Stories (2011) (82 page)

"Don't give me that garbage. I've got talent and you
know it. I used to help you with the plots of your short stories. And your
first novel–remember the things I worked out for you there? I mean, come on,
Mooney. You've read my writing. It's good. Damned good! I need help. An
in
 can't
hurt me.

It may not help me much, but it's got to give me a damn
sight better chance than I have now."

Larry looked at Mooney's face. Something seemed to be moving
there behind the eyes and taut lips. He looked sad, and quite a bit older than
his age. Well, okay. So he was offended by being asked right out to help a
fellow writer.

That was too bad. Larry just didn't have the pride and
patience anymore to beat around the bush.

"An
in,
 huh?" Mooney finally said.

"That's right."

"You sure you wouldn't rather do it your way?"

"I've been doing it my way for twelve years. I want a
break, Mooney."

Mooney nodded solemnly. He went over to his desk and opened
a drawer.

He took out a small, white business card and brought it over
to Larry.

It read:

BESTSELLERS GUARANTEED

Offices in New York, Texas, Oklahoma

Overseas

The left-hand corner of the card had a drawing of an open
book, and the right-hand corner had three phone numbers. One of them was a
Houston number.

"I met a lady when I first moved here," Mooney
said, "a big name author in the romance field. I sort of got this thing
going with her . . . finally asked her for . . . an
in.
 And she gave me
this card. We don't see each other anymore, Larry. We stopped seeing each other
the day she gave it to me."

Larry wasn't listening. "This an editor?"

"No."

"An agent?"

"No."

"Publisher, book packager?"

"None of those things and a little of all, and a lot
more."

"I'm not sure . . . "

"You wanted your
in,
 so there it is. You just
call that number. And Larry, do me a favor. Never come here again."

The first thing Larry did when he left Mooney's was find a
telephone booth. He dialed the Houston number and a crisp female voice
answered:

"Bestsellers Guaranteed."

"Are you the one in charge?"

"No sir. Just hold on and I'll put you through to
someone who can help you."

Larry tapped his finger on the phone shelf till a
smooth-as-well-water male voice said: "B.G. here. May I be of
assistance?"

"Uh . . . yes, a friend of mine . . . a Mr. James T.
Mooney–"

"Of course, Mr. Mooney."

"He suggested . . . he gave me a card. Well, I'm a
writer. My name is Larry Melford. To be honest, I'm not exactly sure what
Mooney had in mind for me. He just suggested I call you."

"All we need to know is that you were recommended by
Mr. Mooney.

Where are you now?"

Larry gave the address of the 7-Eleven phone booth.

"Why don't you wait there . . . oh, say . . . twenty
minutes and we'll send a car to pick you up? That suit you?"

"Sure, but . . . "

"I'll have an agent explain it to you when he gets
there, okay?"

"Yes, yes, that'll be fine."

Larry hung up and stepped outside to lean on the hood of his
car. By golly, he thought, that Mooney does have connections, and now after all
these years, my thirteenth year of trying, maybe, just maybe, I'm going to get
connected, too.

He lit a cigarette and watched the August heat waves bounce
around the 7-Eleven lot, and twenty minutes later, a tan, six-door limousine
pulled up next to his Chevy.

The man driving the limo wore a chauffeur's hat and outfit.
He got out of the car and walked around to the tinted, far backseat window and
tapped gently on the glass. The window slid down with a short whoosh. A man
dressed in black with black hair, a black mustache, and thick-rimmed black
shades, looked out at Larry. He said, "Mr. Melford?"

"Yes," Larry said.

"Would you like to go around to the other side? Herman
will open the door for you."

After Larry had slid onto the seat and Herman had closed the
door behind him, his eyes were drawn to the plush interior of the car. Encased
in the seat in front of them was a phone, a television set and a couple of
panels that folded out. Larry felt certain one of them would be a small bar.
Air-conditioning hummed softly. The car was nice enough and large enough to
live in.

