And the widow’s unexpected dangling of the prospect of helping to write Mary’s biography? Well, Hannah couldn’t stop thinking about that notion, even though she knew Richard would never comply.
Hannah had finally broken down and confided to Richard about seeing the man from the restaurant—the man she was sure had been spying on them and who then followed them on foot back to the lodge—trailing their bus on its way to the Topping House the previous afternoon. Richard had dismissed Hannah’s concerns, but not as callously as she had dreaded: “A little village with one big tourist attraction…Papa’s front yard is probably the crossroads of Idaho.”
As she sipped her orange juice, Hannah overheard a husky, effeminate rant:
“What the hell is Richard doing here? He’s not presenting a paper, you know. Jesus, he hasn’t published in The Review since that little piece two springs ago about that shitty unsigned poem he found scrawled on an outhouse wall when we were together in Cuba. Well, there was that little piece about double entendres in The Sun in last fall’s number, but that was so reekingly insubstantial…just turning old dirt.”
Another voice said, “Maybe we shouldn’t talk about Cuba and what happened there. You’ll just get yourself upset. Again.”
Hannah glanced up from her dog-eared, tattered paperback copy of Hector Lassiter’s first novel, Rhapsody in Black, to inspect the couple at the table next to her—a man and a woman. Hannah was mildly surprised: Based on the tenor of the voices, she’d expected to see two women. The man who had been speaking was balding, and the circumference of his skull showed through the tufted, brindle, cotton candy wisps of his badly permed hair. His glasses were black and horn-rimmed. The shoulders of his bulging blue suit jacket were peppered with dandruff. His voice was at once gruff and feminine.
The woman seated across the table from the troll lit a fresh cigarette and sipped a wine spritzer from a glass stained with pale lavender lipstick. The woman reminded Hannah of every teaching assistant she had endured during her own not-so-long-ago battery of undergraduate courses in short story writing and critical composition. But this one was rather pretty.
The woman had long black hair, ivory skin and penetrating blue eyes. Slanting black eyebrows evoked something feline and stray. In fact, Hannah would wager the woman had some strange, hairless, six-toed cat back home in her studio apartment—some polydactyl pussy she had pinched from Papa’s Key West house—carefully picking its way among stacks of books regarding Hemingway and his take on genders and female archetypes and hated mothers. The stranger was the kind of spoiled, feline aesthete Richard would likely dismiss as a doleful, weekend “sports fuck.”
“Cuba,” the man said bitterly. “I’m always angry about that, Patricia. I’ll never forget or forgive that one. Just another time Paulson dicked me. We were supposed to do that Paris book together, you know, his so-called career-making book. The one that got him tenure and the award and cost me another two years before I got my tenure. I helped Paulson frame-out that fucking book of ‘his.’ At least fifty percent of the introduction is my work. But Richard turned around and signed the contract solo. So much for gentlemen’s agreements, eh? Hell, I didn’t even get an acknowledgment. He stole reams of material from me, with not so much as a single footnote to my work. The bastard. I told him I was going to register a formal complaint and then he threatened me about the boy I took with me to Pamplona in ’sixty-three. Paulson still holds that affair over my fucking head. Said he’d report it to my chair if I blew the whistle on him. As if Richard hasn’t fucked scores of his own female students. Then came Havana, two years ago, and the documentary deal for CBS. He fucked me again. And that was some serious money.”
Hannah flinched: Could that really be true? Would Richard truly steal the work of another writer that way? And this stuff about female students?
“You keep setting yourself up for these slights, Berle,” the woman said. “You should know better by now.”
“What I should have done was pay some tough in San Francisco de Paula to take Richard out,” the man named Berle said. “You know I could have had him put down for fifty dollars, American. Would’ve looked like a street robbery.”
The woman arched a dark eyebrow. “Dear God, Ber, it almost sounds like you actually shopped around for an assassin.”
