by Alan Lee
Stackhouse and I held vigil in the waiting room, holding hands. Took an hour before we stopped shaking.
She asked quietly, “Darren set it up?”
“Yeah. I was the target.”
She released some air slowly and leaned her head back against the wall.
Finally a surgeon came out to tell us, “The problem is the bullet’s tumbling effect. It ricocheted inside, causing extra damage. We’ll know more tomorrow.”
I left the hospital at dinner, unsure if she’d live.
I visited the following day but she was still sedated. I deposited flowers on her window sill.
Stackhouse called me Wednesday with an update.
“Hamilton will survive,” she told me. “Though she’ll never run marathons again.”
“Did she ever?”
“I don’t care, kiddo. She’s in an ambulance, headed to Johns Hopkins. Told me to tell you goodbye.”
“Ironic, no?” I said. “Both she and Juanita Yates, shot by accident. But Candice will live because she was shot near a hospital. Luck of the draw.”
“Candice was surrounded by good people. Juanita was shot trying to blackmail a fat and insecure lonely man. Sometimes these things make a difference, babe,” she said.
“You’re suggesting we’re the result of the accumulation of our choices?”
“You know, a handsome guy like you shouldn’t try so hard to be smart. What’s for dinner?” she asked.
“It’s Manny’s turn.”
“Thought so. I might take your father out.”
I hung up. Crossed my sneakers on top of my desk (worn in case I had to limp after dastardly malfeasants) and reached into the bottom drawer for Johnny Blue.
It was a commendable day for an entire gulp.
I did just that and I said a prayer for Candice. Popped the cork back in and closed the drawer.
My laptop was open. A new request for my services open on screen.
I glared at it. Tried to read it. Tried again. Gave up.
I didn’t want to think about it.
Not yet…
I woke up in that position, hypnagogia having snuck up like a thief in the night.
I wasn’t alone.
Ronnie Summers bent at the waist, lowering over my chair. Slid her arms around my neck and pressed her lips against mine. We stayed that way, intimate and proprietary, a long while.
There are worse ways to waken.
Finally she released.
“Hello Mackenzie,” she said, our noses still touching.
“Hello Ronnie.”
“You smell like scotch.”
“You smell like peppermint. And youthful vigor.”
“I’m on my way to court,” she said. “But I saw your car and grew prurient. Isn’t that one of your words?”
“Yes,” I said. “And now that you’re here, I am concupiscent.”
“Show off.”
“More like raw talent.”
“How’s your knee?” she asked.
“Better. Only hurts when I run.”
“I can’t stay,” she said. “I’m late. But I wanted to see you.”
“Let’s go on a date.”
“Yes. A thousand times yes. This time, you and Reginald won’t carry me home.”
“He still with you?” I asked.
“No. Marcus informed me Darren returned to Washington. The threat of exposure called off my aggressors. Reginald has been released to Marcus—I’m safe. And apparently the undisputed queen of marijuana this side of Richmond,” she said.
“Congratulations.”
“I’m a big deal. Care for some free pot?”
“I do not,” I said.
“I don’t either. Which is a shame. I’ve got loads of the stuff.” She went to her bag. “I heard through the grapevine, Grady Huff pled to manslaughter.”
“Probably as it should be. He’s an ass but he didn’t murder anyone in cold blood. What he really needs is an extremely tolerant and long-suffering and deaf girlfriend,” I said. “And maybe she should be blind.”
“Are you glad it’s over?”
“I am. Made me a small fortune, though.”
“Darren will never be connected to the Toby Moreno shooting.”
“Even if we find witnesses who saw them together,” I said. “He’ll claim it was circumstantial. Nothing will stick. Darren is free and clear.”
“He’s not through with you.”
“I know this. And I’m not through with him.”
“Mackenzie,” she said. Slow and reluctant. “I need to confess something. I lied.”
“Always tell the truth. Or at least never lie,” I said.
“You’re quoting something. But anyway. That night at poker, when I set the files on the table, I said I didn’t have a file for you. But, in reality, I do.”
She pulled out an envelope, secured with folding tabs. Handed it to me. I stood.
“Before you open it,” she said. “Please understand. I was scared about that night. I thought I would be killed. I thought you would be killed. And…it just happened.”
I pressed the tabs together. Opened the envelope.
“Wait.” She placed her hand on mine. Hers shook. “It doesn’t mean anything. Please don’t panic. I can fix it.”
“Relax. We’re okay,” I said.
“Alright, but…okay. Look.”
I pulled out a paper.
It was a marriage certificate. An official one.
A legal contract between Mackenzie August and Veronica Summers. We had both signed.
“Uh…” I said intelligently.
“I thought Darren was going to have me shot and I wanted you to receive all my possessions,” she said in a rush. “Or I thought you would be shot and…well, damn it, I didn’t want to completely lose Kix. I would have shared him with your father. I’d only take him on weekends.”
