Stories (2011)

by Joe R. Lansdale

  James T. Mooney looked the part, too. He answered the door in a maroon smoking jacket with matching pajamas. He had on a pair of glossy leather bedroom slippers that he could have worn with a suit and tie. His hair was well-groomed with just the right amount of gray at the temples. There was a bit of a strained look about his eyes, but other than that he was the picture of health and prosperity.

  "Well, I'll be," Mooney said. "Larry Melford. Come in."

  The interior of the house made the outside look like a barn. There were paintings and sculptures and shelves of first-edition books. On one wall, blown up to the size of movie posters and placed under glass and frame, were copies of the covers of his bestsellers. All twelve of them. A thirteenth glass and frame stood empty beside the others, waiting for the inevitable.

  They chatted as they walked through the house, and Mooney said, "Let's drop off in the study. We can be comfortable there. I'll have the maid bring us some coffee or iced tea."

  "I hope I'm not interrupting your writing," Larry said.

  "No, not at all. I'm finished for the day. I usually just work a couple hours a day."

  A couple hours a day? thought Larry. A serpent of envy crawled around in the pit of his stomach. For the last twelve years, he had worked a job all day and had written away most of the night, generally gathering no more than two to three hours' sleep a day. And here was Mooney writing these monstrous bestsellers and he only wrote a couple of hours in the mornings.

  Mooney's study was about the size of Larry's abandoned apartment. And it looked a hell of a lot better. One side of the room was little more than a long desk covered with a word processor and a duplicating machine. The rest of the room was taken up by a leather couch and rows of bookshelves containing nothing but Mooney's work. Various editions of foreign publications, special collectors' editions, the leather-bound Christmas set, the paperbacks, the bound galleys of all the novels. Mooney was surrounded by his success.

  "Sit down; take the couch," Mooney said, hauling around his desk chair.

  "Coffee or tea? I'll have the maid bring it."

  "No, I'm fine."

  "Well then, tell me about yourself."

  Larry opened his mouth to start, and that's when it fell out. He just couldn't control himself. It was as if a dam had burst open and all the water of the world was flowing away. The anguish, the misery, the years of failure found expression.

  When he had finished telling it all, his eyes were glistening. He was both relieved and embarrassed. "So you see, Mooney, I'm just about over the edge. I'm craving success like an addict craves a fix. I'd kill for a bestseller."

  Mooney's face seemed to go lopsided. "Watch that kind of talk."

  "I mean it. I'm feeling so small right now, I'd have to look up to see a snake's belly. I'd lie, cheat, steal, kill–anything to get published in a big way. I don't want to die and leave nothing of me behind."

  "And you don't want to miss out on the good things either, right?"

  "Damned right. You've got it."

  "Look, Larry, worry less about the good things and just write your books.

  Ease up some, but do it your own way. You may never have a big bestseller, but you're a good writer, and eventually you'll crack and be able to make a decent living."

  "Easy for you to say, Mooney."

  "In time, with a little patience . . . "

  "I'm running out of time and patience. I'm emotionally drained, whipped.

  What I need is an in, Mooney, an in. A name. Anything that can give me a break."

  "Talent is the name of the game, Larry, not an in," Mooney said very softly.

  "Don't give me that garbage. I've got talent and you know it. I used to help you with the plots of your short stories. And your first novel–remember the things I worked out for you there? I mean, come on, Mooney. You've read my writing. It's good. Damned good! I need help. An in can't hurt me.

  It may not help me much, but it's got to give me a damn sight better chance than I have now."

  Larry looked at Mooney's face. Something seemed to be moving there behind the eyes and taut lips. He looked sad, and quite a bit older than his age. Well, okay. So he was offended by being asked right out to help a fellow writer.

  That was too bad. Larry just didn't have the pride and patience anymore to beat around the bush.

  "An in, huh?" Mooney finally said.

  "That's right."

  "You sure you wouldn't rather do it your way?"

