Dead Men Don't Blog: A John Ray Mystery - Chapter 7

The waiter set a bourbon, neat, on the table in front of me, and refilled Max's coffee cup.

"Nothing for you, Max?" I said. I shook out a Lucky from the pack, tapped it hard against my thumbnail, lit it, and let loose a plume of smoke that hung like a canopy above our heads in the cold of the room.

"My phalanx of physicians forbid it, I'm afraid," he said and grunted.

"Since when do you listen to doctors? Since when do you listen to anyone?"

"They have a vested interest in keeping me alive, Mr. Ray, so I am assuming that their instructions are sound. As long as I'm around, their little memoirs on the trials of the OR, the ER, the rigors of podiatry and so forth, will always sell handsomely."

"No doubt."

"I keep the publishing industry strong and viable in this country, Mr. Ray, by keeping book-buying vigorous. The compromises to quality that one must make in order to accomplish this are rather a tepid sacrifice, wouldn't you say?"

"Better rum books by scratchers than no books at all, right?"

"Certainly the latter is not an outlandish possibility in this day and age. We competed with moving pictures and radio and we survived. We competed with television and we survived. Today we compete with all those things and so much more: video games, DVDs, all the nefarious offerings of the Internet… and yet we have hundreds of thousands of twelve-year-olds and their parents around the world lining up outside of our bookstores at midnight to buy and devour the next Harry Potter tome. Say what you will about the quality, Mr. Ray, but even you can't fail to see the astonishing nature of such a feat."

"Sounds like trying to get a kid to like his vegetables by having him practice on chocolate."

"Ho! You amuse me, Mr. Ray! The young readers' choices travel the spectrum of taste before they begin to refine them. Think back to your twelve-year-old self and the dubious quality of some of the things you no doubt read with great interest. Hardly a reliable harbinger for the belletrist you are today."

"Yeah, it was a hodgepodge, I'll give you that. But I had more choices, Max, and no marketing campaigns shoved down my throat. The shelves weren't sagging with cinderblocks about wizard boys and little else." I slammed down the bourbon. That waiter seemed to materialize out of nowhere and pour me another.

"I will remind you again, sir, that neither were there so many competitors for your attention."

"I don't get it, Max. Menachem Vogelstein's Book Stall wouldn't have filled the front window with such things."

"Which is why Menachem Vogelstein's Book Stall no longer exists! Come come, Mr. Ray. You're being nostalgic. No, I won't apologize for my tactics, not in light of all that they have accomplished. And what, I must add, they will accomplish for you."

"Sorry, Max. Not interested."

"Think of it, sir! You can make the writing of novels your life's work, if you choose. I can guarantee you a multi-book deal and a six-figure advance for The Riders, Mr. Ray. Six figures, sir! That's a lot of white papers and network documentation, wouldn't you say? And that's just for the novel itself. There will be film rights, I assure you, as well as the opportunity to craft the screenplay and reap a most generous fee for that."

"Sure, Max. All I've got to do is make a deal with the devil and sign it in blood."

"You wound me, sir," said Max, but he didn't look wounded. He sipped at his coffee. He might have been getting a little exasperated. Sometimes it's hard to tell that with fat men. They breathe funny.

"Maybe you don't remember that little incident regarding my last novel and how we left things, Max."

"I do, Mr. Ray. Those were unfortunate circumstances, to be sure, but now they will work to our extraordinary advantage."

"Zat so?"

"It is a new age, sir. Scandal is marketing. Attention spans are breathtakingly short. After years of literary exile, the author John Ray has returned with apologies, regrets, profound remorse. Older. Wiser. And with a new novel that is gripping and highly original. And please believe me, Mr. Ray, when I tell that my assessment of that work as I've just stated it is entirely sincere."

"You never read the whole thing, Max."

"No, but I read more than enough and I remember it well. I was supremely excited over its prospects and yours until… the incident."

"Go ahead, you can say it, Max. I'm a big boy. Until I was accused of plagiarism."

"Not for a moment did I ever consider it a willful act on your part, Mr. Ray."

"But now the whole thing can be parlayed into 'six figures,' right?"

"I can parlay it into six figures, Mr. Ray. And I can assure you that no taint will hang over the publication of The Riders. More than enough water has passed under the bridge. As you well know, people are quickly forgiven these days for willfully fraudulent acts, scurrilous statements, and deplorable behavior. And they subsequently reap outrageous fortunes."

I emptied my bourbon glass in one swallow. That wraith of a waiter leaned in and refilled it. The whiskey was warming me, but not enough. Not as much as Max wanted it to.

"Let's talk about Elinor Dashwood, Max." He made a backhand motion like he was waving away a gnat from his orbit.

"A minor character, sir. Regrettably, a former employee of mine, worked for one of my satellite organizations. I had high hopes for her at one time, but she proved to be untrustworthy. We parted ways."

"And she wants to publish my novel, too? How does she even know about it?"

"I suspect because she is unscrupulous, Mr. Ray. Overheard a conversation of mine or gazed at a note that was not intended for her eyes. In any case, she acquired the knowledge that I still had an interest in your… property, as it were. And now she no doubt thinks that you may be her first big accomplishment in the industry."

"I see. So is that what this is all about, Max? Not about my novel, but about pre-empting Miss Dashwood? Putting a minor character in her place?"

Max slammed his two big hands down on the table hard. Everything in five counties jumped. His eyes got small.

"She is already in her place, Mr. Ray. There is no competition for your novel, sir, there is only my offer and my offer alone. You would only find your reputation sullied once again if you engaged Miss Dashwood, I assure you."

"Because you would sully it. Isn't that right, Max?"

He grunted. "Business, Mr. Ray."

I dusted off the bourbon, clacked my glass down hard on the table, and set my hat atop my head.

"Thanks, Max. If I'd had any regrets about being clear of this whole miserable racket, this little conversation has reminded me why I shouldn't. Thanks for the bourbon."

The oily maître d' gave me a thin, slippery grin as I passed him. Another poet, I thought.

"One more thing, Mr. Ray!" I heard Max shout as I hurried down the steps. I didn't turn around or stop to hear what he had to say. I'd heard enough.