Stories (2011) (83 page)

Larry now had a big mansion outside of Nacogdoches, Texas,
with a maid, a cook, two secretaries and a professional yardman. Any type of
food he wanted was his for the asking. Once he had special seafood flown in
from the East Coast to Houston and hauled from there to his door by
refrigerated truck.

Any first-edition book he wanted was now within his price
range. He owned four cars, two motorcycles, a private airplane and a yacht.

He could own anything–even people. They hopped at his every
word, his most casual suggestion. He had money, and people wanted to satisfy
those with money. Who knows, maybe it would rub off on them.

And there were women. Beautiful women. There was even one he
had grown to care for, and believed cared for him instead of his money and position.
Lovely Luna Malone.

But in the midst of all this finery, there was the favor.
The thought of it rested on the back of his mind like a waiting vulture. And
when a year had gone by, the vulture swooped in.

On a hot August day, the tan limo from Bestsellers
Guaranteed pulled up the long, scenic drive to Larry's mansion. A moment later,
Larry and James were in Larry's study and Herman stood outside the closed door
with his arms akimbo, doing what he did best. Waiting silently.

James was dressed in black again. He still wore the
thick-framed sunshades. "You know what I've come for, don't you?"

Larry nodded. "The favor."

"On March fifteenth, Bestsellers Guaranteed will
arrange for an autograph party in Austin for your new bestseller, whatever that
may be. At eleven-fifteen, you will excuse yourself to go upstairs to the men's
room. Next door to it is a janitor's lounge. It hasn't been used in years. It's
locked but we will provide you with the key.

"At the rear of the lounge is a restroom. Lift off the
back of the commode and you will discover eight small packages taped to the
inside. Open these and fit them together and you'll have a very sophisticated
air rifle. One of the packages will contain a canister of ice, and in the
middle, dyed red, you will find a bullet-shaped projectile of ice. The air gun
can send that projectile through three inches of steel without the ice
shattering.

"You will load the gun, go to the window, and at
exactly eleven-twenty-five, the Governor will drive by in an open car in the
midst of the parade.

A small hole has been cut in the restroom window. It will
exactly accommodate the barrel of the rifle and the scope will fit snugly
against the glass. You will take aim, and in a manner of seconds, your favor
for this year will be done."

"Why the Governor?"

"That is our concern."

"I've never shot a rifle."

"We'll train you. You have until March. You won't need
to know much more than how to put the rifle together and look through the
scope. The weapon will do the rest."

"If I refuse?"

"The bestselling author of
Texas Backlash
will
be found murdered in his home by a couple of burglars, and a couple of
undesirables will be framed for the crime. Don't you think that has a nicer
ring to it than the hit-and-run program I offered you before? Or perhaps, as a
warning, we'll do something to your lady friend. What's her name, Luna?"

"You wouldn't!"

"If it would offer incentive or achieve our desired
goals, Mr. Melford, we would do anything."

"You bastard!"

"That'll be quite enough, Mr. Melford. You've reaped
the rewards of our services, and now we expect to be repaid.

"It seems a small thing to ask for your success–and
certainly you wouldn't want to die at the hands of other bestselling authors,
the ones who will ultimately be your assassins."

In spite of the air-conditioning, Larry had begun to sweat.
"Just who are you guys, really?"

"I've told you. We're an organization with big plans.
What we sponsor more than anything else, Mr. Melford, is moral corruption. We
feed on those who thrive on greed and ego; put them in positions of power and
influence. We belong to a group, to put it naively, who believe that once the
silly concepts of morality and honor break down, then we, who really know how
things work, can take control and make them work to our advantage. To put it
even more simply, Mr. Melford, we will own it all."

"I . . . I can't just cold-bloodedly murder
someone."

"Oh, I think you can. I've got faith in you. Look
around you, Mr. Melford.

Look at all you've got. Think of what you've got to lose,
then tell me if you can murder from a distance someone you don't even know.
I'll wait outside with Herman for your answer. You have two minutes."

