Thirty-Six
Harry Breedlove, knocking back a scotch as he gazed out the window of his Greenwich Village apartment, wondered what to do about all these messages from Jack Givins. And damn it all to hell, what was Ann Finley thinking, getting in touch with him directly? Had she not listened when he’d told her, again and again, that if you want to speak to my author, you go through me?
What a clusterfuck.
Jack was never supposed to know Ann had made an offer on the third book. The person who’d given Harry the phone had made that very clear. When Harry had asked why, no explanation was forthcoming, and his contact did not look like someone who liked to be asked twice. Harry had the sense that if he did not do what was being asked of him, he could be in a lot of trouble. While there was nothing explicit, the threat sounded real.
“It’s all going to work out fine,” Harry was told. “You’re doing Jack a favor. Giving him a great opportunity. If I could tell you about it, I would.”
Harry didn’t feel good about what he’d done. He liked Jack. He liked representing him. His first novel, a touching work about a young man trying to find the father who had abandoned him and his mother years earlier, had a ring of truth to it, as though Jack was drawing on a personal experience. Not that he ever talked about it. The subsequent novels were different but drew on similar themes of loneliness and detachment. Harry had wanted Jack to publish the books under his own name, but he couldn’t be persuaded.
How was Harry supposed to respond to these messages from Jack? The only thing Harry could think to do was tell him the truth. What was the worst thing that could happen? Sure, Jack would fire him, find another agent, and Harry wouldn’t blame him. But he had to make this right.
Harry considered an explanatory email, but that struck him as too cowardly. But he didn’t want to go all the way back to Boston, either. A phone call seemed the best way to go. He’d have another drink, and then he would—
There was a knock at the door.
Who the hell could that be?
Jack.
Had to be.
This was supposedly a secure building. You had to get buzzed up, and there’d been no buzz. So maybe Jack had hit every button in the lobby except Harry’s, wanting to be able to surprise him. Someone was bound to let him in. There were Uber Eats and DoorDash people roaming the halls all the time.
Harry put down his drink, crossed the living room, and went to the door. He peered through the peephole.
“Oh, shit,” he said. Raising his voice, he said, “Not a good time!”
“Open up!” someone shouted from the other side of the door.
Keeping the chain on, Harry turned the dead bolt, and opened the door a few inches.
“Seriously, this is not a good time.”
A hand came up and pushed the door wide open, ripping the chain off.
“Someone would like to have a word,” his visitor said.
Thirty-Seven
Jack
The time had come to write my own backstory. But I wouldn’t be making this one up.
Gwen had said that while the witness protection service would continue to work its own contacts in trying to find my father, it would help if I could rack my brain and think of anything that might offer a clue as to where Dad might have disappeared to.
Did my father have friends from his distant past that he might now turn to? Were there parts of the country he loved and might try to blend into if he believed someone was hunting for him? Were there any special skills he had (besides, you know, killing people) that he might use if he assumed yet another identity? Gwen had asked.
“Like what?” I had asked Gwen.
She had shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe he worked on a fishing boat in his youth and he’s out catching lobsters or something.”
“He never did anything like that.”
“I’m just saying, as an example,” she said, giving me that look of annoyance I was getting so used to.
I told her that if I were to sit there and tell her everything I could remember about my father, I’d probably miss potentially helpful details. But if I sat down and wrote it out, one thought would lead to another and I might have something more comprehensive.