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“YOU LOOK LIKE a bag of shit.”
I couldn’t help but smile at Mack. Being greeted in such a way immediately told me that I wasn’t in his bad books.
Mack had a wry smile on his face as he looked up at me, his thin lips pressed tightly beneath an even thinner, dark mustache that looked more like it was drawn on than grown. I’d always thought that with his thick, brush-cut hair, dark around the ears, but blending into a soft grey at the top, he’d look better in a fuller, thicker moustache. But I kept telling myself that would make him look more like the J. Jonah Jamieson from the Spider-Man comic books.
I felt a huge knot of tension release in my shoulders and I let the glorious smells of various breakfast foods in the open-kitchen restaurant wash over me.
“What did you do?” Mack said, still sitting at the table and grinning at me as I approached. “Sleep on the street last night?”
“Good morning Mack.” I tried to ignore his insult and move on. “So, can we order food now?”
But he wasn’t finished.
“You decide to roll naked in a garbage dumpster before meeting me this morning?”
“Mack, I’m a little peckish this morning.”
“What, you couldn’t find something good to eat in the dumpster? Man, but you artistic types – you never cease to surprise me with the way you dress in public.” He clasped his hands together while I sat, revealing that he was finished with his fun and ready to get down to business. “I already ordered for both of us. They’re cooking it now.”
Of course he would have. He’d never expect one of his clients to be late, or this was the last meeting he’d have with them. Smiling again, I pulled out the chair across from him and sat.
“Promise me something,” Mack said.
I nodded. “Sure.”
“Promise me you’ve got something else to wear for tonight’s spot on Letterman.”
I just looked at him. Did he just say Letterman?
“You heard me, didn’t you?”
I nodded again. Letterman? David freaking Letterman?
“I got the call last night. They had another writer scheduled to appear on the show. One of those self-help guru types, Andy Robinson, I think. It was a last-minute cancellation. So, a phone call or two later and voila, Michael Andrews is on.”
I was still at a loss for words. Letterman? I kept repeating to myself. I knew there was a reason I put up with Mack’s insults and gruff nature. It was because he could pull something like this off.
“I’d been trying to get you on the show for the past year and the producers must have had you front of mind. But you have to admit, the timing couldn’t be better.”
My last novel, Print of the Predator, had been released about four months ago, but a collection of my short fiction was due out in a few weeks. Mack and my publisher had been pushing me for the past couple of years to release something to keep my fans sated between the standard annual spring releases of my novels.
I was eager to see reader reaction to a collection of the more morbid writings reflective of my earlier years as a writer – the collection was a compilation of stories that had originally appeared in small press magazines years before my name became known alongside a few newer tales I had penned in the same macabre style.
And I’d be appearing on the Letterman show, just weeks before the book’s release. Is there any wonder why I was desperate to hang onto Mack as my agent?
“Letterman?” I finally said, as our breakfast arrived, two steaming plates of eggs, hash browns, ham, bacon and sausage. A plate with a single stack of half a dozen pieces of toast sat in the middle of the tray beside two tall glasses of orange juice, two glasses of milk and a large coffee for me. Another thing about hanging around with Mack – known in literary circles as “Mack the Knife” for his ability to get what he desired – were the fringe benefits of being in his presence. This Metro Market didn’t serve food to tables. Despite their ability to cook virtually anything your heart desired it was standard counter service. You ordered at the counter, paid up front, and carried the food on trays to your table. But not with Mack. No matter where he was or what he wanted, I’ve yet to see him be denied a request.
Gotta love that he’s my agent.
While I squeezed the ketchup onto my plate, Mack started shaking salt onto his own, as if he were trying to bleed the shaker dry. “You’ll be appearing,” he said, “alongside the hot new shock-rock dude. Knell. I’m rather fond of that concept, because it might open you up to a whole new audience. Given the likely attention span of his fans, it’s perfect that you’re promoting your book of short stories.” He turned his attention to the pepper, shaking as vigorously as he had with the salt. “You should try to work in a mention of the story about the serial killer who takes out concert groupies – that oughta get their attention.”
