“What the hell was that?” I snap.
He turns towards me and again gives the one-shoulder shrug.
“Just trying to get their attention so we don’t stand out here all day.”
Every part of me wants to tell him what an idiot he is and run back towards the elevator, but I can’t. The sound of footsteps stamping against plastic grows closer, freezing my body in position.
“Hello,” a man says, appearing around a corner behind the front counter.
He is several inches taller than both of us, tanned in a way no man should be for this time of year. He is dressed in jeans and a Dartmouth sweatshirt, his sandy brown hair combed back from his face.
I know in an instant who he is. Even though he is dressed down for construction, it is quite obviously the same man we had seen on the website.
“Thanks for getting here so fast,” he says. “I know it’s early, but I am starving.”
I can feel my tongue swell two sizes in my mouth, all saliva parting in an instant. A rush of lightheadedness hits me, the lamps overhead growing three shades brighter.
“Oh,” Quasi manages beside me, “we’re not delivery boys.”
Already I want to tell him to shut up, bristling at his use of the term boys, but I can’t yet bring myself to speak.
“We were actually looking for Terry Weinberg.”
“I’m Terry Weinberg,” he says, confirming what we both already know. He tosses the box he was holding to the floor, the empty box landing with a hollow thud, and folds his arms over his chest. “What’s this about?”
Once more, Quasi opens his mouth to speak before turning and looking at me. He gives me a tiny nod to signal the floor is mine, even leaning back a couple of inches to make it obvious.
As much as I hated him talking, I hate him backing away and leaving me on an island even more.
“Uh, Mr. Weinberg,” I manage, my voice sounding dry and throaty. “My name is Charles Doyle and I read online that you moved here to open up a new division of Bansky, Martin & Associates.”
Deep creases form on either side of his mouth, though he manages not to give me an outright frown.
“That’s right.”
Feeling no better about things, I glance to Quasi beside me. He has suddenly grown fascinated with the counter in front of us, making no effort to meet my gaze.
“I understand you guys do a great deal of work in literary agency,” I manage.
The hope is for him to take the hint and offer up some form of response, though he does nothing of the sort.
“And as an aspiring author, I was hoping I could submit my manuscript to you,” I add, pushing out the words as fast as I can.
Once they are gone, I stand trying to catch my breath, for some reason feeling winded from the simple statement. He stands without moving a moment, his arms remaining folded, before finally giving a tiny nod.
“Well, as you can see here, the place is still very much under construction. You’re right, we do a lot with literary representation, but at the moment, I’m just trying to get the doors open.”
He glances past us to the front gates standing wide and smiles. “So to speak.”
Thankful for any kind of positive sign, I smile as well, a puff of relieved air escaping my lips.
Before I can think to say anything else, the elevator chimes behind us. Another pair of footsteps grows closer, this time accompanied by the scent of Indian food.
The smell, coupled with deep-rooted dread, drops the bottom out of my stomach as I turn to see a young man with dark brown skin walking towards us. In his hand is an oversized paper sack, the words Tandoori Garden printed on it in green ink.
“Hot damn,” Weinberg exclaims behind us, slapping his hands together.
Quasi and I both jump at the sound of it, standing idly by as Weinberg circles around the counter. He digs a wad of cash from his pocket and almost thrusts it at the young man, not even bothering to count it.
“Keep it,” he says, offering a megawatt smile. “Appreciate you getting down here so fast.”
The young man runs a thumb over the bills and his eyes grow wide. He bows at the waist and whispers something I assume to be thanks before backing towards the door, moving as if he is afraid Weinberg will change his mind and demand some of the money back.
All three of us stand and watch him back out through the doors before turning on a heel and practically sprinting towards the elevator.
Returning to his position behind the counter, Weinberg pushes his nose into the opened top of the sack and breathes deeply. The motion lifts him up onto his toes, his eyes closing as the scent passes through his nostrils.
“Man, that smells good,” he says, dropping back flat to the floor and opening his eyes.
Standing before him is us, a fact it is clear he had almost forgotten.
“Tell you what,” he says, a dismissive sigh sliding out with the words. “Call back next week. My secretary will be here then, she can tell you how to submit your work.”
A tiny ember sparks deep inside as I unsling the strap from my shoulder and slap the bag down on the counter. White dust rises in a plume around me, though I ignore it as I reach inside and extract a sheaf of paper two inches thick.
“Actually, I’ve got it right here,” I say. “I can just leave this with you now, if that’s okay.”
I’m not sure if it’s the hopeful look on my face or the smell of food that wins out, but to my extreme shock he says, “Sure. Just leave it there.”
Chapter Sixteen
Friday, January 21st, 2015
12:27 pm
While claiming I could have ten minutes, Brantley actually gives me closer to a half hour of freedom.
Part of this is because despite my standing up to stretch upon first being let off my leash, the rest of my time I remain seated. I’m not especially happy about it, and would love nothing more than to extend my legs again, but I opt against it.