He looked across the seat at the man in black, who was
extending his hand. They shook. The man in black said, "Just call me
James, Mr.

Melford."

"Fine. This is about . . .writing? Mooney said he could
give me a . . .connection. I mean, I have work, plenty of it. Four novels, a
couple of dozen short stories, a novella–of course I know that length is a dog
to sell, but . . . "

"None of that matters," James said.

"This
is
about writing?"

"This is about bestsellers, Mr. Melford. That is what
you want, isn't it? To be a bestselling author?"

"More than anything."

"Then you're our man and we're your organization."

Herman had eased in behind the wheel. James leaned forward
over the seat and said firmly, "Drive us around." Leaning back, James
touched a button on the door panel and a thick glass rose out of the seat in
front of them and clicked into place in a groove in the roof.

"Now," James said, "shall we talk?"

As they drove, James explained, "I'm the agent assigned
to you, and it's up to me to see if I can convince you to join our little
gallery. But, if you should sign on with us, we expect you to remain loyal. You
must consider that we offer a service that is unique, unlike any offered
anywhere. We can guarantee that you'll hit the bestseller list once a year,
every year, as long as you're with us.

"Actually, Mr. Melford, we're not a real old
organization, though I have a hard time remembering the exact year we were
founded–it predated the Kennedy assassination by a year."

"That would be sixty-two," Larry said.

"Yes, yes, of course. I'm terrible at years. But it's
only lately that we've come into our own. Consider the bad state of publishing
right now, then consider the fact that our clients have each had a bestseller
this year–and they will next year, no matter how bad publishing may falter. Our
clients may be the only ones with books, but each of their books will be a
bestseller, and their success will, as it does every year, save the
industry."

"You're a packager?"

"No. We don't actually read the books, Mr. Melford, we
just make sure they're bestsellers. You can write a book about the Earth being
invaded by giant tree toads from the moon, if you like, and we will guarantee
it will be a bestseller."

"My God, you are connected."

"You wouldn't believe the connections we have."

"And what does your organization get out of this? How
much of a percentage?"

"We don't take a dime."

"What?"

"Not a dime. For our help, for our guarantee that your
books will be bestsellers, we ask only one thing. A favor. One favor a year. A
favor for each bestseller."

"What's the favor?"

"We'll come to that in a moment. But before we do, let
me make sure you understand what we have to offer. I mean, if you were
successful–and I mean no offense by this–then you wouldn't be talking to me
now. You need help. We can offer help. You're in your mid-thirties, correct?
Yes, I thought so. Not really old, but a bit late to start a new career plan.
People do it, but it's certainly no piece of cake, now, is it?"

Larry found that he was nodding in agreement.

"So," James continued, "what we want to do is
give you success. We're talking money in the millions of dollars, Mr. Melford.
Fame. Respect.

Most anything you'd want would beat your command. Exotic
foods and wines? A snap of the fingers. Books? Cars? Women? A snap of the
fingers. Anything your heart desires and it's yours."

"But I have to make a small, initial investment,
right?"

"Ah, suspicious by nature, are you?"

"Wouldn't you be? My God, you're offering me the
world."

"So I am. But no . . . no investment. Picture this, Mr.
Melford. You might get lucky and sell the work, might even have a bestseller.
But the slots are getting smaller and smaller for new writers. And one reason
for that is that our writers, our clients, are filling those slots, Mr.
Melford. If it's between your book and one of our clients', and yours is ten
times better written, our client will still win out. Every time."

"What you're saying is, the fix is in?"

"A crude way of putting it, but rather accurate.
Yes."

"What about talent, craftsmanship?"

"I wouldn't know about any of that. I sell success, not
books."

"But it's the public that puts out its money for these
books. They make or break an author. How can you know what they'll buy?"

"Our advertising system is the best in the world. We
know how to reach the public and how to convince. We also use subliminals, Mr.
Melford.

We flash images on television programs, theater films; we
hide them in the art of wine and cigarette ads. Little things below conscious
perception, but images that lock tight to the subconscious mind. People who
would not normally pick up a book will buy our bestsellers."

