Boo Hiss (21 page)

Alfred Tennison straightened his tie, his slacks, and his hair while sitting in the small though luxurious waiting room at the religious publishing house. Tapping his fingers against his briefcase, he tried his best to remain calm and in control. After all, none of these people knew that he’d become a religious agent out of desperation. As far as they were concerned, he was the well-known editor of Wolfe Boone, and might be able to swing the once-prolific novelist toward publishing with them.
Truthfully, the power rested with Alfred. And nobody needed to know that Wolfe Boone had pretty much lost all ability to write. He could use Wolfe as leverage to publish Doris Buford. And then he could torture Wolfe until he put something down on paper.

Admittedly, he was more nervous about being among religious people. He might say the wrong thing. Offend someone. It was hard to tell what was acceptable among this crowd. But he’d been practicing. From the unsullied Ellie Sherman, he’d learned that a gentle smile and a quiet, confident demeanor seemed to be one of their favorite traits. So he’d taught himself to kill the ear-to-ear grin. And he thought the hands-folded-in-front-of-the-belly look offered a lot of promise. Of course the Catholic jokes he always liked to crack were out. But he was hoping he could still use a little humor to warm things up. And just for kicks he’d actually parted his hair. He’d seen that on television once, and though it wasn’t going to win him any fashion awards, he hoped it offered a subtle hint of his regard for the “straight and narrow.”

“Alfred Tennison?”

Alfred looked up at a fine, tall, stately looking gentleman in a cotton short-sleeve polo shirt standing over him. As Alfred rose, he couldn’t help but notice the casual slacks. Dang. He was overdressed and six inches shorter. This was not good.

“Yes,” Alfred said, shaking his hand.

“Mike Jefferson. I’m the publisher. Why don’t you come into the conference room.”

“Thank you.”

Alfred followed him around the corner. Another man was sitting at the table going over some papers. He rose and shook Alfred’s hand. “Neil Bryant. Executive editor. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Tennison.”

“Please, call me Alfred.”

They shook hands with Alfred, and he sat down across from them.
Neil was tieless, and his hair was hanging below his ears. He wasn’t sure what kind of establishment he’d found here, but they certainly weren’t up to par in their dress code. Especially considering the stack of Bibles in the corner. However, in his research he’d found that this publishing house had earned the most revenue in the past three years.

“We’re glad to have you here,” Mike said. “And certainly curious about why. We know you were Wolfe Boone’s longtime editor and that you left the industry when he did.”

“That’s right,” Alfred lied.
Banished was
a more accurate word for what happened, but there was no reason to go there. “I’m an agent now.”

“No kidding?” Mike said. “That’s terrific.”

“A religious agent,” Alfred added.

Mike and Neil glanced at each other. “Interesting.”

“I’m building up my client list, and we can talk about that in a moment, but I wanted a chance to pitch to you a book by a woman named Dori Ford.” Doris had agreed to go with the Dori Ford pen name since it was her name minus an S, B, and U. “I’ve done a lot of research in this market, and I have to say I’m impressed, and as you know, it takes a lot to impress a New Yorker.”

“We’d love to see what you have. Has, urn, Mr. Boone shown any interest for writing this kind of fiction?” Mike asked.

“Oh my, yes. The man is practically a walking religious tract. But like any brilliant artist, he requires time to mold and cultivate his ideas.”

“Is he going to be writing … horror?”

“He hasn’t decided yet. Wolfe is capable of writing just about anything, so we’ll see what direction he decides to take his brand. But whatever that may be, you know it’s going to be an instant success.”

Mike folded his hands together. “Well, why don’t you tell us what Ms. Ford has to offer?”

Alfred smiled. “It’s a nonviolent, sexless adventure-suspense-romance with absolutely no controversy in it whatsoever. And let me just add that all conflict is resolved in a loving, timely manner.”

“What?” Oliver shouted angrily as he drove them toward Gordon’s farmhouse. “Are you kidding me?” Oliver’s face was turning red.

“I know this sounds weird,” Wolfe said from the back of the station wagon, “but it’s the best way.”

“Weird is an understatement,” Oliver grumbled. Sam, the lawyer, was strangely silent in the front passenger seat and looked as though he was contemplating whether he’d been abducted by aliens.

“Look, all you have to do is stay in the car. As soon as we have the snake, we’ll get out of here, and that will be the end of it.”

“Do you know how much trouble you could get in? Besides, farmers are notoriously fond of shotguns.”

“Look, Butch has an entire plan worked out. If you could just go a little faster, we’ll get there in time, get the snake, and be gone before anyone knows it. By the way, you can’t mention this to anybody.”

“That will cost you a retainer of two hundred and fifty dollars,” Sam interrupted. “Then I’ll be your attorney, and I can’t say a word to anybody. The law says so.”

“I can’t believe this,” Oliver sighed. “I take the station wagon for a test drive, and the next thing I know I’m involved in grand larceny!”

“It’s technically breaking and entering, since the farmer doesn’t know he possesses the snake,” Sam said.

“Whatever!” Oliver fumed. “I’m involved now, and there’s no turning back.”

“But just think about how Melb will feel knowing the snake is back where it belongs.”

Oliver settled down a bit and glanced in the rearview mirror at Wolfe. “That’s the
only
reason I’m doing this. For Melb.”

“There it is,” Wolfe said, pointing to the farmhouse at the bottom of the hill. “Pull over there, by the big tree.”

Oliver groaned and pulled the station wagon to the side of the road.

