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AS I CONTINUED across the stage towards Letterman’s desk I looked over at the audience, trying to determine where the smell of the other werewolf was coming from. I gave a tight-lipped grin and waved a thank you to the audience. That encouraged them to cheer and clap louder.
If it hadn’t been for scenting the other werewolf nearby, I would have enjoyed such an enthusiastic crowd making all that noise for me. As it was, I was distracted and on alert.
The bright lights prevented me from seeing anything more than the outlines of audience members, and the scent I’d detected had vanished. About half-way across the stage, I breathed deeply again, realizing I had completely lost the scent. I forced myself to keep walking towards David Letterman, who was standing behind his desk and smiling at me.
Still on edge about the other wolf, not to mention being filmed for national television broadcast, I tried to tune in to the various other noises going on below the roar of the crowd and Shaffer’s band which was playing the hook from the sound-track to Print of the Predator. I could hear snippets of stage management and camera and light directions being given, the sound of someone walking in a catwalk above, but nothing at all to suggest the other was actually still present.
Could it just be my nerves acting up?
I reached Letterman and he put out his hand, welcomed me to the show in a voice meant just for the two of us, then waited for me to turn, smile and wave at the audience and sit down before he dropped back into the chair behind his desk.
“Thanks for coming on the show,” he said in a voice that this time was picked up by the boom mike.
“It’s an honor to be here, Dave.”
“So tell me something,” David said. “I look at your publishing history, the number of books you’ve had out in just the past ten years, the fact that your novels are being turned into blockbuster Hollywood hits, and I think, okay, this guy is a writer. So why doesn’t he look like one?”
The audience laughed. I smiled.
“Thanks. I think.” The audience laughed even harder. This felt good.
“Seriously,” he said. “You’re a good-looking guy. Tall, dark, handsome. Full head of hair, a charming smile. You dress normal. You don’t seem to be a loner. I mean, here’s a picture of you at the premiere of your last movie release with a total babe on your arm.”
Letterman turned to Shaffer. “That’s what the kids are calling it these days, right, Paul?”
Paul Shaffer laughed. “You got it, Dave. But in Canada, they’re saying Ooot with a total babe.”
“Naturally.” Letterman said, then directed attention towards a front of stage monitor we could both see where the producers had cut to a picture of me walking the red carpet with Gail. I remembered that night clearly – as if it were yesterday.
“I mean,” he continued. “When the average person thinks of an author, we imagine something more like this.”
On the screen, the photo of Gail and I was replaced with a black and white sketch with the superimposed text “Artist’s Rendition” showing a hideous looking man with dark circles under his eyes and a look on his face akin to Edvard Munch’s The Scream sitting at a desk with a typewriter on it and a litter of cats circling his feet.
The screen then flashed to another picture of Gail and I from that same premiere, holding hands and both of us laughing as we chatted with the director of the film. Then it cut to another one of me signing books at a local Barnes and Noble, a display of books piled high, the movie cover poster beside my desk and a line of people waiting to meet me.
Then the sketch of the anguished writer went back on the screen and David made a point of looking at it, then at me, then back and forth a couple more times, much to the delight of the studio audience.
“I just don’t see any similarities, here. Are you sure you’re a real writer?”
Turning to the camera that was trained on me for a close-up and staring directly into it, I said in a loud, announcer-style voice, “I’m not a writer, but I play one on TV.”
Letterman and the audience laughed.
“So do you ever get tired about the stereotypes people have when it comes to writers?”
“To be honest, Dave, I’m fine with those stereotypes. My entire life all I wanted to do was be a writer. If a publisher wanted to print my books with that artist rendition sketch in it rather than my picture, I’d let them, so long as they produced my books.”
“Now your Maxwell Bronte novels also feature a hero that is less than typical for a mystery-thriller series.”
“Yeah.”
“I mean, most successful movies and television shows have to be about one of three careers – doctors, lawyers or cops. But yours feature an antiquarian book dealer. You can’t get much more boring than that, except perhaps an accountant, a librarian, or even a late-night talk show host.”
More laughter.
