Plot Line (2 page)

“It’s worse than
that.
You
paid
money to wear it.”

“It’s going on the expense account, I can
tell you that.”

“So Devlin is meeting with the guy right
now?”

“I don’t know.” “That’s his problem. I did
my part.”

The car pulled from the curb.

“Let me get this right.” Ray set his
fork down.
Before him was a half eaten taco
salad and a glass of iced tea. “You want to hire me?”

“Correct.” Devlin offered a small smile then
took a bite of taco.

“To do what?”

“Write, of course. It’s what you do isn’t
it?”

“It’s what I
work
at doing. I’m still
trying to make a living at it.”

“Oh, you’ll make a living working with us—a
very comfortable living. You won’t be disappointed, I promise.”

Ray picked up his fork and poked at the
lettuce. He desperately wanted to ask what Devlin had meant by
“comfortable living.” As it was, he and his wife were barely making
ends meet. Nora worked as a teaching assistant in their local
school system and brought home a part time salary. Her position
provided health and dental insurance, which had been needed several
times over the last two years, but the paycheck remained small. Ray
contributed money from advances on his books, but that soon ran
out. His books sold too poorly to earn more than a few thousand
dollars in royalties and those came only every six months.

How different reality was from what most
believed the writing life to be. Every time he mentioned he was the
author of two novels, people assumed him wealthy. The truth was he
struggled to keep the lights on and the house payments made. If he
didn’t do something soon, he would fail to do even that.

As if Devlin had been reading his mind he
said, “It’s hard to make it as a novelist. Oh there are a few who
reach the pinnacles of fame and fortune, but only a handful. How
many books are published each year?”

“It varies. Something like 30,000 to 50,000.
More if you count other countries.”

Devlin whistled. “That’s a lot of books. How
many of those become bestsellers?”

“Not many,” Ray admitted.

“Just a handful of writers make it to the
top and it isn’t always skill that gets them there. Sometimes good
fortune comes their way by luck. Did you know Stephen King almost
threw his first novel away? If it weren’t for his wife’s insistence
he finish the book, things might have been very different for the
King family.”

Ray had heard the story
several times before. The book,
Carrie
was bought for a low advance,
but then sold big to a paperback company. It was King’s big break
and from there he went on to be the best-selling author in history.
Although every author dreamed of such things, Ray had no illusions
of doing the same. He would be happy with a steady stream of
income. Wealth, however, would be accepted.

“It sounds like you’ve done some
research.”

Devlin smiled. “I’ve written a novel
myself.”

“And you want me to read
it.”
How many times has this
happened
? It seemed every one he met had
written, was writing, or wanted to write a book, and if only he
would help them, then they too could be published.

“No, not at all. My book is garbage. No one
is ever going to read it. Not while I’m alive anyway. I only bring
it up to say I know a little bit about the industry and the effort
it takes to get published. I’m a lousy writer, but a great
researcher.”

“Then you know why I’m so reluctant to take
a staff position,” Ray said. “It takes all the mental energy I have
to produce a book. Anything else would be a distraction.”

Devlin pursed his lips and nodded.
“Dedication and sacrifice are admirable traits.”

“They’re required if I want to be a success
at my writing. So while I appreciate the offer, I really can’t
accept. Besides—”

“Tell me about your publisher,” Devlin
interrupted. “Prestige Publishing.”

The burning returned to Ray’s chest. He
thought of the envelope he had folded and placed in his back
pocket. “They’re a mid-size firm in New York. There’s not much to
tell.”

Devlin pushed his plate aside and leaned
over the table. “Mr. Beeman,” he began in hushed and serious tones.
“I’m going to ask your forgiveness. I’m about to cross the line of
polite discussion, especially discussion between two people who
have just met, but please hear me out. Then I’ll answer whatever
questions I can.”

A sense of discomfort swallowed Ray. There
was something about Devlin, something he could not identify. Ray
wasn’t afraid, but he was apprehensive.

“Prestige Publishing
formally declared bankruptcy two weeks ago. That’s no secret.
Articles appeared in the
Wall Street
Journal
, the
Los
Angeles Times
and the
New York Times
. The corporation has
not turned a profit in five years. They’ve suspended publications.
Existing contracts are now nullified. This means, Mr. Beeman, that
you’re out of a job, and I suspect the letter you were defacing was
your formal release.”

“There are other publishers.”

“True, very true. If you’re
lucky you might be able to place your next manuscript with another
house in six months to a year. Six months to a year, Mr. Beeman,
and then it will be another year before the book hits the shelves.
Six months beyond that before you see any royalties, assuming the
book
earns
royalties.”

Ray hated the conversation. Everything
Devlin said was true, but that failed to make it any more
palatable. “I don’t see what business this is of yours.”

“I want to hire you to work for me. Just
like I said when we sat down to lunch. You’re a man of unique skill
and creativity. It’s a crime that you’re not a best selling author.
I believe you will be someday, in fact, I may be able to help in
that area.”

Ray shook his head. “I don’t want to veer
off course. I need to stay with the plan. It’s the only way I’ll
make it.”

“You can still write your novels, Mr.
Beeman. Write them to your heart’s content. All I ask is that you
give us some time when we need you. You’ll be on retainer. I’ll see
to it you get paid monthly whether you do any work or not.”

“You’ll pay me a salary whether or not I
produce anything for you?”

“This isn’t full time
employment. You will be needed from time to time and when we need
you, you
must
be
there. The rest of the time is yours to do with as you see
fit.”

The offer seemed too good.
What wasn’t Devlin saying? Ray pushed aside his bowl of salad.
“Just who is this
we
you keep mentioning.”

“I work for a department in the government,”
Devlin said. “We do research.”

“What department?” Ray pressed.

