They did not respect him.
They did not like him.
He was not a member of their club, and they would have nothing to do with him. All of which led him back to Bryan Kenney and his hateful email.
Kenney had talked the talk, now he was going to have to walk the walk.
Or die trying.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Graham spent his morning in bed, his afternoon tooling around the city. He stopped in at a shopping mall to kill some time and ended up with matching I love Mickey t-shirts, drawn to them by the I and the heart pictured in its center, and Mickey Mouse smiling and waving a magic wand beneath a landscape of exploding fireworks. He looked forward to seeing Susan’s face when he presented them to her.
He arrived back at the hotel around six o’clock. He thought about going back to his room and dialing up Susan, but no news was good news, and he sure as hell wouldn’t get any news if he didn’t call her. And that was fine by Graham. He entered the lobby just in time to see Rick Greaton rolling his luggage away from the registration counter.
Graham headed in the opposite direction, down a long hallway, until, much to his surprise, he came to a huge room bustling with activity. He thought he’d get here a day early before most people showed up, but here the convention was, in full swing.
Men and women—some young, some old, some in outlandish costumes—wandered back and forth between the book dealers and DVD vendors spread throughout the large conference hall. Display racks littered with books and magazines lined the walls, not to mention the ones standing in various locations throughout the room. Blue jean-clad merchants stood by racks of garments, hawking t-shirts and caps, even socks etched with horror logos. B-grade actors and actresses, and Scream Queens known only to the hardcore horror fans, sat behind tables laden with glossy photos, beneath movie posters from years gone by: Phantasm, The Hills Have Eyes, Cujo. Makeup artist Tom Savini shared a table with retro-rock-icon, Alice Cooper, still in his familiar black eye makeup, after all these years. Authors presided over cloth covered cafeteria-style tables, chitchatting and signing book covers for a multitude of wide-eyed fans. Artists peddled nightmarish visions on canvas backgrounds of varying sizes from tables of their own, while publishing house reps ran drawings and giveaways from booths scattered throughout the lushly carpeted hall.
Graham filed in behind a young couple. The woman, dressed in a white blouse and floor-length black skirt, carried a large paper sack by thin twine handles looping from its top. The man, much taller than Graham, wore his long black hair slicked back into a thinly-braided ponytail that stretched to the middle of his back. A red, white, and blue bandana wrapped his head and a gold hoop dangled from his right ear. He glanced over his shoulder, grinning, and Graham noticed a black patch covering his eye.
“Yo ho ho,” Graham said. “I gotta know.”
The guy smiled and flipped up the patch, laughing and winking at Graham.
“Aw,” Graham said. “I was hoping for the real thing.”
The couple stopped and turned, and the guy said, “Wow, you’re Graham Greystone.”
“Argh, that I be, Matey. That I be.”
The pirate offered his hand and Graham shook it.
“Hi, I’m Troy, and this is Ellie.”
“Nice to meet you both,” Graham said, smiling.
“Man, I’ve been reading your books ever since I was a kid. My dad turned me on to your stuff. He’s got all of ‘em. That one, Challenge, where the old geezer challenged those people to spend Halloween night in an old rundown plantation house? That was awesome!” Troy shook his head. “Man, you really delivered the goods in that one.”
Graham had been writing and selling books for twenty-seven years, and over those years, money had been made, awards won. But this was where it really was at: spontaneous compliments handed out by enthusiastic fans, spawned by generations of loyal readers. If he lived to be a hundred years old, he would never tire of them.
“I’m glad you liked it,” he said, smiling.
The pirate rolled his eyes, nodding his head. “Awesome,” he said.
His mate dipped a hand into her sack and pulled out an old hardback copy of Challenge. “It belongs to his dad. When we saw your post at HorrorFan we made a point of bringing it. Could you sign it for us?”
Smiling, Graham said, “I’d be delighted”, and took the book from the woman.
Her pirate companion said, “Oh, man, he’s gonna love it.”
Graham pulled a ballpoint pen from his pocket, clicked it and said, “What’s your father’s name?”