"Isn't that dishonest?"

"Who's to tell in this day and age what's right and
wrong? It's relative, don't you think, Mr. Melford?"

Larry didn't say anything.

"Look. The public pictures writers as rich, all of
them. They don't realize that the average full-time writer barely makes a
living. Most of them are out there starving, and for what? Get on the winning
side for a change, Mr.

Melford. Otherwise, spend the rest of your life living in
roach motels and living off the crumbs tossed you by the publishing world. And
believe me, Mr. Melford, if you fail to join up with us, crumbs are all you'll
get. If you're lucky."

The limousine had returned to the 7-Eleven parking lot. They
were parked next to Larry's car.

"I suppose," James said, "we've come to that
point that the bullfighters call 'the moment of truth.' You sign on with us and
you'll be on Easy Street for the rest of your life."

"But we haven't talked terms."

"No, we haven't. It's at this point that I must ask you
to either accept or turn down our offer, Mr. Melford. Once I've outlined the
terms, you must be in full agreement with us."

"Accept before I hear what this favor you've talked
about is?"

"That's correct. Bestseller or Bohemian, Mr. Melford.
Which is it? Tell me right now. My time is valuable."

Larry paused only a moment. "Very well. Count me in. In
for a penny, in for a pound. What's the favor?"

"Each year, you assassinate someone for us."

Larry dove for the door handle, but it wouldn't open. It had
been locked electronically. James grabbed him by the wrist and held him
tightly, so tightly Larry thought his bones would shatter.

"I wouldn't," James said. "After what I've
told you, you step out of this car and they'll find you in a ditch this
afternoon, obviously the victim of some hit-and-run driver."

"That's . . . that's murder."

"Yes, it is," James said. "Listen to me. You
assassinate whomever we choose. We're not discriminating as far as sex, color,
religion or politics goes. Anyone who gets in our way dies. Simple as that. You
see, Mr.

Melford, we are a big organization. Our goal is world
domination. You, and all our clients, are little helpers toward that goal. Who
is more respected than a bestselling author? Who is allowed in places where
others would not be allowed? Who is revered by public figures and the general
public alike? An author–a bestselling author."

"But . . . it's murder."

"There will be nothing personal in it. It'll just be
your part of the contract.

One assassination a year that we'll arrange."

"But if you're so connected . . . why do it this way?
Why not just hire a hit man?"

"In a sense, I have."

"I'm not an assassin. I've never even fired a
gun."

"The amateur is in many ways better than the
professional. He doesn't fall into a pattern. When the time comes, we will show
you what you have to do. If you decide to be with us, that is."

"And if not?"

"I told you a moment ago. The ditch. The hit-and-run
driver."

Suddenly, Herman was standing at the door, his hand poised
to open it.

"Which is it, Mr. Melford? I'm becoming impatient. A
ditch or a bestseller? And if you have any ideas about going to the police,
don't. We have friends there, and you might accidentally meet one. Now, your
decision."

"I'm in," Larry said, softly. "I'm in."

"Good," James said, taking Larry's hand.
"Welcome aboard. You get one of those books of yours out, pick out a
publisher, and mail it in. And don't bother with return postage. We'll take
care of the rest. Congratulations."

James motioned to Herman. The door opened. Larry got out.
And just before the door closed, James said, "If you should have trouble
coming up with something, getting something finished, just let me know and
we'll see that it gets written for you."

Larry stood on the sidewalk, nodding dumbly. Herman returned
to the driver's seat, and a moment later the tan limo from Bestsellers
Guaranteed whispered away.

James was as good as his word. Larry mailed off one of his
shopworn novels, a thriller entitled
Texas Backlash
, and a contract for
a half million dollars came back, almost by return mail.

Six months later, the book hit the bestseller list and rode
there for a comfortable three months. It picked up a two-million-dollar
paperback sale and a big-shot movie producer purchased it for twice that
amount.