I could only nod enthusiastically at that point, because I’d already stuffed several forkfuls of food into my mouth.
Knell was definitely the latest hot commodity with young folks. A young, blond rock star with a perpetual Billy Idol sneer, he came off like a cross between Eminem and Ozzy Osbourne. His music was raunchy and hard hitting, and his lyrics rolled off his tongue like he’d just chugged a cocktail of laxatives and hard liquor.
His lyrics were controversial, his band a group of talented musicians, and he was splashed all over the media, pushing Kim Kardashian from the top spot of those celebrities the average person just loved to hate. If it wasn’t a story about his songs being banned from school dances, it was a tale about his raunchy night club escapades.
Yet, his albums were an interesting compilation, because both of them contained not only the hard-hitting songs with lyrics that pushed the envelope of taste and decency but there were also at least two tracks that were clean enough for standard radio airplay. That’s how I’d heard most of his music. I’d also overheard some of the raunchier songs from personal mp3 players while on public transit – and you wouldn’t need my heightened sense of sound to pick up on those, let me tell you. I started reminding myself of my father lately, thinking that the hearing-aid industry would likely be booming due to the volume with which young people blasted tunes into their heads.
Mack was right. It would be interesting to see if my appearance with Knell could capture a new type of audience.
“Woah, slow down, there, Chester,” Mack said, taking a mouthful of juice. “I don’t plan on taking any of that food away from you. I’ve got my own.”
I just glared at him, shoveling another couple of mouthfuls in. Now that I’d gotten a taste of the food, I was almost not able to meet the demands of my stomach and bring the food in fast enough.
“Oh wait,” he said, pointing at my plate. “I know what it is. You’ve got so much ketchup on your plate, you can’t even see the food.” He took another chug of his juice and grinned. “You’re panicked – trying to ensure that there is food under all that ketchup.”
I thought it was funny that he’d make so much fun of me after he’d almost depleted the salt and pepper shakers over his own plate. But Mack was like that. If we were both sitting there with bird-shit in our hair, he’d be laughing his ass off at my predicament, completely unaware that he looked just as silly.
“Okay,” the tone in his voice took on a seriousness that I could also smell. “One more business item to discuss so I can properly claim this meal as a business expense. Your publisher called yesterday and they want to see progress on the next Maxwell Bronte novel. They want to see the first five thousand words or so to ensure it’s coming along. I’ve held them off as long as possible, but you gotta start producing.”
Maxwell Bronte was the hero in my mystery novels. He worked in antiquities and usually solved mysteries in the world of books and antiques. It was a good series, and Maxwell was a fun character to explore, but after six novels, two of which had been turned into movies, one a feature length film and the other a made-for-television special that doubled as a pilot for a television series that never went anywhere, I wanted to explore other things in my writing.
I guess I was experiencing what sometimes happens to writers who create a character who is both interesting, marketable and successful. A Frankenstein monster of my own that I couldn’t escape from.
That’s another reason why I liked the fact that my short-story collection would be coming out – it would be good to attract some new readers, readers who might not already be familiar with Maxwell Bronte, readers who enjoyed the dark and twisted turns my stories could take, and didn’t want just another antiquity mystery.
In the meantime, my contract stipulated that I had to produce three more Maxwell Bronte novels in the next three years. Maybe after that I could explore other writing.
The problem, recently, had been that while I had been writing, I hadn’t done much on the latest Maxwell Bronte novel. All my writing had either been short story diversions, or notes towards a few supernatural thrillers. I’d even started a series of humorous essays outlining what it was like to be a Canadian born in a Northern Ontario town and living in Manhattan.
Maxwell Bronte was currently an elusive character for me lately, just outside the range of my creative spark. Sure, I’d been with him on some great adventures, but neither my mind nor my pen had been able to track him down and capture what he was up to.
I hadn’t let Mack know any of that, of course, because every time I mentioned working on other writing projects, he pointed out the contract – which had paid quite a lot. He’d only let the release of the short stories through because one of the tales included a mention of Bronte as a young man. Mack saw this as a wonderful teaser, and was ensuring – against my wishes – that the publisher included a qualifier on the cover indicating a Maxwell Bronte adventure appeared in the book.
