The Girl and the Genie (20 page)

Mr. Pish picked a place that he was familiar with two blocks away. A four-step walk down into a cavernous room kept in semi-darkness. The furnishing and décor had seen better days, and the place had a somewhat seedy feel to it, but it didn’t matter. By the time they were halfway through their first martinis, Mr. Pish started recounting war stories involving difficult writers he had worked with over the years. By the time they were starting their second martinis, his stories had gotten more interesting.

“Now this one was twenty-five years ago,” Mr. Pish said. “This was before email or the Internet, so all correspondence was done the old-fashioned way, by mail.”

Mr. Pish leaned back into the booth and brought his mostly full martini glass closer so he could study it. After fishing the two olives out of the glass, he licked the alcohol from his fingers and popped the olives into his mouth. He carefully chewed the olives and took a long sip of his martini—a good third of it, then continued his story.

“So I send this oh-so-precious author a twenty-page detailed set of notes, and when I get back a revised manuscript, it looks the same. I read the first third of it, then flipped through the rest, and I swear it was the same damn book without any changes. So I called him thinking it was an honest mistake, that he somehow sent the old version, and he promised me that wasn’t the case, and gave me the page numbers for two pages that he promised were different. I was suspicious at this point, but still I went through both pages carefully. The first page had one added word:
Fuck
. Likewise with the second page that was further into the book.
You
. This sonofabitch wasted at least five hours of my time with his nonsense. I could’ve strangled him.”

“What a jerk,” Emily said, the martini and a half she had drunk having loosened her up. “What happened with the book?”

Mr. Pish’s lips twisted up slightly into something in between a smirk and a bitter smile. “Oh, I published it as it was,” he said matter-of-factly. “Remember, this was twenty-five years ago, and was a different climate than we have today. We were all afforded a certain number of mulligans, so if a book sold poorly it wouldn’t necessarily mean the end of our careers.” Mr. Pish drained the rest of his martini. As he put the empty glass down and looked back at Emily, his eyes darkened for a moment before glazing over. “I made sure that book bombed,” he said, his lips now set in a tight smirk. “I slipped the release date enough times so that the chains and most of the independent bookstores cancelled their orders, and made the reviews useless. In the end, the book sold less than three hundred copies, and that was bad enough to end that author’s career.”

Mr. Pish signaled the waiter for another round, and Emily had to rush to finish off half of her drink to catch up. While Mr. Pish was drinking gin martinis, Emily stuck with vodka ones. She usually only drank wine or beer when she had alcohol, and wasn’t used to hard liquor, and the vodka martinis were making her bolder in the questions she was asking her boss, but he didn’t seem to mind as he regaled her with more publishing war stories. After they finished their third drinks, he gave her a hard look, and told her that he thought she’d had enough. “I will say this, though,” he said after glancing wistfully at his empty glass, “you impressed me today with the way you handled your Ethan Blake. You showed a lot of backbone.” His voice turning gruffer, he added, “It makes me think you’re going to do just fine in this business.”

Emily’s eyes misted up. This was the second time that happened with Mr. Pish that day. Her boss seemed to sense that she was about to leave her seat so she could hug him, and panic flashed in his eyes. He cleared his throat and in a more reserved voice said, “Although I’m not quite sure you’re up to handling a three-martini lunch. Miss Mignon, I will call you a cab to take you home. Just be in bright and early tomorrow.”

Emily didn’t argue with her boss. She knew those three martinis had left her somewhere between tipsy and drunk. When the waiter signaled that a cab was out front waiting for her, she had to concentrate fully so that she’d be able to walk in a straight line, and this with sneakers on. If she had been wearing any sort of heels, forget it.

Mr. Pish followed her outside to make sure she got into the cab safely. As far as today went, Emily knew that Mr. Pish was giving her a mulligan. She realized that for the first time since she’d been working for him he viewed her as more than just an assistant editor. Maybe even with  a similar kind of protectiveness that a father might show a daughter. Whether he liked it or not, Emily rushed over to Mr. Pish and gave him a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek before getting into the cab. If she lost a few points in his eyes for acting emotionally like that, so be it.