“But yet, Maxwell Bronte, this mild-mannered hero, seems to get mixed up in some tremendous storylines, some incredible plot twists. He solves murders, saves lives, wins the love of a beautiful woman.”
The screen flashed to a screen shot from Print of the Predator, showing Maxwell Bronte, played by Ryan Gosling, in a steamy clench with his love-interest, Gwendolyn, played by Rachel McAdams.
“That Rachel McAdams is such a sweetheart, isn’t she? But speaking of beautiful women, let’s go back to that picture of you and the hot young thing who accompanied you to that premiere.”
The screen showed the first picture of Gail and I walking up the red carpet.
“Who is this beautiful woman, and, more importantly, is she still in the picture?”
I grinned, not sure how to answer this. Should I say, yes, we were an item, but me being the big loser than I am, I lost her? Sure, we’re friends now, but I really want it to be something more. Then I could get up, pull a Tom Cruise and do the jumping on the couch thing and declare my love for Gail on national television.
Instead, I said. “Aw c’mon, Dave. Do you really expect me to kiss and tell?”
He sat back in his chair and smiled at me, raising his eyebrows.
“Gail and I are really good friends.”
His eyebrows raised further. “Really good friends. Really? My producer tells me that this hot young woman accompanied you to the studio today and is watching from the green room.”
In typical Letterman Show fashion, they had a camera in the green room, and they turned it on to Gail who offered a slightly embarrassed smile. I was too far away from her to get a bead on how she felt about this, the sudden and unexpected exposure and the fact that our relationship, which, in my mind was quite fragile, was suddenly being put on national television.
“Hi, Gail,” I said.
“This is really embarrassing, Andrews,” Gail said in her mock anger voice. “I hope you realize I’m going to kick your ass after the show.”
The audience laughed.
“Oh, she’s a feisty one, isn’t she?” Letterman said.
More laughter.
“Perhaps you’ll be sleeping in the doghouse tonight,” Letterman quipped. “Sorry, pal.”
“You have no idea,” I said. The audience laughed harder.
“Okay, we’re going to cut to a commercial break now. When we come back, we’ll take a look at Michael Andrews’s Canadian roots and determine whether or not he and Paul Shaffer actually know each other. All that, and our musical guest, Knell!”
Letterman leaned over and asked if I was okay with the exposure of Gail. “It was a last-minute thing,” he continued. “My producer suggested it, and we did get Gail’s permission, so she’s not as angry as she looked.”
I told him I understood and how it made for a memorable humorous moment. “Gail is a huge fan of yours,” I said.
“Let me make it up to you,” he said. “I’ll get the producer to arrange for the three of us to grab a bite to eat together after the show.”
“We would really love that,” I said.
Letterman then spoke quietly to the producer in a mike that fed backstage, and Shaffer led his band through a jazzy interlude. I sat back and took a deep breath, trying to absorb it all.
That’s when I smelled him again.
And this time I knew it wasn’t my imagination, or my nerves.
The other werewolf was here, and this time the scent was stronger, much closer. I could detect his abnormally strong heartbeat as well – clearly distinct through the other noises.
He was backstage, not twenty feet away from where I sat.
The intense scent caused a quick flashback to a snippet of wolf memory from the night before.
A naked human male was lying on the sidewalk four yards away. His scent was a strange mixture of wolf and human.
I shook my head as the stage manager was counting us back to being on again.
Shaffer led the band in an ad hoc and jazzy version of “Oh Canada” my home country’s national anthem as Letterman welcomed the viewers at home back.
“So, Paul, Michael – guys, do tell me this – you’re both from Canada. So why don’t you know each other?”
“We do know one another, Dave.” Shaffer said with a huge grin. “We went to the same high school, actually. Played on the same hockey team.”
The audience laughed.
“Yes,” I said. “And Paul’s igloo was just down the snow path from my igloo.”
More laughter. I used these pauses to try to stay focused on the conversation at hand and not the fact the other werewolf was here.
“Okay, all kidding aside, let’s get back to your writing, Michael,” Letterman said. “You’ve had some amazing success with the Maxwell Bronte novels, but in just a few weeks you’ll be releasing a new book.”
“That’s right.”
“But this book is not a Maxwell Bronte novel.”
