That, Jack decided, is a capital offense punishable by drowning.
The Saturday Times had the Sunday Book Review section included, and Jack picked it up from the table and flipped through it. None of the ads for other authors’ books included a blurb from Jack Henry, and he realized he hadn’t been asked for a blurb in almost a year. He noticed, too, that many of the reviews were of novels by hot new authors who Jack considered terminally cool or effete or just plain incomprehensible. But the Times loved them for “taking chances” or “making us rethink how we see the world” or some other cliche. Bottom line, the culture had changed, and Jack Henry’s fictional heroes-men who were men and women who were women-were no longer in fashion. In fact, his career was in a death spiral.
Stan put down his paper and asked, “Would you like an omelet?”
“Sure.”
Stan went to the stove and began puttering. Maybe Stan should write a cookbook, Jack thought. Cooking for Lonely Losers.
Stan was now pouring some liquids into the blender-orange juice, apple juice, milk-plus ice cubes and a powdery nutritional supplement from a can.
Jack said, “We don’t have to be at the Southampton book signing until three. I want to take you fishing this morning. This house came with a twenty-eight-foot Sea Ray.”
Stan flipped the omelet. “All right.”
Jack had thought Stan might find a reason not to go out in the boat, but Stan was making it easy for him.
Georgica Pond was actually a tidal basin with an inlet that went out to the Atlantic Ocean, and he’d tell Stan they were going for big game fish. Maybe, he thought, I’ll also chum for shark, and Stan will be the chum. But maybe a shark wouldn’t eat Stan out of professional courtesy. He smiled.
Stan Wykoff, for all his physical fitness, couldn’t swim, as Jack knew. And the life jackets, which should have been aboard in the sea locker, were still stored in the garage, as Jack had discovered last weekend and as Stan would discover if he happened to inquire about a life jacket, which was something prissy Stan might do.
One thing Jack would not forget to bring aboard was binoculars to look for other boats. Make sure there are no witnesses.
He thought about his statement to the police: “Well, Officer, I was at the helm with the twin engines roaring, making about forty knots, and Mr. Wykoff was sitting aft-or maybe standing-and a rogue wave hit the port side and the craft rolled, and the bow went up and slammed back into the water. I turned to see if Mr. Wykoff was okay, and… he was gone.” Add an appropriate facial expression. No smiling.
There would be questions, of course, and though he was in shock and distraught, he’d do his best to answer. “Yes, of course, I came around, but I didn’t see him. No, I don’t know if he knew how to swim. Apparently not. And unfortunately, there weren’t any life jackets on board. It’s not my boat. I circled and called out; then I got on the radio and called the Coast Guard as I continued my search.” He’d make sure to add, “This is all in the Coast Guard report.” Word for word with no inconsistencies.
Sounds good, Jack thought. Tight and to the point. No rewrites necessary. No plot holes. Murder on the high seas. Perfect crime. Just make sure not to mention that I pushed Mr. Wykoff overboard, waved, and yelled, “Fuck you!” Jack smiled.
Stan put a plate in front of Jack and asked, “What are you smiling about?”
“Oh… I just had a thought about… I forgot.”
Stan poured the contents of the blender into two tall glasses and set them on the table. He said, “This will clear your head.”
Stan sat and took a long swig of the foamy drink.
Jack sipped it. Not bad. Cold and sweet. He took another drink, then dug into his eggs.
Stan said, “There are actually a few things I wanted to speak to you about.”
Jack glanced up from his eggs. “What?”
“Well, your career.”
Not Jack’s favorite subject, but he was relieved that Stan didn’t want to talk about Jack asking him to get out of the car so he could run him over. Jack replied, “I’ve hit a rough patch.” He added, “What I’m working on now is a blockbuster.”
Stan reminded him, “You said that about your last two books.”
Jack was totally pissed off, but he kept calm. Why argue with a dead man?
Stan assured him, “I’m here to help.”
“Good. Go write me a few chapters.” He knocked back the rest of the smoothie and finished his eggs.
Stan said to him, “I need to be very frank with you, Jack, and I need you to just listen.”
Jack had the feeling that Stan was about to fire him, which, last week, would have been fine with him and would have saved him the trouble of firing Stan. But now, he didn’t want any unpleasantness-he wanted to get Stan on that boat. Jack said, “Let’s save it for later.”
“No. There will be no later.”
“Stan-”
“Listen, Jack. We’re both in trouble.” Stan explained, “To be totally honest with you, all my authors are either drunks, senile, lazy, burned-out, talentless hacks, has-beens, dropouts, or pending suicides.”
Jack stared at Stan but didn’t reply.
Stan continued, “I’m broke and in debt, and I know you are, too.”
“I… I’m not…” Suddenly, Jack didn’t feel well. His stomach was tightening, and his chest felt heavy.
Stan continued, “We’ve worked all our lives and now we face poverty, and worse-professional embarrassment and personal humiliation.”
Jack tried to reply, but he felt a tightening in his throat.
Stan said, “Don’t try to speak. I know it’s difficult.” He continued, “A few days ago I received a bill in the mail that you also received.” He inquired, “Did you see it?”
Jack stared at Stan, but his sight was getting blurry and tears formed in his eyes.
Stan said, “Bills coming in, no money in the bank, and no prospects for the future. It’s very frightening. But where there’s life, there’s hope. Don’t you agree? No, don’t answer that. It was rhetorical.”
Stan finished his smoothie and went on, “So, when I saw the bill… well, you’re a bright man, and you have-or once had-a great imagination. So you can imagine what passed through my mind. But then I said to myself, ‘No, I can’t do that. Jack and I have been through thick and thin together. We go back almost fifteen years.’ You were there for me when Cindy left and I liked you for that-even after I heard about that joke you were telling everyone. The one about Cindy getting an A and me getting an F.U.” He frowned. “Not funny.”
Jack felt his throat constricting, and he tried to stand but fell back into his chair. Heart attack?
Stan glanced at his watch and said, “Just a few more minutes.” He let Jack know, “Cindy is considering coming back. Part of our problem was money, but I think I have that straightened out now.” He asked, “Isn’t that good news? Jack?”
Jack was concentrating on trying to breathe, but it felt like someone was sitting on his chest.
Stan watched him for a few seconds, then said, “Hang on. I’m almost finished.” He leaned across the table and continued, “Anyway, as I said, when I saw that life insurance bill, I had a bad thought, an evil thought, and I felt very guilty about it. So, when you invited me here, I thought this would be a good opportunity for us to reconnect. I actually have some good news for you about a movie deal I’m working on for two hundred thousand for one of your older and better books. I was going to tell you about it when we got back here last night.” Stan looked at Jack, frowned, and said, “But you tried to kill me.”
Jack managed to shake his head.
Stan seemed annoyed and impatient, then snapped, “Well, you were thinking about it. But Mr. Macho got cold feet. Or maybe you realized how stupid your plan was.” Stan added, “You’re losing your balls and your brains.”
Jack felt a flood of acid rising in his stomach and he thought he was going to vomit, but nothing came up except a stream of sour-tasting bile that made him gag.
Stan seemed not to notice and said, “So, I thought to myself, if Jack wants to kill me for the insurance money, then maybe I should kill Jack for the same reason.” He looked into Jack’s eyes and asked, “Do you see my point?”
Jack noticed that the backs of his hands were turning purple and swelling.
