DEAR HOAGY,
Message received. And I could tell this one was really from you, not Inspector Feldman. What kind of name is that anyway, Dante Feldman? And who does he think he is comparing me to David Berkowitz on Larry King’s show? Berkowitz was a fat hairy slob, a pig. I am an artist. Doesn’t Feldman realize that yet? Oh well, I guess it’s like they always say—a bad review is better than no review at all. I’d better just get used to it, huh? Comes with the territory!
I don’t know what my price is, in answer to your question. What’s good money these days for a guaranteed No. I bestseller? I read the newspapers. If Newt Gingrich is worth $4.5 million and Colin Powell is worth $6 million then how much am I worth? What does John Grisham get? Not that I consider myself in Grisham’s league yet, but this is exactly the kind of thing I need to know from you, Hoagy. That’s why I brought you in.
Also, what’s included in this figure? As I hope I’ve already made clear to you, I want to hold on to the movie rights. But what about the foreign rights? Would the publisher get those? How about the paperback rights? Audiocassettes? Help me out here, Hoagy. We’re in this together, you know. It’s you and me against the world.
In response to your other question: Will I stop this when we get our deal? I can’t answer that. I don’t know. I only know that I am an artist, as you are, and that I have no control over my artistic impulses. They have a life of their own. I’m just along for the ride. Frankly, I have no idea when the book will be done or even how it will end. I do know that I’m feeling incredibly productive. I wake up every morning looking forward to my work. I’m having the most fun I’ve ever had in my life, Hoagy. I’m just so excited. When I don’t feel that way anymore, when this just starts to feel like routine drudgery—I guess that’s when I’ll know it’s over. And time to move on to a new project.
But I will need a good long rest first. This book has been a great strain on me, I don’t mind telling you. I have to pay attention to every little detail. I have to concentrate, day in and day out, because one little slip and the whole thing will just fall apart. I guess I never really appreciated before just how hard it is to write a book. But I guess I don’t have to tell you that, do I?
In the meantime, here’s another chapter. I have to confess it’s my favorite so far. I hope you don’t find it too weird. I’m still experimenting. And, I hope, growing.
Yours truly,
the answer man
p.s. Is James Coburn too old to play Inspector Feldman?
5. the answer man goes uptown
New York City, December 12
Friend E—The Christmas shoppers are out in full force. You’ve got to see it to believe it. The pushing and shoving. The honking and cursing. The flat-out craziness. And for what, to buy a bunch of stupid shit nobody needs and won’t use? One good look at Christmas in New York, E, and I’ve got this to say—the wrong people in this world got all of the money.
And you would not believe the women. Especially if you move on up Madison Avenue into the 60s and 70s, where the Park Avenue rich bitches shop, all of them so slim and sophisticated, noses stuck up in the air, shoulders thrown back, hips swinging. It’s hard to believe, looking at them, that they are just as miserable as all the rest. Maybe even more so. Because, damn, they got what every woman wants—great looks, great bod, some rich guy who’s fool enough to give her every cent he’s got. They got it all, right? Only, it ain’t working, E. I can see it in their eyes. I can see how lonely they are. How starved. How desperate for someone to come along and save them from their pointless lives.
And that someone is me. They don’t know it. But I do.
I was on Madison in the low 60s when I saw her coming out of this Italian shoe store, looking tall and lean. Looking like she was going somewhere that mattered. She had on a camel coat, black leggings and a pair of moccasins. I had to use my imagination a little this time, E, because she wasn’t doing the makeup thing and her frizzy black hair was tied back and she had on these big, ugly horn-rimmed glasses. But there could be no doubt about it—this was a major honey. My major honey.
I followed her down Madison. A big black limo followed her, too. She stopped to throw a couple of shopping bags in back and say something to the driver. When she got to 57th Street she hung a left and went into the Ghurka leather store. I didn’t much like the feel of it. Too small. I waited outside. She wasn’t in there for long, and she came out empty-handed. Headed over to Fifth, where the cabs jammed the intersection, riding their horns, and the people were shoulder to shoulder on the sidewalk and some guy was roasting chestnuts and another guy was ringing a bell for the Salvation Army and another guy was selling flowers. I bought a bunch from him, cost me five bucks. I thought maybe she was going into Tiffany’s but she crossed over to the other side of Fifth and went in Bergdorf Goodman. A prime-time ladies’ clothing store, nothing but the fancy designer stuff, floor after floor of it. Standing just inside the front door was this little sugar-lipped Chinese honey offering free perfume samples to the folks. What a little cutie. Making, what, six dollars an hour to come all the way here from Queens during Christmas season to spray that bad-smelling shit on people? Little honey would be better off dead.
Another time, Friend E. Not today. I already had business today.
I followed my own honey up the escalator to the second floor. I didn’t exactly blend in there, as you can well imagine, but the flowers helped me out some. I just looked like one of those messengers you see around town, making another delivery, trying to keep it together.
She ended up in this shop with stuff by one of those Italian designers that got only one name. She was checking out a navy blue suit. There were a few other women beaming on stuff. One clerk. But nobody was standing too close to her.
Until I was.