Berle smiled to himself. “Maybe I did, Pat. Maybe I fucking did.” He gestured with both pudgy hands. “Wonder what the going rate for an assassination is here in the boonies?”
Hannah was sent reeling by that one—the ugly little man sounded serious.
“Keep talking if it helps let off steam,” the woman said, shaking her head.
“It doesn’t, not really.” He sat forward and stabbed a finger at the woman. “Did you know that that lying cocksucker Richard, loudly, called me a maricón who ‘favors little boys’ in the Floridita? I was lucky to get out of there with my fucking life.”
The man sipped his gin and tonic and stuffed one short, pudgy leg up under the other. “Well, he has somehow, against all reason, secured Mary’s ear. He’s there now—I ran into him as he was leaving. The wicked old bitch is seeing Richard and only Richard. I don’t know how he made the contact, let alone got an audience. That witch has built a wall a mile high around her to keep us all out. Hard to believe, given his last creditable work, that of all the wives, Richard would seriously consider a biography of Mary. Still, he needs a coup at this point, badly. I hear his department head is finally losing faith in him. It’s been a year since his little piece on the Byron congruities had its fleeting vogue and that was mostly European. And now Stu has all but made that subject his own. It’s certain to figure in the life he is working on.”
Hannah closed her eyes and rubbed her temples: In danger of losing his position at the university? That gave context to some of Richard’s more portentous, disturbing recent asides….
“Who is ahead now, by the way? Stu or Eddie?” The woman, Patricia, had a husky voice. Hannah thought, The things a three-pack-a-day habit will do for you.
“Stu all the way. Although, if the rumors are true, Edward will have best crack at being first in incorporating The Garden materials in his version of the life.”
“I can’t say I cared for his Howells book.”
“I can’t say I care for Howells. Who can? He’s strictly for underfunded antiquarian book collectors and people who still read Arlen as literature. Anyway, Richard is muy jornalero.”
Hannah, who spoke little Spanish, made a mental note to look that one up at the bookstore in the lodge’s shopping arcade.
The fat little man with the scalp disorder sat up suddenly. “You don’t suppose that old whore is giving Richard access to The Garden holographs, do you? Based on Carlos and Sebastian’s readings, that material is mine, by rights. Given that material, and the work I’ve already done on ‘Sea Change’ and what we know of Islands, I can smash that crap, macho image of the big fucker’s forever—and long before Pelka gets there. You don’t really think Mary is permitting Richard access to The Garden, do you?”
“I hear Mary’s out of the picture where Eden is concerned—way out of the picture,” the cat woman said. “That’s Scribners, all the way. If Mary had her way, at least as I hear it, The Garden would never see the light of day.”
Hannah closed her eyes, listening to the woman’s voice: It was similar to the voice on the phone, but not so close that Hannah could declare a match. Yet….
“Poor Richard,” the fat man said. His voice sounded a bit like his companion’s. He said, “I wonder what he’s up to? At least he’s still trying and I guess that’s to his credit. Still rooting around for a seminal new insight.”
Hannah finished her orange juice and left a handful of change to cover the bill and the tip.
“Poor poor Richard,” she heard the fat man lamenting behind her. Then suddenly enthusiastic, he said, “Oh, and did you see that fat whore Barbara is here? She still doesn’t get it—how magnificently impervious our guy is to t
he fucking ‘death-of-the-author’ crowd. Oh Jesus! And that book of so-called ‘scholarly poetry’ she published: Loofahs for Lepers. What a sagging-ass suck-up to Jacques and Roland that was. And she stole the title from fucking Bud Fiske, for Christ’s sake.”
Hannah sighed and looked around. She saw Hector Lassiter across the lounge. He was sitting in his own corner booth with a cup of coffee and a notebook, his jacket off and his sleeves rolled up; his forearms matted with hair. Despite his age, there was something almost boyish about him. He was wearing wire-rimmed glasses—looking very much the author. He was focused entirely on his writing. There was no indication that he even knew Hannah was there. No sign he’d been eavesdropping on the professors. No hint he was even aware of where he was other than in the country of whatever story or novel he was composing.