All three men opened their doors. Wolfe looked at his watch. He was three minutes late already. Butch was probably having a heart attack. “Okay, you two stay here, I’m going to meet Butch on the other side of the farmhouse. When we have the snake, we’ll bring it here, and then we’ll take off.”

“Oh no. I’m going with you. You’ve already gotten yourself into enough trouble, Wolfe. Somebody needs to be thinking clearly.”

Sam said, “Technically, if I’m going to be your lawyer, it’s better for me not to actually witness your crime. I’ll stay here.”

“Sam, just get in the driver’s seat, and be prepared to race away when we get here, okay?” Wolfe looked at Oliver. “Are you going to be okay? You look distressed.”

Oliver wiped the sweat off his top lip. “I’m fine. Let’s just get this over with.”

“Follow me,” Wolfe said, and he started running toward the house. But he had to slow down because Oliver couldn’t keep up. When they made it to the north side of the house, Oliver was wheezing.

“Just give me a sec,” he said, trying to catch his breath.

Wolfe looked at his watch. “Come on. Butch is waiting.” Wolfe and Oliver slid along the wall and then around the corner. There, waiting by the basement window, was Butch. His eyes widened as he noticed Oliver.

“What is going on?” Butch demanded. “You’re four minutes and five seconds late,
and
you bring someone with you?”

“It’s a long story,” Wolfe said. “We can trust Oliver. And he might come in handy.” There was no need to mention Sam at the moment.

Butch shook his head. “You’re a disaster, Wolfe. Come on, times wasting. We’ve got to get in there.” He held up a laundry sack. “This is what we’re going to put the snake in. I’m hoping the snake is hungry, or else we may not get it to go in by itself, in which case we’re going to have to pick it up and put it in. There’s a small mouse at the bottom.”

Wolfe felt lightheaded.

“You,” Butch said, pointing to Oliver, “stay out here. We’ll lift the snake up to you and through the window, and you pull it through. When we’re all out, we’ll go. I’m assuming you brought a car, Wolfe?”

“Yes. It’s Oliver’s.”

“Fine. Whatever.” Butch slowly pried the window open. Looking around one more time, he then turned on his belly, slid backward, and disappeared inside the window. “Come on, Wolfe!”

Wolfe tried to get control of his nerves. And he wasn’t sure what he was more nervous about: being caught by the farmer or the snake. Either way, it was going to be hard to explain it all to Ainsley. After all, he’d given her the indication that he trusted her to handle the situation with Melb, and now he was taking it into his own hands.

“Wolfe! Come on!” Butch called from the basement.

“You’d better go,” Oliver said.

Wolfe knelt, then flopped over to his belly and slid backward. He was much taller than Butch, but he still managed, unfortunately, to fit through the window easily. The ground was only inches from his feet when he slid through, and he dropped down. Butch was over near the corner.

“He’s still there!” Butch said. He turned to Wolfe. “Walk with your feet flat. That will cause much less vibration.”

Wolfe approached, feeling awkward about his attempt at the nontiptoe
approach. It didn’t matter, because he was sure his pounding heart vibrated everything else. Butch was removing the feed sacks. Then he beckoned Wolfe closer. “You got to come look at this. The two heads! Amazing!”

Wolfe put on his “how interesting” expression, which he’d used often at literary parties. He peered over the remaining sacks, willing himself not to gasp. It was hard. Bob and Fred, with their innocently average names, were nothing of the sort. “Weird,” Wolfe whispered. Then he drew back.

“Okay, I’m going to set up the sack over here,” he said, pointing four feet to the right. “I’ve got to rig it so it stays open a bit. When he smells that mouse, he’s going to go right for it.”

Wolfe checked his watch. They seemed to be doing okay on time, if Butch was right about their schedule. Butch set his stopwatch. “We’ll give him ten minutes, and then we’re going to have to force him in there.”

Alfred was not quite as smooth as he would’ve liked to be, but he thought he did a fairly good job communicating Doris’s story in a way that shouted
bestseller
while keeping it firmly planted in its literary roots. Alfred was a master at reading body language, and he watched both men carefully as he touched on different points.

For example, they seemed to lean forward as he was describing the premise of the book. But when he attempted to show the conservative writing style, by pointing out such things as death by bizarre mattress incident, they looked down in a more uncomfortable state. By the end of it all, though, they did seem genuinely interested.

Neil said, “Alfred, you may have the wrong impression about what
kind of publishing we do. We’re out to tell a good story. Sure we have boundaries, but they’re boundaries that can easily be worked around with a bit of creativity. I think Ms. Ford could certainly come up with some better ways to kill off a character.”

“That being said,” Mike added, “it’s a very promising story. And looking over these sample chapters, her writing style is absolutely magnificent.”

“Real talent,” Neil said. “I think we should take this to committee, see what happens.”

Alfred smiled broadly. “That is great news. I think you’ll be delighted with her. She is really a nice person, too.”

“Good,” said Mike. “Alfred, I must say, I’m curious about your other clients. Most agents work with many writers. You’re new to the business, but do you only have two clients?”

Alfred folded his fingers together calmly. This was going to take finesse. “It is true that I only have two at the moment, but I am selective about my clientele. I can tell you that in a couple of weeks, I feel sure that I am going to be representing some of the biggest names in religious publishing. Some of these people have been on the bestsellers list numerous times, for weeks at a time. I’m in the process of acquiring them even as we speak.” Alfred hesitated, knowing the next move could be considered a bit tacky, but he was feeling a good rapport with these fellows. This could be the thing that definitively tipped the scales in his favor. He did not want them to think of him as a two-hit wonder. He took a piece of paper out of his briefcase and slid it toward them. “These are just a few of the writers I intend to eventually represent.”