“Merle.”
Graham flipped open the binding, scratched something between the cover and handed it back.
With the young man hanging over her shoulder, the woman opened the book and read the inscription: “For a most loyal fan. Thanks so much for sticking with me! Best wishes, Graham Greystone.”
Man,” Troy said. “He is just gonna love this. Thanks, Ghost. You’re the best!”
“Thank you for making my day,” Graham said, smiling, because he knew that no matter how much pleasure they had derived from this, he was enjoying it more than they could ever imagine.
“Oh, shit,” Ellie blurted. “That’s Brian Keene!”
“C’mon, baby.”
While Ellie stashed the book in her bag and followed Troy across the room, Graham made his way through the crowd, smiling and signing book covers, passing out compliments to some of the costumed fans. Every now and then he would pause at a table or a publishing house booth. Several times he asked if anyone had seen or heard from Scary Mary, or if a particularly attractive female might be Scary Mary. He made a point of saying hello to Dee Wallace Stone. The once celebrated actress, best remembered for her part in Stephen King’s Cujo, seemed to be a permanent fixture at these events. Graham hadn’t seen or heard tell of any movie projects involving her lately, and he walked away wondering if her acting days indeed were over.
“Well,” somebody said. “What’dya know. The old Grey Ghost finally materializes.”
Graham turned. “I’ll be damned,” he said. “Clifford Trujillo. How are ya, Cliff?”
The man behind him, fit and trim, athletic-looking, wore a black Italian suit over a powder blue polo shirt, and black leather shoes. His curly brown hair, cropped close to his head, gave him the appearance of a young Julius Caesar. His brown eyes twinkled as he shook the hand Graham offered him. “I was hoping you’d make it this time. Was hoping I might get a manuscript out of you, Graham. We’re doing some great things over at Harrow these days. Some might say we’re breathing new life into the genre.”
Graham chuckled. “Others might say you’ve been reading your own press clippings.”
“Nevertheless, you ought to think about coming over. See what we can do for you.”
Graham nodded as a woman walked past, young and thin, her firm breasts straining against a blouse so sheer, Graham could see the dark aureole surrounding her nipples. He wondered if she was Scary Mary, and hoped that she was. But she just winked and kept on going, Graham’s eyes following until she disappeared into a throng of people.
“Down boy.”
“Down, my ass,” Graham said as he turned to Cliff, who smiled and looped an arm around the smaller man’s shoulder. “Did you see that shit?”
Cliff chuckled, shook his head and laughed. “Don’t get out much, do you?”
Graham shrugged his shoulders, and Cliff removed his arm and swept it toward the crowded auditorium. “Look around, Ghost. There’s enough trim here to sink a battleship.”
Graham gave his head an affirmative nod. “Cliff,” he said. “Have you seen Rich Chadwick around? He’s usually front and center of all this madness. I didn’t even notice a Hell Bent booth anywhere.”
“Geez, Graham, you haven’t heard?”
“Heard what?”
“Rich was murdered in some Jazz club up in Baltimore.”
“You’re kidding!”
“I wish I was.
”
“They catch the son of a bitch who did it?”
“I don’t know. I just heard about it myself.”
“Jesus.”
Cliff turned, stuck a hand in the air and waved it, nodding at two young men who then proceeded to lead a man and a woman across the floor. The man looked old enough to be the woman’s uncle. The woman, no more than a girl, really, was beautiful, with long, silky black hair, and full lips glossed blood-red against her creamy white skin. She had a dazzling smile and sparkling emerald eyes. Her breasts were full and firm, her nipples erect through the tight blouse she wore. Graham instantly forgot about the woman who had so keenly held his interest just moments ago.
“Graham,” Cliff said when they arrived. “I’d like you to meet Bryan Kenney. Bryan’s doing some great things over at Harrow.”
“Ah, yes, I recognize the shirt.”
Smiling sheepishly, Bryan said, “Wow, it’s great meeting you, Graham.”