Chapter 20

Emily was surprised to find Jack and Winston gone from her apartment, but also relieved as this would give her the opportunity to sober up a bit before she saw Jack again. She brewed a pot of coffee, drank three cups black, and after she felt more levelheaded, she made her way to the bathroom where she gargled with mouthwash and scrubbed her face clean. When she was done she studied herself in the mirror. Her skin was paler than it usually was, and her eyes looked smaller than normal and had a redness to them. Physically she didn’t feel that great either. Her stomach felt off and her body had this overall sluggishness to it. The price she would have to pay for her lunchtime decision. At least she wasn’t falling over drunk. Maybe Jack wouldn’t notice.

Sighing, she looked away from the mirror and walked clumsily out of the bathroom and to the den. Once there, she armed herself with one of the manuscripts she needed to read and sat down heavily in the leather armchair—or at least as heavily as someone ninety pounds could sit. Only then did she summon Jack. A cloud of blue smoke burst in front of her, and from it, Jack and Winston emerged. Winston came bounding over to her panting and wagging his tail excitedly. Jack at first was grinning, but within seconds his eyes narrowed and his grin faded. Emily looked away from him and instead busied herself with Winston.

“You’ve been drinking,” the genie said disapprovingly.

Emily was amazed Jack was able to figure that out as quickly as he did. Maybe he was able to smell the alcohol from her perspiration, maybe he had some other way of knowing. She continued rubbing Winston rigorously along his jowls all the while asking if he’d been a good boy, and only after the Bulldog plopped down by her feet did she glance up at the genie. “I had a few drinks with lunch,” she said. “But I wouldn’t say that I’m drunk.”

“I didn’t accuse you of being drunk,” Jack said. “And I doubt very much whether you ate any actual food with lunch.”

“Not true. The drinks came with olives.”

Concern tightened Jack’s expression. “Did you have an altercation with that writer?” he asked. “Is that why you went out drinking during lunch? It’s very unlike you to do something like that, or to leave work in the middle of the day, for that matter. Or to not take Winston to work with you.”

“The little guy was missed by my boss and others,” Emily said with a thin smile. “I was told he adds class to the office.”

“I’m sure he does, but Miss Mignon, you adroitly sidestepped my questions.”

Emily was going to say something flippant about genies cross-examining their masters, but the worry showing in Jack’s eyes stopped her. “Yes, I spoke to Ethan today,” she said. “And I suppose that put me in the mood to have a more liquid lunch than usual, but I’m fine. I really am.”

“Miss Mignon, it would be perfectly natural for you to carry a good amount of anger toward this cretin. What he did to you was beyond inexcusable. His callous disregard for your safety put you in a terrible situation, one that could’ve ended disastrously.”

“I know. And I agree. But thanks to you I survived the ordeal with little more than a few bruises and soreness, and I’ll be okay. I’ll find a way to work past this.”

Jack shook his head, his expression deadening. “You shouldn’t have to,” he said. “You shouldn’t have to ever be in contact with him again. I won’t hide my disappointment over your not wanting me to do something appropriate to him, but at the very least allow me to make his book contract go away. I’m concerned about you having to have future dealings with him, and what the effect of that might be on your liver.”

“I appreciate your concern, but there’s no need for you to worry. I got it all out of my system today. I’ll be fine, I really will. But enough of that. Where were you and Winston when I came home?”

“Winston needed to go out for some exercise.”

“You didn’t take him for a walk around the neighborhood, did you?”

Jack smiled grimly. “No, that would be far too nerve-wracking,” he said. “There are too many people out on the sidewalks here, and all I would have to do is accidentally touch one of them, or have one of them touch me.” He shuddered at the thought of it. “I instead took him to a secluded spot where I wouldn’t have to worry about any accidental physical contact with an innocent pedestrian.”

This got Emily curious. “Where’d you take him?” she asked.

“Alaska,” Jack said. “A glacier area that’s probably unknown to man, at least for the past one hundred and fifty years. This time of year it’s really quite breathtaking there, and Winston had himself some fun running around chasing rabbits and other small critters. You can probably tell that from how exhausted he is right now.”

Almost as if on command, Winston let out a soft grunting noise and pushed himself off his belly so that he lay on his side. Emily used the toe of her sneaker to rub his exposed stomach, which caused Winston to grunt again, this one more of a contented kind.

