Lineage

by Hart, Joe

  “So what do you propose we tell them when we get there? Cole’s going to demand to know the reason why you haven’t finished his next bestseller.”

  “I’ll just tell them I need more time,” Lance said with more confidence than he actually felt. He saw Andy turn his head toward him, and could nearly make out the frowning expression on Andy’s face in his peripheral. Andy studied him for a few seconds before turning back to the road and shaking his head.

  “I’ll have to shake a stick at them, I suppose.”

  “You mean, go to bat for me?”

  “Whatever, I’ll have to stand up for you in any case, repay you for getting beat up with me when Ronnie McGovern wanted to stand me on my head in the toilet back at Cathy’s.”

  Lance grinned a little as the memory came back to him of a giant red-faced kid with hair to match holding a much smaller and even skinnier Andy over a dirty toilet bowl in the high-ceilinged bathrooms of St. Cathleen’s. Andy had been trying to strike McGovern in the crotch and legs as he swung like a slim pendulum over the yellowed water, which no doubt contained the urine of the person holding his ankles. Lance had rushed in and pulled the swinging Andy away from the older boy, who in turn let them both fall to the wet floor in a heap. Ronnie then proceeded to practice his already accomplished soccer kick on the two smaller boys, until both had managed to crawl to the lavatory door and pull it open to call for help. At the moment, it hadn’t been funny at all. Somewhere during the eighteen years that had passed, it had taken on a humorous shellac that all memories not ending in death or extreme bodily injury seemed to accumulate with time.

  “Yeah, you owe me big time,” Lance said as he smiled at Andy, who was still shaking his head.

  “Well, figure out whatever excuse you’re going to use on these guys, ’cause we’re here,” Andy said as he slid the Audi to a stop near a five-story brick building on an active side street. Lance gazed up at the structure and grimaced before opening his door to let the busy sounds of the city invade the quiet of the car.

  The meeting room was unremarkable. The walls were dull beige and, in Lance’s opinion, needed re-painting. The light fixtures above him and Andy were fluorescent and buzzed faintly. There were five chocolate-chip cookies lying on a plate in the center of the oak table that sat between them and the room’s door, along with a pitcher of ice water and two glasses. Lance followed the trails of condensation trickling down the obese sides of the glass that held the water and ice cubes. A clock ticked aggressively on the wall, as if it couldn’t wait to pass the time that its hands groped so desperately at. Andy began to tap his foot on the tile floor at twice the speed of the ticking on the wall, and Lance looked over at his jittering foot.

  “This place is nasty,” Andy said, looking around as if seeing their surroundings for the first time. “Why don’t they spend a little money and clean it up? They have meetings with paying clientele in here?” With a disgusted sound, he sat back in his chair and began chew on the side of his cheek.

  “I’m guessing since this is just a satellite office they don’t want to put a lot of money into it. Everyone’s gotta keep an eye on overhead these days,” Lance said. Andy made the same disgusted sound, which barely died away before the door opened and two men in dark suits strode into the room.

  The first man Lance knew. Howard Cole was tall, well over six feet, and very slender. His head was large and it seemed that most of it was made up of face, as the man’s hairline had retreated almost into nonexistence. His features were exaggerated—his eyes looked to be the size of golf balls and his nose was flattened to reveal two nostrils that opened up like a set of tunnels into the man’s head. His mouth had slim lips, which barely covered a set of enormous horse-teeth. As Howard smiled and extended a pale hand to him, Lance was struck by the idea that if the publishing rep had been born 150 years earlier he would have made a great undertaker in a small western town. The thought curled his mouth to mirror the same polite smile that graced Howard’s countenance. The other man who had entered the room behind the publishing rep was of average height and build, and held a black briefcase lightly in one hand. His eyes appraised Lance coolly and he made no attempt to approach, but instead sat easily into a chair at the far end of the room. Howard, on the other hand, glided across the room with his arm extended.

  “Lance, really good to see you again,” Howard said as he pumped Lance’s hand up and down twice. Always twice. Must’ve learned that in publisher’s college, Lance thought absently.

  “You also,” Lance said, still smiling. Howard turned to Andy and extended his hand, which Andy gripped in what seemed to Lance to be an overenthusiastic greeting.

  “Good to see you, Allen.”

  “Andrew,” Andy said flatly, the smile hanging on his face like a bad painting.

  “Of course, please sit down, gentlemen.”

  The three men sat and noisily scooted their chairs closer to the table. Howard reached out and tipped the plate of cookies toward Andy and Lance.

  “Cookies?” he said, looking from Lance to Andy, smiling like Mr. Ed. Both men shook their heads in unison, Lance smiling and Andy glaring openly. Howard set the plate down and steepled his fingers together while gazing over the tops of them. “Well, guys, let’s get down to business, shall we?”

  “Sure,” Lance said.

  “Please,” Andy murmured. Howard shot a momentary look of annoyance at Andy and then his smile wiped it away.

  “So Lance, what’s going on? I’m told you had to put a hold on Harbinger’s Regret?”