“And, of course, the reason I recognize that stoner-shirt of yours is because it’s on the inside back cover of all three of your books. Which, I’m happy to report, I’ve had the great pleasure of reading.”
“Gee,” Bryan said, his face starting to flush. “Thanks for that.”
“You’re quite welcome,” Graham said, smiling because he saw the same dreamy-eyed look on Bryan’s face that surely had been pasted across his own the night John Farris had taken a young Graham aside and paid him much the same compliment.
Bryan’s female companion cleared her throat.
“Oh, right,” Bryan said. “Graham, this is Larry Higdon and Bree Brannan. The three of us flew down from Charlotte today.”
Graham nodded at the two of them.
“And this fine young man is John Zweitic, better known as Johnny Z.”
“Sure,” Graham said. “Johnny Z, right, I’ve seen you ‘round the boards. You’ve got a manuscript over at… umm, Nightwerks, right?”
“Heh, I’ve got manuscripts floating around all over the place, but yeah, looks like they’re gonna step up and make something happen.”
“Good for you. That’s how you do it.” Graham stole a glance at Bree and quickly looked away. “Just keep the ol’ nose to the keyboard. Pound out a tale and start another, finish that one and go on to the next. One day you walk into Borders or Barnes and Noble, and there’s John Zweitic right next to Chet Williamson.”
She really is beautiful.
“That’s the plan.”
Quite stunning, actually.
“Well, keep at it. You’ve already got a nice start with the boys over at Nightwerks. Ken and Bobby are good folks.”
My God, those lips!
Zweitic stuck out his hand. “Gee,” he said as Graham grasped it. “Thanks a lot for the kind words.”
Those tits!
Graham started to speak, but his reply was drowned out by laughs and whistles and raucous catcalling as he turned his head to see a crowd gathering while Ed Lee scrawled something across a woman’s naked breast, the woman smiling and stroking his hand as he worked the felt-tipped marker.
Bree looked at the woman, and then up at Bryan, the color rising on her cheeks as she quickly looked away.
“Brings back some good old memories, huh?” Larry said.
“Jesus, did I look like that?”
“No,” Larry said. “You looked much better than that.”
Graham said, “You wouldn’t happen to use Scary Mary as your moniker, would you?”
“Huh?”
“Aw… nothing.”
Clifford Trujillo put an arm around Bryan’s shoulder. One eye on Graham, he leaned closer to Bryan, and whispered, “Five-hundred bucks if you can talk this crotchety old prick into forking over a novel length manuscript.” He straightened up, back straight, shoulders square, smiling and patting Bryan on the back. “Mix and mingle, Bryan, and sign the shit outa those books.”
“Yes,” Graham said. “Sign those books. That’s the fun part, although my hand is starting to cramp up a bit from all the fun.”
To the others, Cliff said, “Nice to have met you. Graham, think about what I said. We’re doing great things over at Harrow!” Cliff turned and walked away, glad-handing damn near every person he came in contact with as he traversed the crowded room.
“What’d he say,” Graham asked, “when he was whispering in your ear?”
“Aw, nothing much.”
“Nothing much, huh? Did that nothing much have anything to do with me?”
Bryan chuckled. “Well, he wants me to—”
“Oh, wow! Look at this!” A young man came striding toward them, an enormous smile splitting his acne-scarred face, a decorative plastic Halloween shopping bag swaying at his side. Huge rolls of what appeared to be baby fat jiggled against his gore-splattered t-shirt as he walked briskly toward them, thick shocks of bright red hair bouncing with every step he took. He couldn’t have been any more than nineteen years old. The white nametag pinned to his chest said: Dead Red.
“Wow!” he cried out again when he reached them, still smiling, his face practically lit up like a neon sign. “Graham Greystone and Bryan Kenney. I can’t believe it!”
“Red, huh?” Larry said.
Couldn’t be, thought Bryan.
The kid laughed. “Yepper, that’s what they call me! Man, you two are my favorites!” Reaching into his plastic bag, he fished around a moment before pulling out a paperback book and showing Bryan a crisp new copy of A Cut Above. “Could ya sign this for me?”