“Why’d you pick Alaska?” Emily asked.

Jack’s grim smile turned a bit guilty. “I’d been there years ago,” he said. “My master before Lawrence Willoughby lived in Kansas and wished to discover the largest gold find in North America, so I took him there. This was in the year eighteen sixty-two.” Jack stopped smiling completely and began slowly rubbing his chin, distracted by a thought, his eyes taking on a faraway look. “He was an odd sort,” Jack said at last. “But pleasant enough. This was only his third wish, yet I never saw him again. While I suspected things turned out poorly for him, over the years I did find myself wondering at times what happened to him. And so today I found out.”

“What happened to him?”

Jack’s eyes dimmed. “It’s not a very pleasant story,” he said.

“Please, I’d like to know.”

Jack shrugged and his voice lowered as he told Emily that the man was eaten by grizzly bears. “This happened only hours after I brought him there,” the genie said. “If he had summoned me I could have saved him, but sadly he was too terrified to do anything but scream and try to run away.”

“How do you know this?” Emily asked, skepticism edging into her voice.

“It’s part of the natural laws that genies operate under.” Jack appeared to breathe in heavily and then let out an equally heavy sigh. “We can see events relating to our past masters when we visit locations where they had previously been.”

For a long moment Emily seemed deeply absorbed in what Jack had told her. When she snapped out of it she gave Jack a desolate look and asked whether things worked out for any of his past masters. “All I keep hearing about is one disaster after the next. With Lawrence Willoughby, it was a fleet of ships sinking, a mansion destroyed by lightning, a goldmine flooding, and his eventual arrest and imprisonment for failure to pay taxes. With this poor man, he’s eaten by bears in Alaska. It makes me wonder whether things ended disastrously for all of your past masters.”

“Miss Mignon, I did nothing to have this man attacked by grizzly bears.”

“So it was bad luck. Or perhaps making any wish is tempting fate too much. But it still begs the question. Were any of your other masters better off after they made their wishes?”

“You’re enjoying this apartment, are you not?” asked Jack.

“The book is still open on me. Please, if you can, name me one of your other masters.”

Jack stroked his chin as he thought about it. “There was John Bowles,” he said finally

“That was the man who really was Shakespeare, right?”

“Yes,” Jack nodded solemnly. “His plays are immortal and are still being produced in theaters around the world, just as he asked for.”

“He may have asked for that, but that’s not what he really wanted. He wanted immortality for himself with his name attached to his plays and sonnets.” Emily’s brow wrinkled as she concentrated to pull out a memory from the recesses of her mind. As it came to her, she turned to the genie with a tiredness in her eyes. “And he was left impoverished,” she said. “I remember you telling me that. That the impostor posing as Shakespeare stole his money. So Jack, you can’t give me the name of one previous master who was better off after discovering your lamp.”

“Better off is a relative term,” Jack said. “But as you said, the book is still open on you. I believe fate will be kind to you, as long as you make the proper wishes. That gold find I told you about in the Alaska wilderness is still undiscovered. All you have to do is wish for it, and you can lay claim to it. Miss Mignon, at today’s gold prices it would be worth billions. I’m sure you’d be able to make a wish so that you can benefit from this without being eaten by bears.”

“So I can be swallowed up by an earthquake instead? Or buried by an avalanche? Or attacked by wolves? I think I’ll skip making that wish.”

The genie’s eyes dimmed. “Now you’re just being difficult,” he said.

“I don’t believe that’s the case. I’m just finally looking at this realistically. If things ended badly for all of your previous masters, why should I believe things would end up any better for me?”

“Miss Mignon, surely by now you realize…” Jack closed his mouth, his lips tightly pressing into a harsh line. If Emily was curious to hear him finish his thought, she didn’t say anything to him. Without saying another word he turned away from her and searched the bookshelves, eventually selecting a volume on recent advances in astrophysics. After thumbing through this book, he lowered himself into his invisible chaise longue, and appeared to be thoroughly absorbed with what he was reading. Several minutes later while still maintaining his focus on the page he was staring at, he said, “Miss Mignon, you have four remaining wishes. Use them or not. It’s your choice.”