down in Deptford, how he’d given me that damned notebook.
“But why you?” she asked.
“He never said anything except he heard I was looking for a different kind of story. I don’t know. Maybe he could spot a fellow lost soul.”
“Didn’t you ask?”
I laughed. “He wasn’t the kind of man to ask.”
“What makes his story so different?”
“Because he was like the slave ship captain who comes to see the tragedy of what he has done. But unlike the slave ship captain who writes ‘Amazing Grace’ because he believes there is a God to redeem him, McGuinn knows there is no God. McGuinn is so much more a tragic figure because he knows there is no redemption or forgiveness. What is done is done.”
But the book wasn’t done and when Jim called to say he’d be a half hour late, I went back to it.
There he was, the jumpy bollix, ten paces over his left shoulder and about as inconspicuous as a cunt in a cock shop. He was looking everywhere but at McGuinn. Short of stature, he was a mean-faced fooker with opaque eyes. No more than thirty with the bloated muscles and acne of a juicer, he was a real trouble boy, that one. The type of lad that was always spoiling for violence. Maybe, McGuinn thought, he would oblige the lad, as he possessed a knack for violence his own self.
But he had to make a choice quickly. He supposed he could vanish into the crowd like so much smoke and keep going. It wasn’t as if this town held any particular fascination for him. To the contrary, he could recreate his lonely little hell in any of a thousand shite holes along the road. One factory or abattoir was much like another, one bloody and mindless job same as the next. Yet he found he was in no hurry to scurry. He’d been on the run his entire feckin’ life and he was spent. This corner of nowhere was as fine as any other in which to make a stand. Besides, he was curious.
This set up smelled neither of the Prods nor the Brits. Although it had the feel of amateur night at Ralph and Jim’s Bar and Grill, McGuinn couldn’t risk dismissing the possibility that there were forces at play here beyond his experience. Unlikely, for sure, but possible.
The man who believes he has seen it all is a blind fooker and more often than not, a dead one.
Weiler’s writing was, for my money, always less than the sum of its parts. The novels were like long-form versions of Steely Dan songs: slick, well-produced, clever as hell, but rather soulless and incomprehensible.
— E-MAIL FROM HASKELL BROWN TO FRANZ DUDEK
Twelve
I’d broken the mile barrier on my run that morning and felt like Chuck Yeager. The euphoria was short-lived because when Jim dropped me back off at my house, I noticed the red message-light flashing as I walked through the front door. I recited the procrastinator’s oath to myself-
That was a long time ago and the red light flashing was now. The message was a terse
I dispensed with the chit chat. “How bad is it?”
“All is not lost.”
“Said the optimistic surgeon to the triple amputee. That’s a little cryptic even for you, Donovan.”
“The rights deal is still on, no problem. They even upped the offer.”
“But the new book is off. That’s what you’re telling me,” I said.
“That’s what I’m telling you.”
“Fuck!”
“Don’t take it out on me.”
“I said fuck, Meg, not fuck you.”
“Look, Kip, this isn’t all bad. By us throwing a demand for a new book into the mix, we gave Travers Legacy an out, but they didn’t take it and sweetened the pot. They want those books. If the new editions of your books sell well, they might be amenable to tossing you a bone next year.”
“And this tossing me a bone notion is based on what exactly, my horoscope?”
“I had lunch with Mary Caputo last week,” she said. “Mary Caputo is Franz Dudek’s assistant at Travers Legacy. Franz Dudek is the publisher.”
“And … ”
“And Mary told me Dudek was definitely willing to give you a one-book deal, a small deal, but a deal. Before you go bonkers, Kip, you should know it wasn’t a wholly artistic decision on his part. He loves your old stuff, but he was willing to take a flier on the new book for the same reasons he’s including you in the rights deal.”
“The dead kid.”
There was a brief silence on Meg’s end of the phone. “That’s right, the late Frank Vuchovich. You understand the value of free publicity. Well, it’s even more important now than it used to be. Publishing is about to get swept away by the social media/e-book tsunami just like the music industry got wiped out by digital downloads.”
“So what happened?”
“Haskell Brown happened. He put the kibosh on the new book. He never wanted any part of you to begin with. He was pressured by Dudek to include your books in the retro package. That was as far as Haskell was willing to go and he wasn’t very willing to go that far, if you get my meaning. He let Dudek know he would quit if push came to shove and Dudek wasn’t going to push or shove any further for you.”
“What the hell did I ever do to Haskell Brown? Did I bone his wife at a party or something?”
“Haskell’s gay.”
“What, he thinks I would have boned his wife if he were straight?”
“I told you, Kip, people here remember the Kipster. Haskell worked as an assistant editor for Moira before she died, so he heard all the dirt about you and how impossible it was for Moira to deal with you at the end. So I’ll send the rights contract down for you to sign.” It wasn’t a question.
“Nope. Tell them I want two weeks to think it over.”
“Two weeks! What the hell for?”
“Because I’m disappointed. Because I’m angry. Because I’m a foolish, self-destructive prick. Take your pick.”
“Why not ask for two months or two years?”
“Don’t give me any ideas, Meg.”
“Don’t be an asshole, Kip. You’ll blow this.”
“It won’t be the first thing I’ve fucked up, will it?”
“The list is long and apparently still growing.”
“You know the funny thing about playing chicken with me these days, Meg?”
“What’s that?”
“I’ve got nowhere else to fall and nothing left to lose.”
“Except this deal,” she said.
“No, the rights deal is something to gain, not to lose. Seems like two different things from where I’m sitting. Tell them two weeks.”
“If you promise me something.”
“Depends on what.”
