A Note From an Old Acquaintance (5 page)

The next several days were a whirlwind of activity. There were two print interviews, one with
Writer’s Digest
and another for
Esquire
. He’d enjoyed doing them both, but while the
Esquire
article would reach a wider audience, it was the
WD
piece that had fired him up, the young journalist reminding him of his own enthusiasm in wanting to become a writer. It also made him feel guilty as hell.

Then there were the mundane aspects of being a published writer, such as poring over cryptic royalty statements and checking through the galleys on a new paperback edition for one of his earlier books, a little potboiler called,
Extreme Makeover
. There’d been a minor legal flap over the title with the producers of the popular TV shows. Their trademark attorney wanted Brian to change the title, claiming that re-publication of such an old title was an obvious, transparent ploy to capitalize on the show’s popularity; but his publisher was adamant. No way.

Clearly, since he’d written the book nearly ten years ago, and had been published under that title, the issue of prior use was moot, at least that’s what his own lawyer had said. They were in the clear. But Brian felt the producers had a point. In his opinion, it
was
a transparent ploy, albeit a clever one. Deciding to take the proactive approach, he called the executive producer and smoothed everything over. It helped that the man was a fan of his books, and Brian was able to persuade him that keeping the present title was good for both of them, although he did promise to have his publisher avoid using a similar typeface.

Once that was out of the way, he gave the new introduction a quick look, found no errors, and initialed the pages with his okay. He placed them into the outgoing pile for his messenger service.

After a quick lunch, he picked up the phone and called Kevin.

“Anything new with the Boston trip?” he asked.

“You’re cookin’,” Kevin said. “I’ve got five stores lined up, and it looks like another two will come on board in the next few days. Good mix, too, like you asked for. You were right about those little Mom and Pops, they practically crapped themselves.”

Brian grinned. “When are the dates?”

“Your first signing is at eleven
AM
on November 11
^th
at the Prudential Center Barnes & Noble. How long did you want to stay in the area, anyway? Looks like I can keep you busy for a bit.” He laughed.

Brian chewed his lip, mulling this over. Realistically, he couldn’t stay there for longer than a week, maybe two if he really stretched it. He needed to be back in L.A. for a meeting with a producer looking to purchase
A Nest of Vipers
out from under the current option holders, when it came up for renewal next month. He stood to make a small fortune, and his agent had insisted he be present. And what about Joanna? What did he really expect when he saw her again? Pleasant conversation over an intimate meal—nothing more. Did he really
want
anything more than that? And what if their little reunion went badly (in spite of their friendly correspondence), descending into awkward silences peppered with agonizing realizations that they had nothing in common? How awful that would be. Then again, what if it
didn’t
go badly?

Get a grip, Weller. Make the trip short and sweet.

“You know, Kev, maybe we should keep it to the five you’ve got. I do too many of those and every Tom, Dick and Harry will be hawking autographed copies of
Vipers
on the street for pennies on the dollar.”

Kevin’s goofy laughter exploded from the phone’s earpiece. “I told you, you should have been a freaking publicist! Hah! When you’re right, you’re right. Okay, you got the Barnes & Noble on the eleventh, two Mom and Pops, one in Cambridge and another in Arlington, plus the B. Dalton in Chestnut Hill. I can’t remember the last one.” He coughed. “’scuse me, getting a cold, I think. Anyway, I’ll spread ’em over the course of a week. How’s that?”

“Perfect.”

“All right, Captain, keep your powder dry.”

They hung up and Brian checked the clock. Nearly two hours before he needed to head over to The Polo Lounge for breakfast with his agent. Might as well try and get some writing done, for all the good it would do.

In the study, Brian took the MAC out of sleep mode and spotted the blinking mailbox icon. Only one e-mail, this time, from someone called
[email protected]
. The subject line read:
A WORD OF ADVICE
.

What the hell,
he thought. I could use some of that. Clicking the READ button, he stared at the screen, his hands curling into fists, knuckles whitening. A dry, dead taste formed in his mouth, and his guts felt as if they were falling through the floor.

There were only seven words, the last three written in bold seventy-two point caps, forcing him to scroll down to read them all:

WE HAD A DEAL. LEAVE HER ALONE!

Ruby.

Anger flared, washing away the guilt and focusing his mind into razor-sharp clarity.

“Not this time, you son-of-a-bitch. Not this time.”

1991

6

“
CAN
WE
TRY
IT
the way we did it a few minutes ago?” the client asked, her voice taking on an exasperated edge. She glanced at her watch, shaking her head.

Brian nodded. “Sure, no problem. Just give me a minute.” He knew how the woman felt. The lines on her freckled brow had deepened. They’d been editing the spot for the last five hours and had become stuck on one short, maddening five-second sequence, going back and forth between two versions of it over and over again. He knew exactly how she felt. For that matter he wasn’t at all sure how much of his own patience was left. Then there was the master tape itself. If they went on much longer, the wear and tear caused by her indecision would render it useless. Checking his time code log, he typed in a set of commands, his fingers flying over the keys. Two of the three Sony U-Matic 3/4” decks containing the selected shots rewound to the beginning of the sequence. The third deck, with the master edit, stood poised.