So while the short story collection might attract a new audience and increase my readership, the insertion of Maxwell Bronte into one of the tales and in the promotions for the book guaranteed that the regular Bronte fans would rush to the stores to buy it, just for another simple taste of their favorite character.
In the back of my mind, I knew it was likely that many of these fans would buy the book and only read the tale with Bronte in it, overlooking the rest.
That hurt. I know, I should be thankful that my books are selling at all – hell, that they’re even being published. But I needed more as a writer than just a fan base waiting for the next in a seemingly endless mystery series.
I needed to explore the human condition in so many other ways than a single character’s exploits could take me – sure, there were supporting characters and new people who moved in and out of Bronte’s life. But I never got a chance to simply follow one of them along and see where their story took me.
The blur of graffiti from the alley walls as I rushed past them, the echo of the high-low wail of a siren, and ahead of me, maintaining its lead, another wolf.
The sudden flashback didn’t take me by surprise, they rarely did any more, but when I have them, I do pause, my eyes go glassy, and I sometimes lose track of the conversation. At times both Mack and a now ex-girlfriend used to suggest I go for a brain scan to see if perhaps I suffered from a mild form of epilepsy. Mack was in the middle of saying something when I was able to again focus on the conversation.
“. . . remind you that you’re under contract and already two months behind schedule,” he was saying. “And mostly because they and I allowed you a small grace period so you could get that little short story collection worked out of your system.”
I stabbed the last few hash browns and glanced back up at Mack. “I’ll have something to you by the end of the week,” I said around a mouthful.
“No,” Mack said.
His words, eyes, and his scent were like a face-full of cold water thrown in my face. He had a way of inserting his entire being into a statement, a moment. His heart even paused and beat a single strong pulse at the exact right time, as if offering an exclamation point to his word. I know that my heightened senses picked up on many of these things, but I was convinced that they also came across, quite clearly to the average person when Mack spoke.
“You’ll have me five thousand words by the time you’re ready to be on Letterman tonight.”
“But Mack . . .”
“Don’t hand me that bull, Andrews. This is a walk in the freakin’ park for you. You can shit out five hundred perfectly crafted words by the time it takes me to finish my breakfast. You’ve got the entire day. What else is on your schedule?” He paused, then added with a bemused smirk. “Besides perhaps a much-needed shower and wardrobe change?”
I thought about that other werewolf, about trying to unravel what had happened to my alter ego the night before, about the murder, about the shooting.
“Nothing,” I said.
“Don’t give me that – I can see in your eyes that you’ve got these big plans. What are you doing, working on those non-Bronte pieces? Dammit, Michael, haven’t I come through for you on all angles? For at least one year I had to put up with you jumping around, a strained look on your face as you gestured for me to pull your damn finger so you could get this fart that had been building in your system out. Well, I pulled your damn finger – relieved you of that fart. Can’t you at least do me the favor of getting your ass in front of your computer and pounding out five thousand simple words in the next Bronte adventure?”
“Fine,” I said.
The conversation was over at that point. Sure, there were small words to be exchanged, the bill to be paid. But it was over. Mack’s heartbeat suddenly relaxed, his mood shifted from work back to relaxation. He’d stated his case, won. Victory was his, and he wasted no time enjoying it.
“Two o’clock,” his words weren’t punctuated with the sudden single throb of his heart. This was merely a casual add-on for him to a lifetime of bargaining and winning. No matter what he won, what he got, he always pushed for more. It was like breathing to him, I guess.
I glanced over at a clock on the wall. It was 7:50 a.m. By the time I got to my place and showered, I’d likely have about five and a half hours.
It was only five thousand words after all. I had to stop being a big baby about it. Five thousand words was nothing – a couple of hours work perhaps.
“Fine,” I said again.
Mack struck a match against the flat, plastic no-smoking placard attached to the surface of the table and smiled at me as he lit a cigar.