  "I've been doing it my way for twelve years. I want a break, Mooney."

  Mooney nodded solemnly. He went over to his desk and opened a drawer.

  He took out a small, white business card and brought it over to Larry.

  It read:

  BESTSELLERS GUARANTEED

  Offices in New York, Texas, Oklahoma

  Overseas

  The left-hand corner of the card had a drawing of an open book, and the right-hand corner had three phone numbers. One of them was a Houston number.

  "I met a lady when I first moved here," Mooney said, "a big name author in the romance field. I sort of got this thing going with her . . . finally asked her for . . . an in. And she gave me this card. We don't see each other anymore, Larry. We stopped seeing each other the day she gave it to me."

  Larry wasn't listening. "This an editor?"

  "No."

  "An agent?"

  "No."

  "Publisher, book packager?"

  "None of those things and a little of all, and a lot more."

  "I'm not sure . . . "

  "You wanted your in, so there it is. You just call that number. And Larry, do me a favor. Never come here again."

  The first thing Larry did when he left Mooney's was find a telephone booth. He dialed the Houston number and a crisp female voice answered:

  "Bestsellers Guaranteed."

  "Are you the one in charge?"

  "No sir. Just hold on and I'll put you through to someone who can help you."

  Larry tapped his finger on the phone shelf till a smooth-as-well-water male voice said: "B.G. here. May I be of assistance?"

  "Uh . . . yes, a friend of mine . . . a Mr. James T. Mooney–"

  "Of course, Mr. Mooney."

  "He suggested . . . he gave me a card. Well, I'm a writer. My name is Larry Melford. To be honest, I'm not exactly sure what Mooney had in mind for me. He just suggested I call you."

  "All we need to know is that you were recommended by Mr. Mooney.

  Where are you now?"

  Larry gave the address of the 7-Eleven phone booth.

  "Why don't you wait there . . . oh, say . . . twenty minutes and we'll send a car to pick you up? That suit you?"

  "Sure, but . . . "

  "I'll have an agent explain it to you when he gets there, okay?"

  "Yes, yes, that'll be fine."

  Larry hung up and stepped outside to lean on the hood of his car. By golly, he thought, that Mooney does have connections, and now after all these years, my thirteenth year of trying, maybe, just maybe, I'm going to get connected, too.

  He lit a cigarette and watched the August heat waves bounce around the 7-Eleven lot, and twenty minutes later, a tan, six-door limousine pulled up next to his Chevy.

  The man driving the limo wore a chauffeur's hat and outfit. He got out of the car and walked around to the tinted, far backseat window and tapped gently on the glass. The window slid down with a short whoosh. A man dressed in black with black hair, a black mustache, and thick-rimmed black shades, looked out at Larry. He said, "Mr. Melford?"

  "Yes," Larry said.

  "Would you like to go around to the other side? Herman will open the door for you."

  After Larry had slid onto the seat and Herman had closed the door behind him, his eyes were drawn to the plush interior of the car. Encased in the seat in front of them was a phone, a television set and a couple of panels that folded out. Larry felt certain one of them would be a small bar. Air-conditioning hummed softly. The car was nice enoug
h and large enough to live in.

  He looked across the seat at the man in black, who was extending his hand. They shook. The man in black said, "Just call me James, Mr.

  Melford."

  "Fine. This is about . . .writing? Mooney said he could give me a . . .connection. I mean, I have work, plenty of it. Four novels, a couple of dozen short stories, a novella–of course I know that length is a dog to sell, but . . . "

  "None of that matters," James said.

  "This is about writing?"

  "This is about bestsellers, Mr. Melford. That is what you want, isn't it? To be a bestselling author?"

  "More than anything."

  "Then you're our man and we're your organization."

  Herman had eased in behind the wheel. James leaned forward over the seat and said firmly, "Drive us around." Leaning back, James touched a button on the door panel and a thick glass rose out of the seat in front of them and clicked into place in a groove in the roof.

  "Now," James said, "shall we talk?"

