“We don’t have three thousand dollars,” Louise said. They were back in the kitchen, consumed by dread. They were used to dread. It came with the territory of running a small press.
Nick sipped cold coffee and grimaced. “No shit.”
“So what are we gonna do?” Stephen asked.
“There are ways to earn money, if we work hard enough.”
“Are you talking about whoring?” Louise asked.
“Pretty much.” Nick walked into the living room and returned to the kitchen with a stack of paperbacks. “Remember when we needed gas money to get to that Pixies reunion concert?”
Louise laughed. “You want to sell books on the street?”
“It worked last time.”
“Last time we didn’t need three thousand dollars.”
“Well, this time we have more people to help. And a stronger variety of books.”
“You’re crazy.”
“That has nothing to do with anything.” He cleared his throat. “Unless anybody has any better ideas, I say this is our best shot. And we need to start moving fast, because let us not forget we have hostages that will eventually be missed by their families.”
“Can we borrow money from anybody?”
Nick shrugged. “Doubtful.” He looked to Eliza. “Unless you think your mom might help us out.”
“Last time we were at my parents’ house, Billy stole her jewelry and pawned it all. We aren’t really welcomed back at the moment.”
“We could always just rob a bank,” Louise said, bobbing up and down on her heels, damn near giddy.
Stephen frowned. “You’re enjoying all this way too much.”
“It’s just exciting, is all. How often does shit like this happen?”
“Earlier today you started a riot at the Pic n’ Pac.”
“And now we have hostages!”
“Jesus Christ.”
Nick’s eyes lit up. “Wait, that’s a great idea.”
“What?”
Nick reached into his pocket, then cursed. “Shit. Billy has my phone still. Where the hell did he go, anyway?”
“Probably fleeing the state,” Stephen said.
“Or to buy more crank,” Eliza said.
Nick reached out to Eliza. “Let me borrow your cell.” She handed it to him and he dialed his own number. It rang a few times, then he was addressed by his own voice telling him to leave a message. He hung up and called another number.
Sergio picked up on the second ring. “Hiya.”
“Serg, this is Nick.”
“What are you doing with Eliza’s phone?”
“Never mind that. Listen, we’re in some trouble here.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I’ll explain later. But I need your help.”
“Okay, sure. Whatever you need, man.”
“You said you already had a sequel to The Cumming of Christ written, right?”
“Yeah, I emailed it to you this morning. You didn’t get it?”
“Let’s just say I haven’t had time to get online today.”
“Oh, man. So you didn’t see that sexy cat photo I tagged you in?”
“How can a cat be sexy?”
“That tells me you haven’t seen the photo.”
Nick groaned. “Can you come over to the apartment? Eliza’s going to put it up for pre-order right now, but she’ll need your help with some market copy, since none of us have read it yet. Plus we’ll need a cover.”
“Sure, I can be over in a couple of hours. Gonna take a nap first, if that’s cool.”
“There’s no time. We need you over here now.”
“What, are you behind on rent?”
“Not exactly.”
“I’m pretty exhausted from the reading last night, Nick.”
“Please.”
“Ugh. All right. I’m on my way. You fuckers better have some coffee made.”
“I’ll brew a new pot.”
Nick gave Eliza back her phone. “Sergio’s on his way. While the rest of us are gone, you two are in charge of selling the shit out of Christ’s sequel. I want our Paypal to fucking explode. Also, put up The Owls in the City for preorder.”
Eliza raised her brow. “But that’s your novel. I thought you were still hoping someone else would publish it.”
He shrugged. “I guess I’ll just have to withdraw it. Shit, it’s gonna get rejected anyway, so what’s the point.”
Eliza nodded. “We’ll do some major pimpage online.”
Nick gestured to Stephen and Louise. “We’ll head out and start slinging paperbacks. Each of you need to get a crate and fill them with as many books as they’ll hold.”
Nick reached on top of the fridge and pulled down a jar full of coins, then spread the change among the three. “In case people don’t have the exact amount, here you go.”
“I don’t want to panhandle like a fucking bum,” Stephen said.
Louise snorted. “What’s the difference between this and when you’re begging for a blowjob at two in the morning?”
“I hate you.”
“Sure.”
“I’m gonna need to use your laptop, though,” Eliza said. “All of my equipment is at my place.”
“I don’t care, that’s fine,” Nick said. “Just remember, you need to sell like you’ve never sold before. You’re gonna need a cover that people won’t be able to resist. Whether we face jail-time depends solely on your marketing skills.”
“Gee, thanks.”
Before they left, Nick said, “Oh, and if your brother shows back up, please do me a favor and break his nose.”
“Already planned on it.”
“Attagirl.”
24. THE LIBRARIAN’S DAUGHTER’S FATHER
Billy drove the stolen car to the bartender’s trailer, licking his lips, hungry for more crank. He pounded on the front door for a good five minutes before the bartender finally answered. His eyes were wide with paranoia.
“Who the fuck are you?”
Billy held up his hands, innocent. “It’s me, man. From last night? We hung out here and . . . you know, uh, got high.”