  Lance nodded, encouraged by how understanding and open Howard’s voice sounded. “Yeah, I’ve had some plot issues. I have maybe another twenty thousand words to go, and I just ran into a snag. I’m thinking I’ll need at least another three weeks to work out the kinks.” Lance stopped speaking as Howard looked down toward his lap and put up one hand in the universal sign of silence. Lance’s eyebrows drew down as the man who sat behind Howard flicked open both latches on the black briefcase he held on his lap.

  “Lance, we were right on track for an October release. That’s your best month. We talked about this on the phone not two months ago. What happened from when you told me it was all coming together to now?” Howard asked.

  “Well,” Lance said, licking his lips. His jaw felt tight. It needed to be stretched and cracked. He could feel a pilot light beginning to burn in the pit of his stomach, the warning sign, as loud as any tornado siren, that his anger was beginning to wake. “Like I said, there were a few things that just didn’t seem to mesh well with the resolution, so I went back and changed them. That, in turn, weakened a couple of details that I really liked. I can iron it out, I just need a few more weeks.” Howard sat staring at him over the bulbous sweating pitcher and flat cookies. His eyes were unmoving in their sockets, and Lance suddenly had the overwhelming impression that everyone else in the room had died. For a few seconds, Howard ceased to breath, the enigmatic man behind him was a taxidermist’s canvas, and even Andy seemed to have stopped his near-constant motion.

  Life snapped back into action as Howard sighed and ran his tongue over the outside of his massive teeth. The silent man behind him opened the briefcase and pulled a staple-bound mass of paper out of the black carrier. He then stood just enough to slide the sheets onto the table a few inches from Howard’s elbow.

  “Well, I’m really disappointed, Lance. Really disappointed. No offense, but now I’m going to have to fly back to New York and tell Richard why the next Lance Metzger novel won’t be out in time for the season next fall.”

  “I’m sorry, I just can’t throw it all together for the sake of hitting a deadline. I’m sure you understand,” Lance said imploringly, the anger in his stomach starting to rise like mercury in a thermometer.

  “I do and I don’t, but I guess there’s no choice, is there?” Howard said, beginning to stand. “Oh, but one more thing,” he continued with a vaguely amused tone, and Lance noticed one of his undertaker hands lightly touch the pape
rs on the table. “I was notified that this was your last book on contract with us—”

  “Like you didn’t know,” Andy said, his words cracking off like rounds from a pistol. Howard looked over at Andy with unveiled disgust but only sneered, his culvert-like nostrils flaring.

  “As I was saying, this is your last book with us, and before we renew your contract, we’ll have to go through the necessary—”

  “Oh, enough of this shit!” Andy said as he stood with sufficient force to knock over his chair. “Do you know who this man is? He’s probably your fucking bread and butter, Cole. His last three novels have outsold anything else on your roster. People line up for blocks to see him when he does a signing. His advances are in the six digits, and you’re sitting here actually threatening him with not re-signing a contract for missing a publication date?” Andy leaned over the table, and Lance watched the redness in his palms become white with the pressure he exerted. “We’ll go somewhere else, you fucking moronic cartoon! Shit, he’ll publish his next work himself! How’s that for negotiating?”

  “What do you know about anything, you weird little—”

  “I’ve represented two platinum recording artists, three best-selling novelists not including the one in this room, and an actor that’s received more Oscar nominations than anyone I can think of, so I know my way around the entertainment industry, Mr. Cole, and you do not!” Andy turned from the table and began to walk to the door. Lance stood and finally met eyes with Howard, who was clenching his Chiclet-like teeth within the snarl of his parted lips.

  “Basically, what Andy was saying was, you’ll get my book when I’m done with it, not a second sooner or later. If that’s unacceptable, take me to court and I’ll show up with bells on.”

  Without another word, Lance walked around the large table and out the door, which Andy held open for him. When it finally clicked shut behind them and their footsteps were the only sound in the hallway, Lance turned his head to look at his friend. Andy’s face was still contorted in what Lance imagined were thoughts of what he had wanted to say but hadn’t. Andy mouthed something angrily incomprehensible, and Lance couldn’t stand it any longer. His laughter sprung out of him and echoed loudly off the walls. Andy turned his attention to Lance, and the look of utter frustration was so complete and profound that another gale of mirth blustered in Lance’s stomach and he nearly doubled over with it.

  “What?” Andy said, the irritation rising in his voice.

  “You, you …” Lance gasped as he staggered with laughter. “You fucking moronic cartoon!” Another fit squeezed Lance’s midsection until he had to lean on the wall near the elevator. Andy stood to the far side of the double doors, frowning at Lance, his hands deep in the pockets of his expensive suit pants. As the elevator doors dinged open and announced the arrival of the car, Andy finally spoke.

  “You’re a fucking loon, you know that?”

  The car ride home was quiet once Lance’s laughing fit had finally passed. A quarter turn had been taken off the vice that pressed on the sides of his head. He could feel the pressure there each time his thoughts returned to the unfinished novel, like a tongue probing at a hole where a tooth used to be. At least telling Cole off had felt good. The laughter afterward had been even better. As the car glided around a long bend in the highway, keeping time with the other vehicles around it, Lance turned to Andy.

