EIGHTEEN

The phone rang once and Salzman grabbed it. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, his overnight bag still packed, ready to go. He had no intention of staying in Seattle if he didn’t have to.

“Hello.”

“Is that you?” It was Jenrico’s voice.

“It’s me.”

“What room are you in?”

“Never mind. We’ll meet down there. In the bar. Five minutes.” Salzman didn’t trust Joey beyond the line of sight. He’d brought the two grand, but he wanted to keep it in his room until he saw what it was Joey had.

He took the elevator down. Jenrico was standing at the bar. He was wearing a tank top and a dirty pair of jeans with a hole in the ass. The corner of a worn leather wallet was sticking out of this from the back pocket. Hooked to his belt was a ring of keys hung on a cheesy chrome chain. Joey might have passed for a biker, except he was too sleazy.

“Hey, Mr. Salzman!”

“Keep your voice down,” said Salzman. He looked for a box or a large envelope, something big enough to hold the manuscript.

“Where is it?”

“What?”

“The manuscript. What do you think, I flew up here to have drinks?”

“I got it. You brought the money?”

“Don’t worry about the money. Where is it?”

Joey reached into one of the tight pockets at the front of his jeans, pulled out a folded piece of paper, and handed it to Salzman. It was moist with sweat.

“What the fuck is this?”

“A piece of it,” said Joey.

Salzman looked for a place, somewhere away from the lights and the bar. He saw an empty table and made for it, Joey right behind him. They sat down and Salzman opened the paper, flattening it out on the table with his hands.

“So what the hell is this?”

“First page,” said Joey.

“I can see that. Where’s the rest of it?”

“Outside.”

What he’d given him was the title page to the novel with Gable Cooper’s name typed underneath it.

“Look at the other side,” said Joey.

Salzman turned it over. There at the top was the letterhead:

STARL, HOBBS & CARLTON
ATTORNEYS AT LAW

The names of associates and partners was in small print running down the left-hand margin like snot off a kid’s nose.

“So?” said Salzman.

“It’s what I was telling you,” said Joey. “Your guy didn’t write the book. Otherwise it wouldn’t be printed on the back of that.”

“Anybody could have typed this. One page. Doesn’t mean a thing. Why didn’t you bring the rest of it?”

Before Joey could answer the bar maid came over. “Can I get you gentlemen something to drink?”

“A beer,” said Joey.

“No. We’re not gonna be here that long.” Salzman started to get up. The waitress drifted off.

“I got six hundred pages, all typed on the back of that stuff,” said Joey. “Some of it’s got handwritten notes all over it. And like I say, if you don’t want to look at it, I can take it to the magazine.”

That stopped Salzman. He’d come this far.

“Why the fuck didn’t you bring it?”

“Where’s the money?” said Joey.

“You’ll get paid.”

“Yeah, right. The check’s in the mail,” said Joey. “We already did that one, remember? Cash or you don’t see any more.”

Salzman reached in his pocket, took out two hundred dollars, chump change, and slid it across the table. “The rest is here in the hotel. But I wanna see what you got before I pay anything more.”

Joey got up, pushed the two bills down into his pocket, and headed for the door. Salzman followed him. When they got outside the hotel’s front entrance Joey turned. “Wait here.”

Jenrico crossed the parking lot to a point about two hundred feet away, to an old rusted-out Chevy pickup. Salzman watched as Joey slid between two vehicles, his truck and the car parked next to him, a tight squeeze. Joey couldn’t get the door to the truck open. The other guy had him jammed in. The driver was still there stooped over in his trunk. Salzman guessed he was busting his hump with some luggage that Salzman couldn’t see from where he was standing.

Joey said something to him. From where Salzman was it sounded a lot like “hey shithead.” He couldn’t hear the rest of it. Still the guy didn’t pull his head out of the trunk.

A second later an airport van rolled up under the portico in front of the hotel and Salzman couldn’t see anything. The van started to unload passengers and Salzman had a mind to step around so he could keep an eye on Joey.

Then something caught his eye. A pretty young thing in a micro-mini came down the steps of the van all knees and thighs. To Salzman it was the kind of dress stewardesses used to wear back in the golden age of flight when the boomers were young, before they got sanctimonious and defined everything above the knees as hostile work environment. The driver got her bags. The bellman tried to keep his eyes on his work. Salzman took in the rear view as he drifted toward the back of the van. He watched as she headed up the stairs and into the lobby.

Where the hell was Jenrico? He took a walk around the backside of the van. Joey’s truck was still parked there. The other car was gone. The door to the truck was wide open now, but he couldn’t see Joey. Salzman headed out into the parking lot. He was getting strong vibes that Jenrico was screwing him around. He threaded his way between cars and made it to the back of the truck. When he stepped around he could see that Jenrico wasn’t leaning over into the seat, what he’d thought when he looked from under the portico. He was gone.

Salzman looked inside on the seat. There was nothing. No box, no envelope, just two empty beer cans on the floor on the other side. The fucker had given him a single piece of paper with a dozen words that anybody could have typed on the back of a letterhead that anybody could have gotten. Jenrico had taken his two hundred bucks and stood him up. Salzman slammed the truck door hard, rattling the window in its metal frame. Then he noticed: Joey’s keys were in the lock, and dangling from them was a broken piece of chrome chain.