The bartender shook his head. “I ain’t never seen you before in my life.”
Billy was getting tired of standing on this porch. “Dude, we met at Nightscapes last night. My friend was giving that reading? Then afterward we came back here and did crank and played PlayStation.”
The bartender was quiet for a moment, studying Billy. Then he smiled. “Oh yeah. How’s it going, man?”
“Shit’s kind of gotten crazy, to be honest.”
“Wait a minute,” the bartender said, and waited a full minute before continuing. “Where the fuck is my coffee? I thought you were getting me one, too.”
“Something . . . came up.”
Billy walked into the trailer and he told the bartender about what happened, told him he had two hostages back at his publisher’s house, and he had no idea what to do with them.
“Feed them to human-hungry pigs,” the bartender said. “It’s how the mafia does it.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I’ve seen movies.”
“This ain’t a movie, man,” Billy said, although when he thought about it, hell, who knew, maybe it was a movie. Actors never knew they were in a movie. They thought that shit was real.
“So you just left them there?” the bartender asked. “Who’s watching them?”
“My sister.”
“You don’t think she’ll snitch on you?”
“Nah, man. My sister loves me.”
“All I’m saying is, I used to have a sister, then one day she told my parents I’d gotten some bitch librarian pregnant, and my parents kicked me out of the house. Fuck all siblings.”
“My sister’s cool.”
“Until she rats you out.”
Billy sighed. “Whatever, man. You wanna smoke this crystal, or what?”
“Yeah, all right.”
Billy and the bartend
er—whose name was Sebastian—smoked more crank and played video games. Then that got boring, so they started painting the inside of his house blue. The bartender had been meaning to do this for some time now, but kept forgetting about it. Billy tried to forget about the hostages back at Nick’s place, but they were all he could think about. If they died, Billy would be a murderer, and he’d go to prison for the rest of his life. He didn’t want to go to prison. He was a writer, goddammit. Writers didn’t go to prison. They wrote about other people who went to prison.
Writers also didn’t kidnap people, especially reviewers who didn’t like their work.
Billy was not like normal writers.
He didn’t know what he was going to do with his hostages, now that he had them, but he figured if he smoked enough crank then eventually a solution would arrive. If not, then at least he would be too high to give a shit.
Seb asked about the car out front.
Billy nodded. “Yeah, that’s the one I stole.”
“Ain’t you worried about being spotted?”
“I guess I haven’t thought about it too much.”
“Have you gone through it yet?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, maybe there’s some valuables in the car. Shit you can pawn, get you out of the country.”
Billy frowned, holding the paintbrush, unsure. “Why would I leave the country?”
“Because you’re a kidnapper.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“So?”
“What?”
“Don’t you think we should search the car? You never know what you’ll find.”
Billy thought about it and decided the bartender had a point. He could have kidnapped a millionaire or a celebrity for all he knew. Given the type of car the guy’d been driving, he kind of doubted it, but hell, the bartender was right, he wouldn’t know for sure until he checked.
“All right,” he said. “Let’s do this.”
Seb grinned. “And, of course, if we do find something valuable, I reckon I should get a certain percentage, don’t you think?”
“How do you figure?”
“Well, you wouldn’t have thought to check if it weren’t for me suggesting it to you.”
“Fair point.”
They each took another hit and walked outside to the stolen car. Billy popped the trunk and told Seb to check it out while he looked through the glove compartment.
“There’s a big ass duffel bag in here,” Seb shouted from behind the car. “I wonder if it’s full of money.”
“Gym clothes seem like a safer bet,” Billy said, opening the glove compartment. A handgun spilled out to the floor. He looked at it for a moment, then picked it up and shoved it into his jacket pocket. He didn’t say a word.
“Holy shit,” Seb cried out. “Holy motherfucking goddamn shit.”
Billy stood up and saw Seb backing away from the car. “What the hell, man?”
“I changed my mind,” Seb said. “I don’t want anything to do with this crazy shit. Fuck this. No way, no fucking way.” He turned around and ran into his house. The sound of the lock turning echoed throughout the trailer park.
Feeling the weight of the handgun in his pocket, Billy slowly approached the open trunk. The duffel bag was unzipped and pulled open. Inside, numerous severed human heads stared up at him.
“Oh,” Billy said.
25. PAULYSHOREPUNK
It wasn’t the easiest thing in the world, to get recognized by passersby while standing on the corner of the street, shouting for attention. Most people would assume you were begging for money, and they would’ve most likely been correct. It was even more difficult to get attention when you were holding books. People assumed only assholes read books. Maybe they were right.
Nevertheless, Nick stood on the corner of Mellick and Keene, a milk crate of paperbacks at his feet, shouting for people to stop and listen to what he had to say. In his hands he held a sign that said “BOOKS $5”, which was cheap as fuck and barely enough to make any sort of profit off the printer’s cost, but nobody was going to pay more than five dollars for a book. Hell, even five dollars was asking too much for most people.
The first person to stop was an elderly woman who thought he wanted food. She offered him her leftover sandwich from a nearby café. He accepted the sandwich and asked if she’d like to buy a book.