Watching him work made Hannah feel guilty. She watched Hector a while longer, then went back to her room and to her own notebook.
***
Twenty minutes later, someone banged loudly on the door of her room. Hannah was stretched out on the bed, laying on her side, unable to get comfortable enough to focus on her writing. She struggled up, her hand pressed to her belly and said, “Yes?”
“Hello,” a familiar voice said. “Is Richard there?”
“No,” Hannah called back, frowning. “What is it? Is something wrong?”
“I’m a friend of Richard’s. I wanted to talk to him.”
“He’s not here.”
“I’m sure you can help me,” the voice said. “Can I come in?”
“No,” Hannah said, edging to the door. “I’m sorry, I’m just out of the shower and not feeling very well.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that. Are you Mrs. Paulson?”
“Yes,” Hannah said, hesitating. “Who are you?”
“A friend—a colleague. Of Richard’s, I mean.”
“Yes, I know,” Hannah said, trying to place the gruff, feminine voice. “But your name?”
“Richard was going to give me Mary Hemingway’s phone number and we both forgot when we spoke earlier today,” the voice said, ignoring Hannah’s question. “If you could just give me her phone number, I’d be so grateful. I’m kind of up against a deadline I was to meet in terms of contacting her.”
Hannah edged quietly to the door and peeked through the peephole: It was Berle, the fat little Hemingway scholar. His distorted smile—magnified and bent through the fish-eye lens—was just this side of terrifying to Hannah. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t know the number.”
“Perhaps you could let me in to look around.” He must have had his hand on the doorknob, because it twisted slowly until the bolt caught. Hannah began to panic.
“I’m sure it’s in a notebook or something somewhere,” Berle said. “It’s very important to Richard and I. I could give you time to dress.”
“I’m sorry, no,” Hannah said, hearing an edge creeping into her voice, despite her effort to sound nonchalant. “In fact, Richard is with Mrs. Hemingway right now, so any ‘deadline’ to contact her has surely been met.”
“Oh. Yes. Yes, then.”
Hannah looked again through the lens. “Berle” was frowning and red-faced. He took a last shot: “I do have something important to pass along to Richard while he’s with Mrs. Hemingway. It has bearing on their conversation. If I could —”
This time Hannah cut him off: “I’m sorry. I really have no number where he or she can be reached. If you’ll give me your name, I’ll tell Richard you’re trying to contact him.”
Through the peephole, Hannah watched as the man dipped his head sharply in anger and mouthed the word cunt.
“No,” he said. “It will be too late then. Please, don’t bother mentioning I stopped by. It’s fine. Really. Thanks.”
Hannah bit her lip.
She stayed by the door, then saw the handle twist again. She kicked the door, then and checked the peephole and saw Berle running down the hallway. Now she was in a panic. And she was alone.
Hannah looked around the hotel room for something she might use to defend herself and her baby, all the while gasping for breath, on the verge of some terrible attack of nerves.
She saw the dog-eared paperback on the bed. She remembered what Mary Hemingway had said about the novel’s author: “The man who lives what he writes and writes what he lives.”
She dialed the front desk. “Is Mr. Hector Lassiter still in the lounge?”
A minute passed. The “crime writer” had apparently left the lounge.
Hannah said, “Could you connect me to his room, please?”
“When the plot flags, bring in a man with a gun.”
— Raymond Chandler
17
SENTRY
He answered on the second ring. The girl was breathless; sounded truly scared.
Hector felt he’d made a connection with Hannah back at Hem’s place, and of course they shared this kinship in the writing. And now, in danger, Hannah had turned first to him. That flattered and pleased him. At his age, being seen by a pretty young woman as a worthy protector was a heady thing.
And Hector knew how it could play out: he’d been down this road many times, after all.
A sense of being menaced had driven more than one woman his way over the years—the tension heightening emotions and sharpening the typical arc of intimacy.