The client leaned forward peering over her wire-framed glasses, and squinted at the monitor, her frizzy shoulder-length brown hair falling into her angular face. She brushed it back with an annoyed flick of her hand, and began chewing on her nails. Brian noted they were already gnawed to the quick.

“Ready?” Brian asked.

She sighed and nodded. He pressed the ENTER button. The Sony decks whirred and the sequence played itself out, the computer previewing the edits.

The thirty-second spot featured the elderly CEO of a local chain of convenience stores making a surprise visit to a store and finding it in a shambles. The punch line was the revelation that the store belonged to one of his competitors, prompting the old man’s last immortal line: “Oh...keep up the
good
work.”

It was a cute, but flawed concept that only served to point out that perhaps the old guy really wasn’t as on-the-ball as he first appeared. Thank God the photography was great, at least.

The woman nodded. “You know, I think that’s the best we’re going to do. Old Henry’s not exactly Clio Award material, is he?”

Brian laughed. “No, but I think that’s a part of his charm.”

The woman grinned back, just as the door to the edit suite flew open with a quiet whoosh. Brian’s partner, Bob Nolan strolled in. He wore his typical lopsided grin, his boyish face belying a keen intelligence and a sharp eye for framing the perfect shot.

“How’s my ace editor treating you, Helen?” he said, flopping himself down into one of the black director’s chairs scattered about the suite.

“Very well, in spite of my demanding ways,” she said, shooting an amused glance at Brian.

Bob’s thick eyebrows shot up. “Oh, really? Does that mean we get to double his rate?”

“Not on your life. My budget won’t allow it.”

They all laughed. Bob turned to Brian. “Everything work out?”

“Everything cuts great. It’s just that Henry....” Brian left the rest unspoken. Bob rolled his eyes, no doubt recalling the nightmare on the set with the old CEO forgetting his lines for nearly every take, prompting Bob to order the dialogue placed on cue cards. The problem was, unlike professionals, the old duffer couldn’t mask the fact that he was reading the lines, making him appear stiff and wooden.

They all watched a preview of the final edit and everyone agreed that it was the best that could be done. The client left fifteen minutes later with a VHS copy of the spot stuffed into her scuffed Louis Vuitton bag, promising to let them know if her client, the CEO, wanted any changes.

Brian turned to his partner when the front door slammed shut. “You weren’t joking about doubling my rate, were you?” he asked.

“Hell, no. That woman’s been busting my chops since day one about her budget.” He sighed in disgust. “That spot should have been cut in half the time. I shot it so it would go together like a paint-by-numbers picture for a four-year-old. And what does she do? Wastes your time going over the same shots for three hours!”

“It wasn’t her fault, Bob. Henry—”

“Forget Henry. She couldn’t make up her mind. That’s
our
money she’s wasting.”

The phone rang and Bob snatched up the earpiece, his jaw clenching.

“Newbury Productions....” He listened, slouching back in the chair. “Hey, man, how’s it going? I’m glad to hear that. Here? Everything’s great, just great.... What’s that? No kidding? Sure, Debbie and I would love to come. Wouldn’t miss it.... All right, you too.”

Bob held out the phone.

“Who is it?” Brian mouthed silently.

“Nick Simon.”

Brian smiled and took the phone. Nick was an old friend, a graphic designer who’d helped Bob and Brian establish their business right after they’d graduated from film school. In fact, they now inhabited the very office space once occupied by Nick’s company, Wunderkind Graphics, before he moved to larger, more prestigious digs.

“Hiya, Nick, long time no speak. What’s up?”

The voice on the other end coughed. “My balls—from the highest yardarm,” he wheezed. Nick suffered from chronic asthma and always sounded as if he were on the verge of a coughing jag. “But that’s beside the point. Cassie and I are renting out the Metropolis for a little shindig on Valentine’s Day, seven
PM
; and we want you to come.”

“That’s in two days!”

“I know it’s a little last minute, but what can I tell you, I’m a spontaneous guy. What do you say? You up for a little partying? From what I’ve heard, you guys could use it.”

As always, Nick’s gossip was deadly accurate. Since the first of the year, Newbury Productions had been cranking full tilt. Now, nearly six weeks later, the juggernaut had picked up steam, promising a year that could be their most profitable yet.

“I’d love to Nick, but...I don’t know. I’m not much of a party guy, if you know what I mean. And I’ve got a real backlog of work, here.”

Bob rolled his eyes again, his lopsided grin returning.

