours with Freddie and the Dreamers, Gerry and the Pacemakers, and the Swinging Blue Jeans.”
“Weiler, this is your chance to get out of Dodge.”
“Maybe I don’t want to get out of Dodge.”
“What?”
“It’s a rights deal, not a book deal,” I said.
“It’s a money deal.”
“I don’t know.”
“What’s not to know? No one’s pounding down the door for you, honey. I’m the one who parlayed your saving those kids into this deal and, trust me, it wasn’t easy. You may have really straightened yourself out, but it’s the Kipster people remember in this town. Around here, you’re still that boorish, coked-up horn dog who turned his silk purse talent into a sow’s asshole.”
“And,” I said, “if the sales numbers were good on
“If my bowling ball had square corners, it wouldn’t roll. If, if, if … ”
“Look, Meg, I’m not ungrateful and I know it’s a miracle you still talk to me after all the bullshit and heartache I put you through, but can you stall them a little while? Tell them I want to be sure I can handle the road again.”
“Fine. I’ll tell them whatever I have to, but other than pissing away a lot of my hard work and a fat payday, why exactly am I doing it?”
“So you can think of a way to have the deal include a clause for a new book.”
There was dead silence on the other end of the phone. At least I didn’t hear her collapse to the floor or beg me to call 911.
“A new book?” she said at last. “You’re writing again?”
“Yes, sort of.”
“Can I see it?”
“Not yet.”
“So you’re willing to blow the biggest money offer we’ve had since MTV actually played videos because you’re sort of writing again?”
“Something like that, yeah.”
“This ain’t old times, Kip. I’ve got lots of other clients who pay my various mortgages, but you’re all you’ve got.”
“I know.”
“There won’t be any more offers like this.”
“I know that too.”
“Okay, I’ll ask, but they might think you’re being difficult like the Kipster they all know and hate. This might queer the whole deal. You understand that? Are you sure this is what you want me to do?”
“Strangely enough, Meg, it is.”
When she clicked off at the other end, my hands were shaking. It had been many years since I’d burned a