“You wouldn’t recognize it. We keep a low
profile.”

“CIA?”

Devlin laughed. “No, not at all. We’re not
CIA, DIA, FBI or any other espionage department. We’re not spies,
Mr. Beeman. I don’t know if that’s a relief or a disappointment for
you.”

“Relief. What do you need a writer for? Why
me? I’ve never written anything for the government.”

“That’s the point. I can get
some kid fresh out of college if all I needed was someone to write
reports. I’m looking for a unique mind, a
creative
mind. A novelist doesn’t
think like the rest of the world. He sees things others can’t. Just
like an architect can look at a two-dimensional drawing and see a
three-dimensional building, a novelist can look at everyday life
and make a mystery or a suspense book from it. It is a distinctive
and matchless gift.”

“But what does the government need with a
fiction writer?”

Devlin leaned back in his chair and said,
“That’s one of those things I can’t talk about until you’re
onboard. It wouldn’t be prudent.”

“I don’t know,” Ray said. “This is coming
out of nowhere.”

“I don’t need an answer now.” He reached in
the front pocket of his sport coat and drew out a business card. It
was a simple white card that read DEVLIN CHAMBERS and had a phone
number. “That’s my private number. Go home and think about it. I
know you’ll make the right decision.” He leaned forward again.
“Think of it Ray, freedom to write, to use the creative genius
locked in your head.”

Ray took the card and studied it for a
moment. He was in dire financial straights and his career could be
over. If so, he needed a job—badly. “I’ll think about it.”

“That’s all I ask,” Devlin said. “That’s all
I ask.”

Two

Ray sat on the old and worn
bench
of the picnic table centered in his
backyard. A three-quarter-moon cast ivory light through a sheet of
diaphanous clouds.

It was nearly 8:30 in the evening and he
hadn’t seen his wife or his daughter. At first he was angry, then
concerned. It was then he remembered Nora telling him that morning
that she and Skeeter would be gone when he got home. Nora was
visiting her sister in Fontana and Skeeter was at church. The plan
was for her to pick their daughter up on the return trip from her
sister’s. He expected them any moment.

Upon reflection, Ray decided, it was good to
be alone. The news of his publisher’s bankruptcy had shaken him
deeply. Everything Devlin said earlier had been true. It could take
months, maybe even years to land a new publisher, and what was he
to do in the meantime? Ray felt as if his heart had been cut out
and handed to him—still beating. His emotions cycled through the
extremes, one moment angry, the next depressed to the point of
tears. During the hours of solitude, he had played and replayed his
options. He could return to his former job, but the thought of hour
after hour of mind-numbing work writing computer programs made him
ill. He’d rather grill hamburgers at minimum wage. He would not go
back to that kind of work again.

Devlin was correct; the
writer’s mind was different. He needed a creative outlet. No matter
how hard the work of writing, no matter how slow the words came,
he
had
to write.
Writing wasn’t a desire it was a compulsion. The only time he
wasn’t thinking about writing was when he was asleep, and even then
he dreamed about plots, characters, and action. If he took a
nine-to-five job, he would be relegated to writing in the evenings
and on the weekends. That wouldn’t go over well with Nora. He wrote
his first book that way and several times she threatened to leave
him.

Nora was a good woman at heart, but her
Irish-quick temper had always been a problem. How different his
daughter was. She was as emotionally level as any man or woman he
had ever met. Just fifteen-years-old, she at times seemed fully
adult, while at other times little more than a school girl. Ray
smiled as his mind rewound the years. He recalled her running
through the house, her arms held out to the side and making a
buzzing sound. She was trying to be an airplane, but sounded like a
mosquito. He had called her Skeeter ever since. Nora insisted on
calling her by her given name, Amy. Hair black as coal, skin the
color of cream, eyes a glacier blue. Boys flocked to her, but so
far she had turned down all their requests for dates. She was a
young woman with her own mind, not easily manipulated. She was
every father’s dream.

The sound of the screen door banging against
the jamb echoed through the thick night air. It sounded like a clap
of thunder and Ray jerked. Turning, he saw the thin form of his
wife marching across the small yard.

“You’re home.” Ray smiled. “I didn’t hear
the car.”

“What are you doing out here?” Nora’s voice
had an edge to it. “It’s cold.” She was a tall woman with fawn hair
that hung to her shoulders. At thirty-nine, she still looked
youthful, but age was crouching at the door. Just the other night,
he had noticed a few gray hairs. He said nothing. Her eyes were
blue, but several shades darker than Skeeter’s.

“Just thinking. How’s your sister?”

“You have a lot to think about.” Ray could
tell she was upset. That was all he needed now: one more problem;
one more log on an emotional fire that already burned too hot.

“What do you mean?”

She pulled her full lips into a tight line.
“You know what I’m talking about. When were you going to tell
me?”

How could she know?
Before he could answer, Nora fired another volley
of words. “Do you think I like finding out about these things from
your agent?”

That explained it. “I didn’t know about it
until I was at the book signing. I got a letter in the mail. I
couldn’t tell you before now, because we were both gone.”

“You could have called me.”

“Where? At your sister’s? What good would
that do?”

“You shouldn’t keep things from me.”

“I’m not keeping things from you. I was
going to tell you when you got home. Lighten up.”

“You’ve just lost your next paycheck and
you’re telling me to lighten up. In case you haven’t noticed, our
saving account is down to $2,000 and we have a stack of bills
waiting to be paid. I can’t support this family alone.”

“No one is asking you to. Now sit down and
let’s talk about this.”

“I’m not sitting out here, it’s too cold.
Besides, there isn’t much to talk about. You will have to start
looking for work. I want you to call Soft-Ware tomorrow. Maybe
they’ll take you back.”