DEAR SOL,
I know you only read the first 50 and last 50 pages of the books you peddle, but even you must have guessed that this is Project X, the manuscript I began a hundred years ago in another world.
You’ll also notice that this package is postmarked from New Orleans. If the Feds have a mail cover on you, as they probably do, they’ll have noted the same thing. It’s not important; by the time you receive this I’ll be a thousand miles from New Orleans.
Sol, please try to sell this. I’m not hurting for money; I’ve got plenty of cash plus the Brandenberg jewels. But I’d like to see this published, just so people will know my side of the story in case something happens to me. If you do sell it, hold the money. I’ll work out some way of getting it without the Feds knowing. If Jack Donohue taught me anything, it’s that the system can be fiddled, one way or another.
Please call my sister and tell her I’m alive and well. Call Aldo Binder and tell the old fart that he was right: I didn’t know what reality was all about.
Sol, I’m going to drop this off at the post office on my way to the airport. The reason I’m leaving New Orleans is that about an hour ago the room clerk tipped me that someone had come by asking for me. A squat, heavyset man wearing a vested suit, topcoat, and British bowler. A man with wide shoulders and a barrel chest.
The clerk kept his mouth shut (he says!), but it doesn’t make any difference; that guy will be back.
And he’ll find me wherever I go; I know that. But the next time things will be different. Remember when you told me readers like a nice, tidy ending to a novel?
I’m going to tidy this one up.
The next place I go to, I’m going to let Antonio Rossi find me.
And then I’m going to kill that son of a bitch.
Love. Jan