Page 16 of The Lie Maker

“I want to see Myrtle,” Harry said.

Myrtle was a green sea turtle that had lived in this tank for decades and was a star attraction.

“Just keep looking,” I said. “I let her know you were coming.”

Harry marveled at everything he saw, taking his time, looking deep into the tank to spot the myriad of creatures. I was getting to where I couldn’t take it anymore.

“Harry,” I said, “what the hell is going on?”

“Oh, yeah, sure,” he said, managing a chuckle.

“You didn’t come up here just to see Myrtle.”

“No, that’s true,” he said sheepishly. Harry took a deep breath, steeling himself. I guess I had my answer.

“Shit,” I said. “You’ve got nothin’.”

Looking away from the tank and directly at me for the first time since we’d come in here, Harry said, “I wish that weren’t the case. Everyone’s looking for sure things. No one wants to gamble on anything.”

“Given what I got for the first two books, they weren’t exactly taking a huge risk. What did Ann say?”

Ann Finley was my editor on the first two books. She’d nurtured me this far along. I didn’t think she would abandon me.

“She feels terrible, turning it down,” Harry said. “She thinks it’s a good book, too, but the numbers just aren’t there.”

Whatever the fuck that meant. They were always blaming “the numbers.”

“But the thing is,” Harry said, “I wouldn’t want to meet with you if I didn’t have some kind of good news.”

I waited. An old joke popped into my head, the one where the doctor tells the patient he has good news and bad news. The bad news is that the patient has only six months to live. But the good news is, the doctor is fucking his receptionist.

“Don’t look that way,” Harry said. “I’m serious. An opportunity’s come up.”

“What?” I said. “Writing web copy for Nordstrom Rack?”

“Look, I can’t tell you much about it,” he said. “But they very much want you. They think you’re perfect for this. Love your writing. And they hinted that the money’s good. Better, frankly, than what you’d get for a book.”

“Who’s they?”

Harry’s eyes darted about.

“You looking for someone?” I asked.

“No, I just—look, I’m afraid I can’t give you any more detail than that. It’s better if you hear it directly from them.”

Harry reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a phone. Nothing fancy, like a brand-new iPhone, but a cheap-looking model. A flip phone from when dinosaurs roamed the earth.

“What the hell’s this?” I said as he handed it to me.

“Hang on to it. They’ll call you. Oh, I’ve got a charger for it, too.”

He went back into his pocket for a length of cable and small plug-in unit. He put that in my hand with the phone.

“Who will call me? Christ, Harry, is this a burner phone? Am I ghostwriting El Chapo’s life story?”

He shook his head. “No, it’s nothing like—I mean, I don’t think it’s anything like that. But they’ll explain it when they call. Come on. Trust me on this.”

I was slowly shaking my head as I considered what to do. This felt like some sort of turning point. Where you decide to go for Door Number Two instead of Door Number One, not knowing whether it’s a new car or thirty bags of manure.

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