The additional freedom in my seat means too much for me to flaunt it and have it ripped away.
On the other side of that glass, Brantley is no doubt watching every move, just waiting for me to do something stupid so he can come and make a big show of things in front of Pearson.
I will not give him the opportunity.
The other side of my receiving some additional time is I have taken as long as possible to finish my meal. Under the guise of being a good storyteller, I drag out the two sandwiches five minutes each but really go to work on the chips.
One at a time, I pick at them, tearing the bags completely open, making sure everybody can see how many remain.
As the clock on the wall nudges to half past the hour, Brantley enters and collects the scraps, returning my hands to their locked down position in front of me. He somehow manages to do all this without looking at me or the objects on the table, his whole focus on Pearson.
To his credit, this time he chooses to go with the strong silent approach over offering bumbling small talk.
“So you got your story into Terry Weinberg’s hands,” Pearson says the moment he is gone.
Despite my eating for the last half hour, she has refrained, her entire focus on taking notes.
“In a manner of speaking,” I say, shrugging.
“Meaning?”
My shoulders rise again, this time my eyebrows matching them in sequence.
“I went and dropped it off with him, but I wouldn’t say I got it into his hands.”
Her blue eyes appear over the edge of the screen for the first time in a while, staring back at me.
“Isn’t that the very definition of getting something into his hands?”
“Again, in a manner of speaking,” I reply. “In this case, a very literal manner.”
I can tell the pedantic routine is starting to rub her a bit thin, but I don’t really feel up to again telling her to slow down. Perhaps if I annoy her just enough, she’ll figure out that everything will be resolved in the end.
Another heav
y sigh passes her lips as she sinks down behind the computer, the sound now growing familiar.
“I looked into Terry Weinberg when this all first broke,” she says, just the top of her head visible across from me. “The guy was no joke.
“He wasn’t terribly huge in the literary world, only a few smaller projects when he first started out, but he’d done some big things in music. Bansky, Martin was smart to send him.”
There is no reason to point out the irony in her statement, though I can’t readily stop the smirk that comes out in response to it. I wait just long enough for her to realize the faux pas before saying, “And the agency as a whole was quite successful. They had fingers in music, television, motion pictures. Literature was just a small part of what they did but there would have been worse places to end up.”
“That was pretty gutsy just showing up at the office like that. Where did you get the idea?”
Since coming to the Row, I have given scads of interviews. It is the first time anybody has ever asked me this question.
“My father was a big Johnny Cash fan.”
The image of him sitting in the living room, listening to old records, their pops and white noise echoing off the walls, passes through my mind. For a moment, a smile crosses my face as I stare at the table, lost in another time.
I don’t know how long I sit that way but when I finally blink myself back into the moment, Pearson is watching me.
“Your dad liked Johnny Cash?”
The smile evaporates as I nod, continuing to look down at the table.
“There’s an old story about how Kris Kristofferson flew his helicopter onto Johnny Cash’s front yard and gave him a copy of songs he’d written. Cash was a little taken aback at first but took the songs and liked them. They became friends and collaborators for decades thereafter.”
Her gaze remains on me for a moment.
“I never knew that.”
“Long after the fact, they both admitted it wasn’t true, though Kristofferson did land there one time. Still, the story always kind of stuck with me. Figured if it was good enough for them, it was good enough for me.”
Another moment of silence passes. I remain focused on the plain slate grey table, pretending I don’t feel her stare upon on my skin.
“But it didn’t quite play out that way?” she finally asks.
My right nostril pulls upward in a snort, the crown of my head rocking back a bit.
“No, it didn’t quite play out that way.”
“Is that why...” she begins, cutting herself short before getting the entire question out.
It is one I’ve been waiting on since the first mention of Weinberg’s name, steeling myself not to react when it was finally vocalized.
“Is that why I killed him?” I ask, shifting my focus up to look at her.
She meets the looks just a moment before retreating, just a bit of hair all that is visible. If she has already seen the videos, she knows the answer to that.
Still, just this once, I decide to humor her.
“No,” I say, my voice soft, letting her hear the sincerity in it. “In fact, Terry Weinberg gave me the best piece of advice I ever received.
“In a way, I owe I everything I became to him.”
Chapter Seventeen
Friday, February 24th, 2012
9:15 am
Two weeks have passed but the only thing that has changed is that the box of powdered donuts has been swapped out for chocolate-covered. They are far less intrusive and leave a smaller visual footprint though the smell is much stronger in the car, the sound even more so as Quasi sits sucking chocolate out from between his teeth.
As with a number of things he does, it annoys the hell out of me, though I keep it to myself.
“Are you sure we should be doing this?” he asks, craning his neck to look up at the building across the street from us.
Matching his pose, I attempt to count the windows to the twenty-seventh floor, imagining Weinberg sitting up there.
“It has been two weeks,” I reply. “You read it in an afternoon. What the hell is taking him so long?”
“I read most of it in an afternoon,” Quasi points out, losing interest in the building.