Fear had often proven a potent aphrodisiac.
A part of Hector was surprised to find himself again toying with pursuing his interest in Hannah. But what if he played out the hand? Maybe this one would turn out better than the other times he’d waded in to help some pretty young thing. Maybe this time things wouldn’t end in disaster or ruin.
And hell, in a practical, physical sense, their coming together seemed foreordained as well: Hector’s room was just four doors down from the Paulsons’ new room—they’d moved into the lodge-proper for the conference.
Hell, why fight what seemed to be fate?
Well, there was her goddamn husband, for one thing.
There was that other man’s baby she was carrying inside her, too.
And yet….
Well, either way it went, he’d see it through. There really wasn’t much choice about that: Hannah was in trouble and had come to him for protection.
Hell, given some of the past frantic cries for help—and the horrors that had resulted from so many of those—how much trouble, really, could this comely young pregnant Scot be facing in this resort full of fey intellectuals?
As he kept the phone trapped between his shoulder and ear, Hector ran a comb through his hair and tucked in the shirt that had just come back from the laundry. He said, “Just step out into the hall, honey. I’ll see you here safely.”
***
Hannah looked around as she fumbled with the lock—her hands were shaking.
The crime novelist was already there in the hallway, smiling and holding up a hand. “It’s okay,” Hector said. “I’ve scouted around; he’s gone.”
Hannah nodded. He was standing there calm and smiling, like it was just another chance meeting. But it wasn’t. He was successful novelist, a fairly famous one; a charismatic man’s man famous for his escapades as a sports fisherman, hunter, screenwriter, and war correspondent. She didn’t read many of them, but she’d seen enough screen and film gossip magazines to know some of the starlets romantically linked to Hector Lassiter.
A world apart from scholars and the aspiring literary writers she’d been surrounded by in college, Hector Lassiter was a doer, not a talker. She shook her head: Enough analysis; the fact was, from just her brief exposure to him at the Topping House, Hannah was already drawn to Hector—could see he came by his other reputation, that of ladies’ man, honestly.
As she reached his room, she was struck again by his height and the breadth of his shoulders; Hector was cast on a much different scale than Richard. And Hector had this charisma—the kind that could rob a room of its oxygen. Papa would have called it machismo�
�masculinity of a kind Hannah sensed was passing from the world. She wished she wasn’t pregnant for the moment, that she was her former athletic self…like, well, like one of the women in Hector Lassiter’s novels.
He stepped aside so Hannah could pass into the parlor room—his suite had two doors, the one she entered through, and a second that she presumed opened directly into the bedroom. The parlor was ringed with windows and flooded with sunlight: a television, two chairs, a long couple of couches and a writing table; a fireplace close by the door.
Alone in his room with him now, Hannah didn’t want to come off as a needy, scared little thing; some neurotic little pregnant wife running from shadows. She didn’t want Hector to see her as a frightened child-woman. She couldn’t stand the thought her fear might amuse a man like this novelist, who by all accounts had seen real trouble in his storied life. Yet her panicked call had brought her to his room. She had to play the hand she’d dealt herself:
“I’m so sorry to have bothered you with this,” Hannah said. “It’s just that with my husband away, I didn’t know who else to call. It’s probably nothing….”
***
Hector almost laughed then. It was the same old dance. He suddenly felt he was playing a scene from one of the myriad B-movie potboilers whose scripts he’d doctored during the late 1940s.
Hewing to that tack, he wrapped an arm around Hannah’s shoulders and led her to the French doors opening onto a private patio. He held her hand as she carefully lowered herself into a chair, her other hand cradling her belly. They both seemed reluctant to let go of one another’s hands. Hannah smiled awkwardly and let go first.
Hector made sure to get windward of Hannah, then he pulled a package of Pall Malls from his pocket. She was probably right: It probably was nothing—just some drunken, misogynist egghead ranting at a woman through the mutual safety of a door.
Print the Legend: A Hector Lassiter novel Page 14