From the March fifteenth edition of
The Austin Statesman,
a front-page headline:

GOVERNOR ASSASSINATED, ASSASSIN SOUGHT.

From the same issue, page 4B:

BESTSELLING AUTHOR LARRY

MELFORD SIGNS BOOKS.

Six months later, in the master bedroom of Larry Melford's
estate, Larry was sitting nude in front of the dresser mirror, clipping unruly
nose hairs.

On the bed behind him, nude, dark, luscious, lay Luna
Malone. There was a healthy glow of sweat on her body as she lay with two
pillows propped under her head; her raven hair was like an explosion of ink
against their whiteness.

"Larry," she said. "you know, I've been
thinking . . . I mean there's something I've been wanting to tell you, but
haven't said anything about it because . . . well, I was afraid you might get
the wrong idea. But now that we've known each other a while, and things look
solid . . . Larry, I'm a writer."

Larry quit clipping his nose hairs. He put the clipper on
the dresser and turned very slowly. "You're what?"

"I mean, I want to be. And not just now, not just this
minute. I've always wanted to be. I didn't tell you, because I was afraid you'd
laugh, or worse, think I'd only got to know you so you could give me an
in,
 but
I've been writing for years and have sent book after book, story after story
in, and just know I'm good, and well . . . "

"You want me to look at it?"

"Yeah, but more than that, Larry. I need an
in.
 It's
what I've always wanted. To write a bestseller. I'd kill for . . . "

"Get out! Get the hell out!"

"Larry, I didn't meet you for that reason. . . ."

"Get the hell out or I'll throw you out."

"Larry . . ."

"Now!" He stood up from the chair, grabbed her
dressing gown. "Just go.

Leave everything. I'll have it sent to you. Get dressed and
never let me see you again."

"Aren't you being a little silly about this? I mean . .
. "

Larry moved as fast as an eagle swooping down on a field mouse.
He grabbed her shoulder and jerked her off the bed onto the floor.

"All right, you bastard, all right." Luna stood.
She grabbed the robe and slipped into it. "So I did meet you for an
in;
what’s wrong with that? I bet you had some help along the way. It sure
couldn't have been because you're a great writer. I can hardly force myself
through that garbage you write."

He slapped her across the cheek so hard she fell back on the
bed.

Holding her face, she got up, gathered her clothes and
walked stiffly to the bathroom. Less than a minute later, she came out dressed,
the robe over her shoulder.

"I'm sorry about hitting you," Larry said.
"But I meant what I said about never wanting to see you again."

"You're crazy, man. You know that? Crazy. All I asked
you for was an
in,
just . . . "

Luna stopped talking. Larry had lifted his head to look at
her. His eyes looked as dark and flat as the twin barrels of a shotgun.

"Don't bother having Francis drive me home. I'll call a
cab from downstairs, Mr. Big-shot Writer."

She went out, slamming the bedroom door. Larry got up and
turned off the light, went back to the dresser chair and sat in the darkness
for a long time.

Nearly a year and a half later, not long after completing a
favor for Bestsellers Guaranteed, and acquiring a somewhat rabid taste for
alcoholic beverages, Larry was in the Houston airport waiting to catch a plane
for Hawaii for a long vacation when he saw a woman in the distance who looked
familiar. She turned and he recognized her immediately. It was Luna Malone.
Still beautiful, a bit more worldly looking, and dressed to the hilt.

She saw him before he could dart away. She waved. He smiled.
She came over and shook hands with him. "Larry, you aren't still mad, are
you?"

"No, I'm not mad. Good to see you. You look
great."

"Thanks."

"Where're you going?"

"Italy. Rome."

"Pope country," Larry said with a smile, but at
his words, Luna jumped.

"Yes . . . Pope country."

The announcer called for the flight to Rome, Italy. Luna and
Larry shook hands again and she went away.