  As they drove, James explained, "I'm the agent assigned to you, and it's up to me to see if I can convince you to join our little gallery. But, if you should sign on with us, we expect you to remain loyal. You must consider that we offer a service that is unique, unlike any offered anywhere. We can guarantee that you'll hit the bestseller list once a year, every year, as long as you're with us.

  "Actually, Mr. Melford, we're not a real old organization, though I have a hard time remembering the exact year we were founded–it predated the Kennedy assassination by a year."

  "That would be sixty-two," Larry said.

  "Yes, yes, of course. I'm terrible at years. But it's only lately that we've come into our own. Consider the bad state of publishing right now, then consider the fact that our clients have each had a bestseller this year–and they will next year, no matter how bad publishing may falter. Our clients may be the only ones with books, but each of their books will be a bestseller, and their success will, as it does every year, save the industry."

  "You're a packager?"

  "No. We don't actually read the books, Mr. Melford, we just make sure they're bestsellers. You can write a book about the Earth being invaded by giant tree toads from the moon, if you like, and we will guarantee it will be a bestseller."

  "My God, you are connected."

  "You wouldn't believe the connections we have."

  "And what does your organization get out of this? How much of a percentage?"

  "We don't take a dime."

  "What?"

  "Not a dime. For our help, for our guarantee that your books will be bestsellers, we ask only one thing. A favor. One favor a year. A favor for each bestseller."

  "What's the favor?"

  "We'll come to that in a moment. But before we do, let me make sure you understand what we have to offer. I mean, if you were successful–and I mean no offense by this–then you wouldn't be talking to me now. You need help. We can offer help. You're in your mid-thirties, correct? Yes, I thought so. Not really old, but a bit late to start a new career plan. People do it, but it's certainly no piece of cake, now, is it?"

  Larry found that he was nodding in agreement.

  "So," James continued, "what we want to do is give you success. We're talking money in the millions of dollars, Mr. Melford. Fame. Respect.

  Most anything you'd want would beat your command. Exotic foods and wines? A snap of the fingers. Books? Cars? Women? A snap of the fingers. Anything your heart desires and it's yours."

  "But I have to make a small, initial investment, right?"

  "Ah, suspicious by nature, are you?"

  "Wouldn't you be? My God, you're offering me the world."

  "So I am. But no . . . no investment. Picture this, Mr. Melford. You might get lucky and sell the work, might even have a bestseller. But the slots are getting smaller and smaller for new writers. And one reason for that is that our writers, our clients, are filling those slots, Mr. Melford. If it's between your book and one of our clients', and yours is ten times better written, our client will still win out. Every time."

  "What you're saying is, the fix is in?"

  "A crude way of putting it, but rather accurate. Yes."

  "What about talent, craftsmanship?"

  "I wouldn't know about any of that. I sell success, not books."

  "But it's the public that puts out its money for these books. They make or break an author. How can you know what they'll buy?"

  "Our advertising system is the best in the world. We know how to reach the public and how to convince. We also use subliminals, Mr. Melford.

  We flash images on television programs, theater films; we hide them in the art of wine and cigarette ads. Little things below conscious perception, but images that lock tight to the subconscious mind. People who would not normally pick up a book will buy our bestsellers."

  "Isn't that dishonest?"

  "Who's to tell in this day and age what's right and wrong? It's relative, don't you think, Mr. Melford?"

  Larry didn't say anything.

  "Look. The public pictures writers as rich, all of them. They don't realize that the average full-time writer barely makes a living. Most of them are out there starving, and for what? Get on the winning side for a change, Mr.

  Melford. Otherwise, spend the rest of your life living in roach motels and living off the crumbs tossed you by the publishing world. And believe me, Mr. Melford, if you fail to join up with us, crumbs are all you'll get. If you're lucky."

  The limousine had returned to the 7-Eleven parking lot. They were parked next to Larry's car.