“You and I…we’re married?”
“It just…happened. I had it drawn up. Reginald knows people with weird talents,” she said.
“It’s real?”
“As far as the Commonwealth of Virginia is concerned. Since Friday.”
“We’re married,” I repeated. Although it sounded like someone else said it. Someone from a movie. “That’s a decent replication of my signature.”
“I’ll get it annulled. I swear I will. Don’t be mad. But for the record, you’re the only bachelor in Virginia who’d be upset married to me.” She glanced at her watch. “Fuck. I’m so late.”
“You’re my wife,” I said.
“Good grief, that sounds hot from those lips.” She grabbed my shirt. Kissed me. Picked up her purse again. “I have to run.”
“This went through the system?”
“Yes! Friday.”
“I’m your husband,” I said.
“Yes Mackenzie. Stop the dirty talk right now or I’ll be held in contempt of court. Wow, I’m a mess. I have to go.” She hurried to the door. “We’ll talk tonight. Okay, my husband? After matrimonial consummation. Extreme honeymoon bliss. Maybe twice?”
She glanced at her watch again, yelped, and fled down the stairs.
The wedding certificate was still in my hands.
Glowing. Getting hotter.
“Sweet Jimmy Christmas.”
THE END
Two Pages of Opinion
Two Pages of…
My Opinion on…
The State of the Novel
John Grisham is still rich. He makes five million dollars per book, or whatever the huge number is. But he’s making less now than he used to make per book. It used to be ten million. That’s a good thing, in my opinion, for all of us, including him.
What changed?
Here’s what the math looked like ten years ago for every hundred people who wanted to be writers:
1 person becomes John Grisham, ten million per book.
9 people traditionally publish books, making $5,000 per.
60 people try and fail to get the
ir book published.
30 people never try, feeling defeated before they begin.
But then technology leveled the playing field.
Somewhat.
Thanks to the Kindle and eReaders, here’s what the math looks like in 2018 for every hundred people who want to be a writer:
1 person becomes John Grisham, five million per book.
9 people traditionally publish, making $5,000 per book.
30 people self-publish books, making $10,000 per book.
30 people self-publish books, making $1,000 per book.
20 people try/fail to get their book traditionally published.
10 people never try, feeling defeated before they begin.
(Those numbers are approximate and should be taken as an indication of the truth, rather than cold fact)
I love the new numbers. More books get published, more people realistically chase their dream, and more people make a living writing or simply have a part-time job they adore.
Why is this good for John Grisham, who is making less? Fewer people are reading his books, after all. Because it increases the overall health of the writer/reader market. More people than ever are reading books, even on their phones. Newer writers mean more creative stories and better characters. John Grisham and the rest of us benefit as we push back against mindless games on our screens and the onslaught of Netflix sucking up our time.
It’s a chaotic time in publishing.
Many things are changing.
But most of them are great for writers and readers.
This is a long way of saying…
…thank you, Kindle, for helping me have a career.
…thank you, reader, for taking a break from the literary giants and taking a chance on me.
I’m having a ball writing Mackenzie and Ronnie.
Author Acknowledgements
Many thanks to Brad Thompson and Adam Moseley, founts of information. And to Kim Sarrell and Teresa Blecksmith, for being willing readers.
“Every man’s life ends the same way. It is only the details of how he lived and how he died that distinguishes one man from another.”
- Hemingway
A note about italicized words—
Technically I’m supposed to italicize most words spoken in another language. Those are the rules as set down by knowledgeable grammar persons. Take Manny, for instance—a lot of his dialogue is in Spanish. But I don’t want to italicize all those words. I’d rather save italics for emphasis. I remember reading Hemingway’s For Whom The Bell Tolls and being exhausted by all the emphasized foreign words. So in my novels, I only use italics properly when the reader might get confused by the foreign language mixed in with English. Some foreign words are italicized, and some aren’t, and it’s my book and I can do that. =)
As Stephen King said, the rules of grammar are meant to be broken. At least I think that’s what he said—I might be botching it.
A note about medicine—
Some creative liberty was taken.
Some artistic license was invoked.
Part I
1
“Jiminy Christmas,” I said. Again.
I’d said it a lot that day but the phrase felt right. Don’t tinker with a good thing.
I sat in my reclining swivel chair, feet planted firmly on the floor. I wanted to cross them on the desk like any respectable and debonair detective would do but my sneakers had been unresponsive for several hours, the cowards, stunned into insubordination.
My laptop was open and impatient, beckoning for attention. Outside, cars passed with their headlights on, windshield wipers sloshing the drizzle. The cheery glow emanating from Orvis across the street was brighter than the afternoon sunlight.
In my hands I held an official marriage certificate pinched gingerly on the edges between my fingertips, like it was hot.
It was my marriage certificate.
Whose marriage certificate?
Mine.
That’s impossible, you say.