To kill time, Larry went to the airport bookstores. He found
he couldn't even look at the big cardboard display with his latest bestseller
in it. He didn't like to look at bestsellers by anyone. But something did catch
his eye. It was the cardboard display next to his. The book was called
The
Little Storm
, and appeared to be one of those steamy romance novels. But
what had caught his eye was the big, emblazoned name of the author: LUNA
MALONE.

Larry felt like a python had uncoiled inside of him. He felt
worse than he had ever felt in his life.

"Italy, Rome," she had said.

"Pope country," he had said, and she jumped.

Larry stumbled back against the rack of his book, and his
clumsiness knocked it over. The books tumbled to the floor. One of them slid
between his legs and when he looked down he saw that it had turned over to its
back. There was his smiling face looking up at him. Larry Melford, big name
author, bestseller, a man whose books found their way into the homes of
millions of readers.

Suddenly, Hawaii was forgotten and Larry was running,
running to the nearest pay phone. What had James said about moral corruption?
"We feed on those who thrive on greed and ego . . . once silly concepts of
morality and honor break down . . . we will own it all."

The nightmare had to end. Bestsellers Guaranteed had to be
exposed. He would wash his hands with blood and moral corruption no more. He
would turn himself in.

With trembling hand, he picked up the phone, put in his
change, and dialed the police.

From today's
Houston Chronicle,
 front page headline:

POPE ASSASSINATED.

From the same edition, the last page before the Want Ads,
the last paragraph:

BESTSELLING AUTHOR MURDERED IN HOME.

The story follows:

"Police suspect the brutal murder of author Larry
Melford occurred when he surprised burglars in the act. Thus far, police have
been unable to . . . "

When Johnson arose from bed he was careful to not scratch
himself, and when he went to the bathroom to do his business, he sat on the
toilet with his pajama pants down and a towel across his lap. Finally, however,
modesty had to be discarded. He finished up on the toilet and undressed quickly
and jumped in the shower and pulled the curtain, knowing full well that he
could be seen by the overhead camera, but at least the one over the door was
not directed at him, and sometimes, he felt that if he could minimize the
number of cameras on him, he could count it as some sort of victory.

He toweled off quickly, wrapped the towel around his waist,
and then he dressed even more quickly, and went down and had his breakfast. He
wanted to have two eggs instead of the one allotted, but the cameras were
there, and if he had two, there would be the ticket from headquarters, and the
fine. He had the one, and the one cup of coffee allotted, went out to this car
and pushed the button that turned it on. It went along the route it was
supposed to go, and he could hear the almost silent twisting of the little
cameras on their cables as they turned in the ceiling and dash and armrests of
the car to get a full view of his face, which he tried to keep neutral.

When the car parked him in the company parking lot, he got
out and looked at the cameras in the parking garage, sighed, went to the
elevator that took him down to the street. In the elevator he looked at the red
eye of the camera there. He didn’t even feel comfortable picking his nose, and
he needed to.

He could remember before everything was so secure and so
safe, when you could do that and not end up as an electrical charge on billions
of little chips funneled through billions of little wires, or for that matter,
thrown wireless across the voids, to have the impulses collected like puzzle
pieces and thrown together in your image, showing all that you did from morning
to night.

The only place he had found any privacy was under the
covers. He could pick his nose there. He could masturbate there, but he knew
the cameras would pick up his moves beneath the covers, and certainly plenty of
people had no problem picking their nose or showing their dicks or grunting at
stool, knowing full well that eventually some human eye would look at it all
and smack its lips over certain things, or laugh at this or that, but he was
not amongst them.

He arrived at the street level and stepped off the elevator.
All along the street the cameras on the wire snakes moved and twisted every
which way. He walked along until he was a block from his office, and he noticed
an old building off to the side. He passed it every day, but today he looked at
it, and saw there was a doorway set back deep. When he came to it he looked in
and saw that it had a little squeeze space inside, a place that had been made
to get out of the rain or to place your umbrella.