“A . . . what?”
“A book. You know, like with words? I publish them. And I write some of them, too.”
“Books?”
“Books.”
“What kind of books?”
“Well, I own a publishing company, and these are some of the books we’ve released over the years. They’re all a bit weird, a bit eccentric. But they’re smart. They’re entertaining.”
The lady glanced at the milk carton, then back at Nick. “What’s your company called?”
“BILF Publishing.”
She seemed confused. “BILF?”
“Yeah. Uh. It stands for, uh . . . Books I’d Like to Fuck.”
She smiled and walked away without another word. Nick called her a bitch under his breath, then ate his new sandwich.
Another older lady showed more interest in the books, until she saw the cover of Grits & Clits, then she dropped the book on the sidewalk, told Nick he was going to hell, and ran away.
He managed to stop a man in a business suit shortly after that. The man seemed to be in a hurry, but his eyes lit up at the mention of cheap paperbacks.
“Do you have any James Patterson?” the man asked, after listening to Nick’s speech.
“Go fuck yourself,” Nick said, and pushed him away.
“Excuse me?” The man stumbled back and caught on to a lamppost to prevent falling. “You have no right to assault me.”
“You gave me every right as soon as you mentioned James Patterson.”
“What’s wrong with James Patterson?”
“Goddammit!” Nick kicked the guy in the ass and watched as he fled down the sidewalk.
He couldn’t believe his ears. James Patterson? What an asshole. He should have been shot for asking such a ridiculous question. It was bad enough Nick had to stand out here like a bum, asking people to buy books. But for someone to prefer James Patterson over any of the books Nick had ever published? Talk about a punch to the balls. People just didn’t appreciate good literature anymore. They preferred Alex Cross and his lackluster army of villainous stereotypes.
At least Nick’s authors actually wrote their own books.
Nick sighed, tried to shake off the bad vibes. A group of teenagers approached him, and he prepared himself to kick their asses if they tried to start anything. But they ended up being really interested in the books, and they each bought two paperbacks. Suddenly Nick was forty dollars richer.
After they left, he pulled out his little notebook he always kept in his back pocket and wrote down the title to a potential article idea: “Bizarro—Do it for the Kids”.
Someone tapped him on the shoulder. He knew who it was just from the smell alone.
“Jared,” Nick said, and turned around.
An obese, filthy homeless man stood in front of him, grinning a mostly toothless smile. He wore a suit, but it was a suit that had not been washed in years. Maybe the suit fit him once upon a time, but now, the buttons were barely hanging on around his massive gut. It would take one wrong move for them to pop off like a cork from a wine bottle.
“What’s up, Nick?” Jared said.
“What do you want?” He didn’t have time for Jared’s bullshit today. Or any day, for that matter.
Jared ignored Nick’s question and browsed the milk crate of books on the ground. “Sellin’ some books on the street, huh?”
“Always the keen observer, you.”
Jared picked up a random novel and flipped through, the way people did when they wanted to feign interest, since there was no possible way anyone would gain any sort of insight on a book through this particular method o
f browsing, unless you were a pretentious asshole.
“Look,” Nick said, “do you even have money to buy a book?”
“Nah. I’m not interested in buying anything.”
“Then go away.”
“Well, wait a second.” Jared dropped the paperback in the milk crate and stood up, groaning as he relieved the pressure from his knees gained by kneeling down. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about some stuff. I tried last night, but you seemed kind of busy. And I was gonna email you, but the library won’t let me use their Internet anymore until I take a shower.”
“Well, why don’t you take a shower?”
“Because of Obama.”
Nick waited for more, but there was no elaboration. “What about Obama . . .?”
“Just . . . you know.” Jared shrugged. “Thanks a lot, Obama.”
“Thanks for what?”
“You know, man. You know.”
“Ugh.” Nick wiped sweat from his forehead, watching multiple people pass them on the sidewalk. Any one of them could have been a customer, and he blew his chance thanks to this asshole. “Get to the point, Jared.”
“Well, as you know, I’m an award-winning editor.”
“You have never won an award for editing in your life.”
Jared seemed offended. “Back in elementary school, I was given many gold stickers for my outstanding grammar skills.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“It means I know my shit. And you should hire me.”
“We already have enough editors. I’ve told you this already. Many times.”
“Yeah, but . . . you don’t have me.”
“I don’t need you.”
Nick tried turning away from Jared and focusing on other people, but Jared circled him, not giving up just yet. “Trust me, bro, I have some editing chops. I’ve edited books for a ton of small presses, all at affordable rates.”
“Please go away.”
“My last job was editing an anthology that included a story by Lovecraft.”
Nick stared at him, unimpressed. “Okay, and?”
“What do you mean? Lovecraft, dude! Not just anyone is hired to edit The Master. Only the best of the best.”
“Considering most of his stories are public domain and any asshole can reprint them in the dumbest of anthologies, no, that isn’t impressive at all. Sorry.”
How to Successfully Kidnap Strangers Page 8