I said That’s a crime against nature, you know. She looked me up and down, cold as cold gets, and said What is? I said Pulling your hair back that way. It’s much too beautiful. Well thanks, she said, trying to act like she wasn’t interested. But she was. She was a woman like all of the rest, E. Desperate to be saved. I said These flowers are for you. She said As if, I couldn’t take them. I said Yes you could. She took them. Sure she did. I asked her what her name was. She said it was Cassandra. I said Wait, don’t I know you? Because she did look familiar, like maybe I saw her once in a movie. She said Well, I am on television sometimes. I said That can’t be it. I don’t own a television. She said Geez, how do you stay in touch with what’s happening? I said From life. She said Get outta here, that’s a totally nothing magazine now, Jurassic fucking Park. I said Not the magazine, life itself. Then I launched into this whole bullshit argument about how too many people experience life secondhand from their lounge chairs instead of getting out there and talking to the people. I made it all up on the spot, but she was real intrigued. Hooked, you might even say.
I’m telling you, it’s a gift I have, Friend E. I am blessed.
She was staring at me now. Had these weird eyes, like great big saucers of cream. She said Y’know, I’d swear you look familiar, too. Where do I know you from? I said You don’t, but I hear that a lot. She said Listen, let’s go someplace. I said Where to? She said My place. I wanna hear some more about your ideas on television and society—ties in with a story I’m doing. I said You’re a writer? No way, so am I. And she said Get outta here, that’s so cool. And out the door we went.
Me thinking this one’s going to be like a hot knife going through butter.
That limo of hers was waiting out front for her. Right away she started to get in. Right away I said No way. Didn’t want any driver remembering me, E. She said C’mon, what’s your problem, cookie? I said Nothing, I just don’t believe in limos. She said What, you wanna take a cab? And I said No, the subway. And she said What are you, weird? And I said Hey, maybe some other time. And she said Yeah, yeah, shewa. We’ll take the subway.
We took the N train down to 14th Street, her acting real tense and paranoid the whole way, like she thought somebody was going to mug her. My guess was she hadn’t been down below with the people in ten years. One old lady sitting across from us seemed to recognize her. But she didn’t say nothing. Nobody did.
Cassandra lived alone on West Tenth Street. Owned the whole damned building. Not what I’d do with my money but, hey, it’s a free country. Or so I’ve been told. There were a million pictures of her with famous people plastered all over the walls. Man, this honey knew everybody. Didn’t matter one bit, though. She was still praying for me to come along. She needed me, E. Maybe even more than the others did. Because this one, this Cassandra, she had the looks, the money, the career … And yet she was alone and miserable and she knew it. I sure knew it. The pain in her eyes was enough to make me cry. But I would make that pain go away now. I would make it go away forever. I was here for her. I had the power.
I AM the power.
She offered me a drink. I said No, thanks. She told me to sit down. Then she went upstairs and came down with a tape recorder. Put it on the coffee table, turned it on and said So tell me what you’re not telling me. Suddenly acting tough. And I said Huh? And she said You followed me all the way to Bergdorf’s from Madison. You picked me up for a reason. You got something you wanna dish, go ahead and dish. You want it off the record we’ll make it off the record. My word is gold. I didn’t get to where I am by boning my sources. Go on, dish me, do me, c’mon.
Friend E, I just sat there staring at her like a fool. Because she was like this whole different person. Nasty and hard in that New York kind of way. Finally, I said You’ve got me all wrong, baby. I just want to get to know you. She said You’re wasting my time with this bullshit. You want to talk about Him and we both know it. So let’s talk about Him. And I said Talk about who? And she said The answer man, who else?
Whoa, trip on this a second, will you, E? She KNEW who I was. She’d HEARD of me. But she didn’t know she was sitting there TALKING to me!
Damn, talk about a player being a step slow going to the hoop.
She eased off a little now. Tried the gentle approach, which went something like this … Cassandra: Is he a friend of yours? Is that what it is? Me: Yes, that’s what it is. He’s a friend. A real close friend. Cassandra: He’s really something, isn’t he? Me: That he is. I have a huge amount of respect for him. Cassandra: Gawd, so do I. Wanna tell me his name, cookie? Me: Actually, I can do better than that.
What I did, E, is I got up and sat down right next to her on the sofa and said You have to turn off the tape first. And she said Why? And I said Because that’s the way it has to be. Just turn it off. Turn it off and I’ll tell you the answer man’s name. She said Promise? I said Promise. So she reached over and turned it off.
And that’s when I gave her the special something I’d brought for her. The gift that would take her out of that lonely misery of hers. I had it tight around her throat before she could even react. She let go much easier than the others did, which surprised me. Her being so tough and all. I think I must have crushed her windpipe, because she made this gagging noise and right away pitched over onto the floor, her eyes rolling back in her head. Twitched once and was still. I put my brand on her, grabbed that tape recorder and got out of there, my deed done.
It was a good deed, too. A happy deed. I had a real spring in my step all the way home. I felt fulfilled. I felt useful. That’s one of the nicest things about my work, E. That feeling of being able to give something back to the community. It does almost as much for me as it does for them, you know. It’s especially nice to find out that others have heard about my work and are responding to it in a positive way. My hope, just between us boys, is that I can inspire people to join me. Just trip on this a minute, E. Think about what a world it would be if each one of us performed a small, random act of kindness every day. That’s not so much to ask of people. A few minutes. That’s all it takes—a few minutes. But what a difference you can make. Think about what a difference I’ve made in this big, cold, heartless city in just a few short days. Think about what a world it could be if we ALL gave something back. Think about that.
Damn, I’m starting to carry on. I just feel so good I may have to go out and party. I miss you, man. See if you can slip out the back way. We’ll make us a weekend of it. I know I can get you laid. No problem meeting beautiful honeys in this town. There are more than you can shake your big ugly stick at.
Your pal, T
p.s. Money helps. Bring some, the more the better