“No, David. This book is a collection of some very personal short tales, much like the ones I had published in small press magazines years before I had a novel deal for the Bronte books.”
The screen flashed the cover of Silent Screams, my short story collection. In bold letters at the bottom of the cover were the words “Featuring a never-before seen short story featuring Maxwell Bronte.” After much arguing with Mack and my publisher, I’d agreed to re-write one of the original never-before-published stories to include a few references to a back story from Maxwell Bronte as well as a quick walk-on scene with him that was completely disposable from the story’s perspective. But, as Mack continued to remind me, that small fact would get people interested in, and to buy, the book.
“Who cares,” Mack had said, “if that element adds anything to the story. It’ll drive sales and prove to the publisher that you can write more than Bronte stories.”
Of course, I didn’t want the collection to be about Bronte, but eventually gave up the argument. I wanted the collection to be read and enjoyed completely on its own merit. I wanted to be able to break free from the Bronte universe. And I didn’t want to be seen to be selling out in the name of increased book sales.
But I ultimately didn’t have much of a choice.
“Silent Screams does, of course, have a Maxwell Bronte story in it,” Letterman said.
“Well, sort of. The tale being referred to as a Maxwell Bronte story is actually a story about a serial killer who takes out concert groupies. The killer is a writer, kind of like the loner writer in that sketch you showed earlier. He hasn’t had a new novel published in years and is jealous of the fame and fortune of rock stars, and so he sets out to slaughter concert fans, hoping to frighten people away from music and back into reading. At the same time, he is scouring through used bookstores looking for copies of his books, to remove them so that people have no choice but to buy his new books. That’s where he crosses paths with Maxwell Bronte.”
“A writer jealous of a rock star’s success?” Letterman asked. “Is any of that based on deep buried personal issues?”
I laughed. “No. The idea came to me about ten years ago when chatting with a friend about the demise of the music industry through digital file sharing. We were comparing how the music industry survived because even if people download the music for free, musicians can still make money performing live, while writers don’t have that same option. Once the sale of their books dries up, there are not many other options for income.”
“So, it was just an intriguing idea from the parallel of two industries.”
“Yes.”
“And not any personal issue related to your own jealousy of rock stars?”
“Not at all.”
“Good. Because our next guest, who is preparing to perform live for us right now, is one of the hottest acts around. Here, about to perform On with The Show, his latest hit, is none other than Knell!”
The backdrop rose to reveal the three-person backup band of guitarist, bassist and drummer, all dressed in matching black leather with silver studs. They launched into the opening rifts from the song, then there was an explosion of smoke and light as Knell himself, dressed in black leather and a crimson cape, swooped down from above on a guided wire, landing like some demented angel.
I could hear his steady, strong heartbeat. I took in his familiar scent.
And I knew, without a doubt that Knell was the other werewolf.
Stepping down on the stage and grabbing the microphone, he glanced knowingly in my direction, and I knew he also knew who and what I was. Our eyes locked for a moment that seemed frozen in time, then he launched into the opening lyrics of his song.
I got this fire in my bone
It won’t leave me alone
I got this fire in ma bone
Makes me harder than a stone
Knell, as expected, grabbed at his crotch so as to ensure there was no mistaking what “bone” he was referring to. He was as known for his crude gestures as he was for the elaborate costumes and make up. I thought back to how such a big fuss had been made about Elvis gyrating his hips on this very stage back in 1956, and how the cameras could only film his act from the waist up.
As I watched Knell drop to his knees and pretend to perform felatio on his bass player, I sincerely doubted that any particular camera angle used today could clean up the mannerisms he was performing.
I kept looking over at David Letterman every time Knell did something rude or obnoxious. The host was as cool as a cucumber. No reaction at all. I’m sure he’d seen all kinds of unexpected things on this stage so it would take a great deal to faze him.
Knell wrapped up his act by pushing his guitarist in the face, grabbing his guitar, and smashing the hell out of the drum set with it. He turned to face us, cold eyes glaring into mine, his heart-beat racing, as he gave off a powerful scent of hostility, anger and dominance.
I wondered if having two werewolves battling to the death in front of his desk might give Letterman pause.