He holds his thumb and forefinger together like pincers and scans the box, seeking his next chocolate-covered victim.
“And I wasn’t trying to get an office ready to go at the time, either.”
The glare I give him could cut glass, but unfortunately the concentrated venom of it is lost on the side of his head, his attention still aimed downward.
Somewhere deep inside, I know he’s just being pragmatic, but I have no interest in hearing it. In the last two months, I have been from one extreme to the other and back again. If this manuscript is going to go anywhere, I need it to start happening fast.
“You coming?” I ask, releasing the handle but keeping the door closed.
“And miss the chance to be mistaken for a delivery boy again? Not on your life,” Quasi replies, cramming home one more donut before depositing the box onto the dash.
The reflection of it is visible on the windshield as he climbs out, both of us heading across the street and through the front door.
Three minutes later the elevator deposits us on the twenty-seventh floor, both of us standing in shock as it closes and departs behind us. Long gone is any trace of the construction zone we had previously seen, replaced by an office spread pulled from a magazine.
The front doors are closed as we inch our way forward, the glass polished clean. The name of the firm has been stenciled across them in gold filigree, oversized potted plants standing sentry on either side.
“Is this the right place?” I whisper, feeling my stomach tighten as we move forward, each using short, choppy steps.
“That’s what the name on the door says,” Quasi offers, his lowered voice signaling for the first time that he too comprehends the change we’re staring at.
The closer we get, the slower my feet seem to move, the overwhelming sensation that we’re in over our head settling on me.
My book was never envisioned to be the fabled Great American Novel. In truth, it was closer to pulp, the perfect roughneck hero doling out justice as he saw best; the kind of thing that gets published in tiny installments from regional publications.
This is out of my league. I know it before I even reach the door.
“You were right,” I say, pausing and reaching out.
I grab a handful of Quasi’s jacket and tug him to a stop, shaking my head.
“This isn’t how these things are done and it has only been two weeks. Let’s wait a little longer and give a call.”
For the briefest of moments, I think he goes for it. He sees the earnestness on my face, hears the worry in my voice, and glances towards the elevator. Just as fast, the moment is gone.
“No,” he says, jerking his shoulder back a few inches to release my grip on him. “For three months now, this is all I’ve been hearing about. You wanted to figure out a way to honor your father and make your mark.”
His voice is low and there doesn’t appear to be anybody on the other side of the glass door, but I can’t help but look around. For Weinberg or his staff to walk out now would not be good.
“And you did it,” he says, his tone almost a hiss. “You wrote a damn book and you got it read by an agent. You mean to tell me after all that, you don’t even want to go in and see what he thinks?”
I know the question is rhetorical, meant to spur me into action. Just the same, I stand rooted in place, my knees locked, trying to formulate some sort of response.
“Fine, I’ll go without you,” he says, turning and heading for the door.
My eyes grow wide and my arm rises in protest, but my body remains rigid. Not until he reaches the door and pulls it open, standing to the side and motioning me through, do I begin to move.
Sweat once again forms along my scalp, my hair feeling itchy as I pass through. I want so much to glare
and curse at him as I go, but I can’t manage the necessary vitriol to do either.
Right now, all I have is fear.
Three steps across the lobby, a young woman in a skirt and blouse appears from the same corner Weinberg used two weeks before. Her blonde hair flows behind her as she walks, her smile stretched across her cheeks.
“Good morning, welcome to Bansky, Martin & Associates.”
Everything about her - from her smile to her voice - is the most perfect representation of womanhood I have ever seen in my life. As wonderful as it is to be so close to such an exquisite creature, today it does nothing but raise the trepidation I feel inside.
“Uh, good morning,” I manage, my voice sounding as uncertain as I feel. “My name is Charles Doyle and this is Qu...Abe Fullman. We’re here to see Mr. Weinberg.”
The smile remains in place as she takes her place behind the counter, her movements as lithe as a dancer’s. I know somehow in the last thirty seconds she has covered over ten feet in distance, though from where I stand it appears she has gotten there by floating.
“Certainly. Do you have an appointment?”
The feeling in my stomach tightens a bit more as a bead of sweat threatens to run down my forehead.
“No, we don’t,” I whisper.
The smile fades a bit, a crinkle appearing between her eyes.
“Is Mr. Weinberg expecting you?”
“I, uh,” I start, but the words elude me.
The trickle of sweat bursts from my hairline and heads south as I look to Quasi, my mouth still hanging open.
“We were here a couple of weeks ago,” Quasi says, glancing to me, his face relaying he is no more certain of things than I. “We gave him a manuscript to read.”
The answer is technically true, though it certainly takes great liberty in the framing of the situation.
“Oh,” she says, lifting the phone from her desk and pressing a single button. “Mr. Weinberg, I’ve got a Mr. Doyle and a Mr. Fullman out here to see you. They say they met with you a couple of weeks ago about a manuscript.”
Motive ; One Last Day ; Going Viral Page 55