Bryan accepted the book, and the kid said, “Can you write something like ‘good luck with your own writing’? I’m just starting out, but I’m pretty damned good.”
“You’re a writer,” Bryan said, eyes poring over the chubby kid, who nodded and said, “Yeah, you know, I sent you a story one time. You were great. You read it and gave me some really good pointers. I’ve been a fan ever since.”
“Sent me a story, huh? You’ve sent me a whole lot of stories, haven’t you, Red?”
“Huh?”
Bryan drew a pen from his front pocket, flipped the book open and scrawled: For Red, a wannabe writer who ain’t never gonna be. Go fuck yourself! “Here ya go, Red.”
Smiling, the kid opened the cover, his smile disappearing as his face turned red, and red turned quickly to purple. Clinching his right hand into a fist, he said, “The fuck, asshole? What’d I ever do to you—”
“You know what you did.”
“—besides spend my hard-earned money on your crappy books?”
Furious now, arms trembling by his side, he screamed, “ASSHOLE!” Lightning fast he slapped his side. Then his hand came up clutching a—
Bree screamed.
“KNIFE!” Larry shouted, too late to keep Red from grabbing Bryan’s t-shirt and pounding the dagger into his belly; too late to do anything but watch Bryan’s legs fold beneath him, eyes bulging as he slumped to the ground, clutching his gut.
“Fucking pussy,” the kid snarled. He spat on Bryan and bounced the paperback off his face, stabbed the knife into his own belly and the blade folded over.
“A rubber knife!” Larry called out, laughing.
“No fucking way!” said Johnny Z.
Right hand clutching his chest, Graham huffed out, “Holy cow! I almost bought it!”
The kid stepped away, pounding the knife backwards into his blood-spattered chest as he backpedaled through a quickly gathering crowd, shouting, “Mess with me again, I’ll trade it for a real one and gut the whole fucking lotta ya!”
“Man, I’ve gotta get one of those bad boys.” Johnny Z said, as Bryan lay flat on his back looking down at his gut, clearly shaken.
“Rubber knife!” Larry laughed. “What a fucking riot! He’s right,” he said, laughing and holding his own gut. “You really are a pussy!”
“Yeah,” Bryan said, “and you really are an asshole.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
The Clairton may not have been within walking distance
of the airport, but it was nothing to scoff at. A ten-story structure surrounded on three sides by meticulously manicured fields of green, it was a fine piece of architecture. Outside was an Olympic-style swimming pool, its crystal clear water rippling in the moonlight. Inside, a steak house and a sauna, and a fully staffed workout center outfitted with all manner of exercise equipment. An Italian restaurant looking out on a sparkling lake at the rear of the property combined with all these elements to reinforce the hotel’s reputation for luxury and comfort.
Bryan’s tenth floor suite was as fine an accommodation as he had ever taken: luxuriously thick shag carpeting, spacious rooms and an ornately tiled bathroom—much larger than the one in his house back in Charlotte. His balcony provided a stunning view of the Orlando skyline. He was fifteen minutes away from The Magical Kingdom, twenty minutes from downtown Orlando.
Bree excused herself to the restroom, and then stood up and walked away, leaving Bryan, Larry and Johnny Z in the sunken living room suite that led to the balcony, Larry rolling an ultra-wide joint while Johnny Z played with his newfound toy, flipping the rubber knife into the air and catching it by the tip when it landed.
He asked Bryan, “You really think that was him?”
“Who knows?”
“Because I saw a couple more guys with Red on their nametags after I left you… you know.” Zweitic smiled. “On the floor.”
Larry laughed. Running the tip of his tongue down the joint, he dropped it onto a glass-topped coffee table with polished silver legs. “You should’ve seen your face!” He shook his head, pressing his lips together to muffle the laughter bubbling up his throat.
“He fucking stabbed me, dumbass.”
“With a rubber knife.”
“I didn’t know it was rubber. Did you know it was rubber? I damn sure didn’t know it was rubber when he jammed that shit in my belly!”
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