  “Thank you again.”

  “For what?”

  “For standing up for me. You know you didn’t have to literally stand up.” Lance smiled, hoping to crack his friend’s oppressive mood. Andy merely looked sidelong at him before returning his eyes to the road.

  “You’re welcome. I’m guessing we’re soon going to be on the receiving end of some angry calls from New York about this, so be prepared.”

  Lance nodded while making a mental note to add an extra fifty thousand to Andy’s bank account this Christmas, and sank back into his seat. Now that the laughter had escaped him, he felt hollow. His nerves were like unbraided cables, and a draining weariness began to settle over him. At that moment he felt sure he could sleep without interruption, without the feeling of water running over his feet and soaking his back, without the sounds of sliding footsteps just behind him.

  “So what are you going to do?” Andy asked, bringing Lance back to the sounds of the car around him. Lance sighed and rubbed his face. Up until this point, he had hoped that the words would just return. He didn’t have a contingency plan other than waiting, but when he stopped to think about it, waiting didn’t seem to be such a great idea either.

  “I don’t know. Sit down at the computer and stare into the abysmal whiteness of the blank page until my muse returns?”

  Andy blinked abnormally long. “I think you should go on vacation.”

  “What? Why? I can’t take a break now, I’m on a break.”

  Andy tipped his head toward him. “Sometimes the best thing to do is just step back and get away for a while, get a different perspective on what’s bothering you. You should go somewhere warm, lie on a beach. Bring Ellen, do nothing but have sex and drink for a week, see if that gets things going again.”

  The thought of Ellen’s last words and the slamming door caused Lance to grimace. “I’m guessing Ellen wouldn’t go to the park with me right now, not to mention on vacation.”

  Andy looked over at him and then back at the road before speaking. “I never liked her.”

  “God, Andy!”

  “I’m just telling you the truth. She always treated me like I was mentally retarded, talking slowly to me and speaking a little louder than normal. I’ve got Asperger’s. I’m not hard of hearing.”

  “Noted.” The harshness in Lance’s voice didn’t go entirely unnoticed as Andy fell silent and turned into Lance’s drive.

  Andy threw the car into park and glanced over at his friend. “If you don’t want to go away, then go see Dr. Tyler.”

  Lance shook his head and looked out of the passenger window, a flash of anger running through his stomach like a hot blade. “I don’t need to go see him. I’m fine. I just need to calm down and be alone for a while with my thoughts. Besides, he moved to Michigan a couple years ago.”

  “Then call him, you know he’d talk to you.”

  “I know he would. I just want this to go away. It’s been gone for so long. I was free of it, and now this? I lost my ability to do the only thing that makes me feel worthwhile. Really?” Lance fell silent as the anger turned into a sour despair that sat burning within his chest. Andy shifted in the seat beside him and finally broke the stiff silence inside the car.

  “You were never really free of it, your past. No one is. It just went dormant, that’s all.”

  Lance nodded with a few quick jerks of his head. Andy may not have always been the most emotional friend through the years, but he could be damn insightful at times.

  “I guess I’ll just have to sit down and grind it out, do the best I can. It’s not like my fingers are gone and I can’t type.”

  “God helps those who help themselves,” Andy said.

  Lance snorted and looked over at his friend, who sat frowning back at him. “Andy, I have the distinct feeling that God set things in motion a long time ago, and he hasn’t been back since.” Lance reached out and grasped the handle of the door, but stopped halfway out of the car. “Besides, that’s just a nifty way of saying ‘get off your ass and do it yourself.’”

  The right side of Andy’s mouth curled up in an attempt at a smile as Lance stepped out of the car and shut the door behind him.

  Chapter 5

  “Coincidence is fate pulling strings.”

  —Unknown

  Welcome home, son.

  The scream raced free of Lance’s throat and rebounded off the walls of his bedroom. His stomach muscles cramped from the effort of bringing himself upright off the bed and his chest heaved with the exertion. Lance brought one shaking hand from the mattress and rubbed the back of his sweat-slicked neck. The sk
in was smooth, unblemished, and uncut. His eyes searched the dark room as he regained the sense of being in the waking world, and his mind began to brush away the clinging miasma of the dream. Something different had happened this time. He pushed at the boundaries of the memory that inched its doors closed to his prodding thoughts. He had seen something just before he woke. The light had come on fully this time, but the figure before him hadn’t had a face. Instead, it was nothing but shadow.

  Lance swung his bare feet out and put them on the coolness of the floor. The sensation brought him fully awake, and he rubbed his eyes to clear them. The clock on his bedside table read 3:31.

  Without thinking about what he was doing, he stood from the bed and crossed the room to his door. The landing outside his room gave him a great view of the darkened house. He imagined for a moment that he could see shapes moving in the shadows and hiding behind couches and chairs below him, but he shoved the images away. He didn’t have time for imaginings that weren’t on paper.

  As he made his way through the house, flipping on the occasional light here and there, he tried to remember all the details of the dream so he could repeat it when the time came. His study glowed with the dim ambient light of his computer screen, which he left on constantly, and when he entered the room, he didn’t bother to turn on the overhead fixture.