  "I suppose," James said, "we've come to that point that the bullfighters call 'the moment of truth.' You sign on with us and you'll be on Easy Street for the rest of your life."

  "But we haven't talked terms."

  "No, we haven't. It's at this point that I must ask you to either accept or turn down our offer, Mr. Melford. Once I've outlined the terms, you must be in full agreement with us."

  "Accept before I hear what this favor you've talked about is?"

  "That's correct. Bestseller or Bohemian, Mr. Melford. Which is it? Tell me right now. My time is valuable."

  Larry paused only a moment. "Very well. Count me in. In for a penny, in for a pound. What's the favor?"

  "Each year, you assassinate someone for us."

  Larry dove for the door handle, but it wouldn't open. It had been locked electronically. James grabbed him by the wrist and held him tightly, so tightly Larry thought his bones would shatter.

  "I wouldn't," James said. "After what I've told you, you step out of this car and they'll find you in a ditch this afternoon, obviously the victim of some hit-and-run driver."

  "That's . . . that's murder."

  "Yes, it is," James said. "Listen to me. You assassinate whomever we choose. We're not discriminating as far as sex, color, religion or politics goes. Anyone who gets in our way dies. Simple as that. You see, Mr.

  Melford, we are a big organization. Our goal is world domination. You, and all our clients, are little helpers toward that goal. Who is more respected than a bestselling author? Who is allowed in places where others would not be allowed? Who is revered by public figures and the general public alike? An author–a bestselling author."

  "But . . . it's murder."

  "There will be nothing personal in it. It'll just be your part of the contract.

  One assassination a year that we'll arrange."

  "But if you're so connected . . . why do it this way? Why not just hire a hit man?"

  "In a sense, I have."

  "I'm not an assassin. I've never even fired a gun."

  "The amateur is in many ways better than the professional. He doesn't fall into a pattern. When the time comes, we will show you what you have to do. If you decide to be with us, that is."

  "And if not?"

  "I told you a moment ago. The ditch. The hit-and-run driver."

  Suddenly, Herman was standing at the door, his
hand poised to open it.

  "Which is it, Mr. Melford? I'm becoming impatient. A ditch or a bestseller? And if you have any ideas about going to the police, don't. We have friends there, and you might accidentally meet one. Now, your decision."

  "I'm in," Larry said, softly. "I'm in."

  "Good," James said, taking Larry's hand. "Welcome aboard. You get one of those books of yours out, pick out a publisher, and mail it in. And don't bother with return postage. We'll take care of the rest. Congratulations."

  James motioned to Herman. The door opened. Larry got out. And just before the door closed, James said, "If you should have trouble coming up with something, getting something finished, just let me know and we'll see that it gets written for you."

  Larry stood on the sidewalk, nodding dumbly. Herman returned to the driver's seat, and a moment later the tan limo from Bestsellers Guaranteed whispered away.

  James was as good as his word. Larry mailed off one of his shopworn novels, a thriller entitled Texas Backlash, and a contract for a half million dollars came back, almost by return mail.

  Six months later, the book hit the bestseller list and rode there for a comfortable three months. It picked up a two-million-dollar paperback sale and a big-shot movie producer purchased it for twice that amount.

  Larry now had a big mansion outside of Nacogdoches, Texas, with a maid, a cook, two secretaries and a professional yardman. Any type of food he wanted was his for the asking. Once he had special seafood flown in from the East Coast to Houston and hauled from there to his door by refrigerated truck.

  Any first-edition book he wanted was now within his price range. He owned four cars, two motorcycles, a private airplane and a yacht.

  He could own anything–even people. They hopped at his every word, his most casual suggestion. He had money, and people wanted to satisfy those with money. Who knows, maybe it would rub off on them.

  And there were women. Beautiful women. There was even one he had grown to care for, and believed cared for him instead of his money and position. Lovely Luna Malone.

  But in the midst of all this finery, there was the favor. The thought of it rested on the back of his mind like a waiting vulture. And when a year had gone by, the vulture swooped in.