“Bullshit,” Nick said. “I want to see you there, or I’m gonna send Rocco and Freddie to persuade youse.” His hoarse laugh turned into a wheeze. This was an in-joke between the three of them, the mythical Rocco and Freddie being two Mafioso characters from an aborted feature film Bob and Brian shot while still in college.

“Okay, okay,” Brian said, “I’ll come.”

“That’s the ticket,” Nick said. “Besides you never know, you might meet a real babe, for a change.”

“Just what I need.”

Nick ignored the sarcasm, turning serious. “Listen, Brian. You know I’ve always liked you. You’re like a little brother to me. Just give me the word and I’ll set you up with a real sweetie-pie. Least I can do.”

“I appreciate that.”

“Forget about it. I’ll see you mugs at the club day after tomorrow. And by the way, the drinks are on me. Hah!”

Brian hung up the phone and shook his head. “The man’s incorrigible.”

“He try to set you up again?” Bob asked, grinning.

“Yeah.”

“He’s got a point. You’ve turned yourself into a hermit.”

“And I suppose you and Debbie have someone in mind?”

“I don’t, but Debbie might. I can ask her—”

Brian held up his hand. “Please...don’t. Look, I know it’s been over a year since Julie turned me inside out, but I’d rather things just happen as they will. Is that okay?”

Bob shrugged. “Okay by me. As far as Thursday, how about Deb and I swing by and pick you up?”

“That’s fine.”

Bob left the suite and Brian spent the next hour cleaning the heads on the Sony decks and prepping the suite for the next day’s session: a music video by a hot local rock band. At least that would be fun. He’d seen the band a couple of times and liked their music.

Outside, the traffic on Newbury Street stood gridlocked, horns blaring, exhaust fumes sending thick white plumes skyward. The temperature had plummeted to twenty degrees and a freezing wind blew in off the Charles, cutting through Brian’s thin leather jacket like a razor. Shivering, he locked the front door and crossed the street to Bauer Wines, where he picked up a six-pack of Samuel Adams, gossiped a moment with Howie, one of the owners, then hurried the half mile to his apartment at the corner of Fairfield and Beacon Streets.

Housed in what was once the basement kitchen of a French-style mansion built in the late 1880s, it boasted floor space of just under a thousand square feet, with ten-foot ceilings, two seven-foot windows facing the carriage house, a walk-in closet, a delightfully archaic bathroom with a claw-foot tub and a kitchen larger than some of the places he’d lived in while a student.

It felt like home the moment he’d first walked into it.

The mail was the usual mix of bills and throw-aways, except for the envelope marked:
The Hendricks Agency
. He opened it, feeling the usual mix of excitement and dread.

Dear Mr. Weller:

Thank you so much for sending us your novel,
The Normandy Conspiracy.
We thought it was tautly written and shows a great eye for detail. Unfortunately, we do not feel we have enough enthusiasm for the material to sell it in today’s very competitive market. We wish you the best of luck in your writing career.

Sincerely,

Jan Hendricks

Except for a few alternate word choices, the letter could have stood in for countless others. He knew, because he’d kept them all. And while it bothered him on a gut level, his search for an agent had gone on far too long to let one more rejection get him down. He had the book out to five other agents, and would send it out to five more if those didn’t pan out. One day, one of them would bite. If not with this book, then with the one he’d just started.

Later, while he ate a quick spaghetti dinner, along with his third beer, his mind wandered back to Nick and his offer to set him up on a date. On one level it repelled him, on another...well...he
was
a healthy male. And to be honest, Nick had really good taste; and dating someone with no strings attached might be refreshing. No complications, just good hot, sweaty sex.

Julie, his last serious relationship, had driven him crazy with her neuroses. One minute she was a temptress, wanting all sorts of kinky things in bed, the next she acted as if he were the plague. He’d been madly in love with her and thought she’d felt the same way. It came like a hammer-blow when she’d dumped him for another man, a man he viewed as nothing more than a milquetoast. After months of introspection and a few sessions with a sympathetic therapist, he’d come to realize that Julie was afraid of true intimacy. Scared to death of it, in fact. The irony was that she was a therapy-junky, loved to air her dirty laundry for all to hear; yet when push came to shove she ran for the cover of a “safe” man she could control.

The one amusing thing about all this was that every time he ran into Julie and her new boyfriend (far more frequently than he wanted), she went out of her way to let Brian know that she and “Chip” had “not made love yet.” Poor Chip must have been embarrassed as hell, though he pretended not to show it. But one thing Brian knew without a shred of doubt: Chip was over the moon for her, and as soon as she realized this she would break his heart—like so much cheap dishware.

After cleaning up from dinner, he decided to put in some time on the new book. He chugged the last of the six Sam Adams and placed the bottles into the growing pyramid of empty six-packs in the corner of the kitchen. Next came the inevitable pot of coffee and his old Royal typewriter from out of the closet. It was going to be a
long
night...and he knew he was going to love every moment of it.