You’re right it is. I’d never married anyone.
And yet…legally I had a wife.
I had a wife.
She was a humdinger, too. A dame worth killing for. An attorney with a predilection for mixing cocktails. She read books to children at the Rescue Mission and drove too fast through school zones. She adored my son and hinted about seducing my roommate. She’d never told me she loved me but she’d admitted it to a poker table full of professional malfeasants. Hard to decide if she looked more like royalty wearing an evening gown or black activewear.
A girl I deemed deserving of my dedication and devotion.
Did I want to marry her? I assumed so, yes. One day.
Though probably not yet.
However…here I sat. Contemplating the evidence of our union.
“Jiminy Christmas,” I said.
My net worth had probably skyrocketed. So that was nice. And she’d mentioned marital consummation and honeymoon bliss as she dropped off the document earlier that day.
Did I desire honeymoon bliss?
Yes. Yes I did.
But did I deserve it?
Yes. Yes I did.
Mackenzie August. Husband of Veronica Summers.
The real question was…was a question I’d been avoiding. I had a maxim in life and it was unspoken but I followed it closely anyway—be an independent and complete human being. Or phrased differently, I stayed true to what I believed and I did not compromise.
My life was well-organized and clean. Because that was necessary. Because I’d learned through pain it must be. Because I’d compromised myself before and ended up a wreck.
What did I believe? Live simply. Do justice. Walk humbly. Commune with my creator. Love deeply. Honor my father. Train up my son in the way he should go. Pay my taxes. Don’t drink cheap beer. Iron the collars of my shirt so they didn’t curl. Important things like this.
So the real question was…
…was I being true to myself if I didn’t get the marriage annulled?
…was I compromising if I let a woman marry me without my approval?
And I didn’t love the answer. I took umbrage with the truth, because I was besotted with the woman I unwittingly married. Did that matter?
I fretted that it did.
It went against my quest for independence. Not the marriage itself, but the vehicle in which it arrived. My signature had been forged. The ceremony was faked for inheritance reasons. Should that matter if the other name on the certificate was Ronnie Summers? Even if the motive was altruism?
It did matter. I’m glad no one was there to ask me why.
Mackenzie August, a navel-gazing mess.
Someone knocked on my door.
If I was the kind of incompetent man who got startled, I would have been.
A cute girl stood there. Not a girl, but younger than me. Maybe twenty-five. She had one of those haircuts that looked feminine but didn’t reach her ears. Blonde. Untucked slim-fit checkered flannel shirt, sleeves rolled up. Jeans. Bright white teeth. All American.
“Sorry to interrupt,” she said.
“No you’re not.”
“A little, I am. I should say, I hope you don’t mind if I disrupt your daydreaming.”
“Better,” I said. “More honest.”
“You look like a man in a good mood. You were grinning at the ceiling.”
“I do not grin. And if I did, it would be a volitional expression of good humor. Not the reflex of a milksop,” I said.
“Jeez, okay. Why are you purposefully displaying your good humor?”
“I got married today.”
“Oh wow. Congratulations!”
“Not necessary. It’s easy to do, turns out. How can I help?”
“You’re Mackenzie?”
“I am.”
She pointed down the stairs. “I bought Metro. Or, the space next-door where Metro used to be. I was going to ask if you had five minutes to lend a hand, but seeing as it’s your weddi
ng day…”
I stood. Laid the marriage certificate carefully on my desk. Like it might eat me.
“I miss Metro. Their lunch menu was solid.”
“Mine will be better,” she said. “Guaranteed.”
“What do you need help with?”
“The water main. I’d like to switch it on. So stupid but I can’t find it. I’ll give you a free lunch when we open next spring.”
“Deal.”
“Great. Thanks.”
I came around the desk. She backed up, letting me descend the stairs first.
I grabbed the handrail.
“What class of fare will you be serving?” I asked.
She didn’t answer.
There was a prick at my side. Just above the belt.
She was gripping and lifting my jacket with her left hand. With her right, she had plunged a needle near my hipbone.
“Take it easy,” she said. She popped the needle free from my skin and replaced the shirt. “It’s a harmless injection. You’re fine—I’m a physician.”
Alarms sounded in my head. Obviously.
But my body was too sleepy to care.
“You’ll be completely out in less than thirty seconds. Might want to sit down.”
“You’re a physician,” I said. “Not a restaurant entrepreneur.”
My hands wouldn’t work.
She said, “A fabricated story to get me in. I gave you a cocktail of Propofol, Vecuronium, and ketamine, plus an accelerant. I doubt you’ll need rescue breathing—you’re a bigger man than I was told.”
The door at the base of the stairwell opened and a man took the stairs two at a time.
My brain was shutting down.
My limbs refused to lift.
The man caught me. Pinned me to the wall and held me steady, so I wouldn’t tumble.
“Kidnapped,” I said. The word slurred. Head slumping.
