Page 22 of Camino Ghosts

They clinked glasses again. “Love that guy,” Bruce said.

2.

They drove to Bruce’s home where Gifford spent two hours in a hammock snoring off his lunch. At 5:00 p.m. they went to the bookstore where a line had already formed out the front door and down the sidewalk along Main Street. The star kicked into high gear and spent hours autographing his novels, posing for photographs, greeting old friends, hitting on attractive women, chatting with local journalists, and all the while sipping his favorite Chardonnay that Bruce was required to furnish. At 8:00, he left with apologies but promised to return at noon the following day for round two, then he would do a reading at 5:00 p.m. and take questions.

The literary crowd reconvened on Bruce’s patio. Gifford hugged and kissed Leigh and Myra, squeezed a bit too hard on young Amy Slater, swapped insults with Bob Cobb, practically fondled Noelle, who had just returned from France, and gushed over Mercer and Thomas. Over another glass of wine, he confided in her that her proposal was brilliant and had all the makings of an important work of nonfiction. He would be happy to help in any way, except speak to his publisher. They were not on speaking terms and any communication had to go through his lawyer.

Most participants in polite dinner conversation are aware of their floor time and limit what they say. They deem it important to make sure everyone at the table is engaged. Not Gifford. Half drunk and getting louder, he hogged the spotlight and drowned out all other voices. At other times he might have been an obnoxious bore, but his stories were so outlandish, and told with such colorful language, that the other guests were often laughing so hard they couldn’t eat. They loved the one about his last arrest, the prior year, when he and some other activists chained themselves to a gate in a national park to disrupt a logging operation. Before the police arrived, an angry logger with a large pistol stood very close to them and fired shots in the air. Gifford’s ears rang for a week. The activists next to him started crying. The local sheriff refused them bail and they were locked up for a week. It was their finest hour.

When his bladder was finally full, he excused himself and staggered away. Myra was quick to say, “Thank God he only publishes every three years. I couldn’t take many more of these dinners.”

“Now Myra,” Leigh chided.

They were all shaking their heads and enjoying a brief respite. Mercer said, “This guy’s insane. I assume these stories are true.”

Bruce shook his head. “I have no idea. He spends a lot of time and money with environmental groups. Check out his website. He rants and raves and features a montage of photos of his arrests. I told him about the new plans for Dark Isle and he went ballistic. He’ll be an ally when we need him.”

Mercer frowned as if she wasn’t so sure.

Amy Slater asked, “Are they serious about putting a casino on that island?”

Steven Mahon answered, “Dead serious.”

Myra said softly, “Here he comes.”

They took a collective deep breath as Gifford found his seat. He was quiet for a few minutes as they passed around a platter of grilled grouper. Myra asked loudly, “So who’s coming next week, Bruce?”

Bay Books maintained an endless schedule of signings, and Bruce expected his gang to show up for most of the events. Myra and Leigh especially enjoyed meeting the touring writers and seldom missed a signing.

Bruce said, “A young man from Kentucky with a debut novel. Rick Barber is his name. We need a crowd, next Tuesday.”

“What kind of book?” Bob Cobb asked.

“A collection of stories about tough times in rural Kentucky.”

“It’s not grit-lit, is it, Bruce?” Myra asked.

“Well, it’s not called that officially, but it has the elements.”

“I can’t take any more of that shit, Bruce. They’re all the same. My beer’s hot. My girl’s cold. My dog’s dead. My truck won’t start. I need a job but I’d rather drink. Mama’s on pills. Daddy’s in prison. Come on, Bruce. Give us a break. Grit-lit is out of control.”

“I’m not the author, Myra. I’m just the bookseller. If you don’t like it then don’t read it.”

Thomas said, “I saw a review in the Post. Very positive, said Barber has a distinctive new Southern voice.”

“Great, just what we need,” Myra said. “A dazzling new grit-lit star. I’ll bet he won’t sell five thousand copies, hardback and paper. Mind if I skip it, Bruce?”

“I’m not sure I want you there.”

Gifford said, “I met Barber last month at a book festival in Savannah. Nice guy.”

“Is he cute?” Myra asked.

“Now Myra.”

“You don’t do guys,” Bob Cobb said.

“I can look, you know? I might need a new character. A handsome new author who writes about roadkill and such. You like it, Bruce?”

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