“She might just be cheap,” Flora said.
“The raincoat she was wearing that day looked like it came from a bargain bin,” Lewd said.
“And she lives with that loudmouthed girl,” Snicker said. “Why would you live with someone like that if you didn't have to?”
“Like I said, she might be cheap,” Flora said.
“She told me she paid off her student loans with the money.”
Three jaws dropped.
“Who would do that?” Lewd looked incredulous.
“Do you think,” Snicker asked, “maybe Mike's right and she's a bit, what did he say about her? Loony?”
“Don't talk about her like that!” Bastard said.
“Are you falling for her?” Flora asked with some interest and a little jealousy.
“You know I’ve been! Since the beginning! I wanted to tell her what was going on from the very start. But I had to pay my rent. I needed the money. Now, though, I got that extra gig from the Breaking Bad sequel, I'm thinking about revealing everything. Especially if she doesn't have the money. But really, guys, I'm as scared of Mike as you all are. I know he doesn't need the money, I know he's doing it just to torture the girl, but I wonder what he's going to be like when he finds out this was all for nothing? He's going to explode. When I first met him after that Craigsli—”
“I don't think we should tell him,” Snicker said. “I don't want him to win.”
“The guy's evil,” Lewd said.
“Maybe,” Flora said, “she really is loony and—”
“ARRRGGHHH!!!”
They screamed and jumped as a unit, the cups clattering to the floor, chairs toppling over, as Gretchen leaped across the partition, spindly umbrella like a saber, hair flying through the air like seaweed, and descended upon them all.
CHAPTER 18 A FEW WEEKS LATER
THERE was a view of Central Park. Two, in fact. Henrietta Brown had done her son proud. Not that he expected any less. Mike Brown was lounging on a deckchair on the balcony that got the Western sun, sipping absinthe. He glanced at his Bulgari watch. A shiver of excitement rippled through him. Eight o'clock was swiftly approaching. The moment he had been waiting his entire life for. The launch party for his first volume of poems. From the Room of Dreams, A Peek Into The Metal Box.
He still recalled Peggy's exact words after she read the manuscript he had sent her: “Don't change a single word! Not one comma! It's perfect! I know just the publisher who will gobble it up!”
There had been a bit of a problem with the advance check, but Peggy promised that would all be sorted out. Not that Mike cared about the money anyway. Now, again, he had all he wanted. His parents' seemingly unlimited millions. Who cared about a measly advance check? It was fame he had always been after. And now it would be his.
After the Judge Enda Lee episode had aired months before, the 'likes' on his poet Facebook fan page had gone from four to over 10,000. But even better than that, now he had the work to back it up. A poet. A real poet. The months of working at his dad's company, BytesTech, the hours he had slogged away just to show his dad he really wasn't a drug-addicted, alcoholic layabout, now seemed an eternity away. He couldn't believe he had ever worked there, like a common person. He couldn't believe he had ever lived with Gretchen Barnett, like a real boyfriend. It had been desperation. Cut off from the trust fund, unwilling to toil as others had to, he had needed a steady source of income. She had been it. It had been so much fun torturing her mentally. He smiled as he thought back on the ham he had suggested Louise and Carly Rae, two more people he loved to torment, cook for their special going away meal for Gretchen. He had giggled as he had pressed 'send' on Gretchen's invite to the launch party. He wondered if she would come. He hoped she would. She would be miserable at his success.
And the stupid girl still had no idea what the future held in store for her. The 'passing' of Mrs. Roth, and Gretchen being coerced into paying for the 'funeral.' That money was for Mike's bank account. More money he had no use for. He had spoken to Vince, “David Lee Roth,” a few moments before. The finale, the sting, was on course for next week. Mike would finally get his revenge on Gretchen Barnett.
People, other people, were, of course, put in Mike Brown's world as playthings, for him to toy with as he pleased, even his mother and father. And how he squirmed with mirth as he moved them around on the chessboard of his life, pitting one against the other, mother against father, Louise and Carly Rae against Gretchen, Gretchen against herself. For the hell of it. The sheer entertainment of it.
He got up from his deck chair and looked down at what must be ducks, little dots, in the lake of Central Park. If his brain had been wired slightly differently, he might have been wondering what it would be like to shoot them all from this vantage point. But senseless violence like that was beneath him. He was too intelligent, too cultured, for such crude, unrefined acts.
Tonight the role of the people in his world, the role of the masses, was to adore him. Was to applaud as he read out words that touched the soul, that made them feel in their useless, pitiful lives.
As usual, he smirked. But somewhere deep inside him, he felt something hard, something that grated away at a tender thing inside, under his bones. Yes, they'd be cheering and roaring and begging for autographs tonight. But it was too bad he hadn't written one word of the poetry he'd be reading.
How this had all come about, he thought, as he roused himself to go back inside and shower but not shave—he was a poet and had to look the part, of course—had been...fortuitous. Yes, that was the word. Fortuitous. If not a bit strange. But then it wasn't strange, because the world belonged to him alone, so it was only fitting that what he needed most would fall straight into his hands.
He shrugged out of his clothes and stepped into the shower. He ran the water until it scalded him. It felt great. Burning all the germs of the lumpen masses off him.
He had his outfit for that evening laid out on the king sized bed in the bedroom. The shower was, of course, en suite. He had spent quite a few days wondering what he should wear. He had decided on Rococo, the fashion of the movers and shakers of 1770's Europe. Habit à la Française, it was called, and Mike had had a hell of a time trying to get it all together. But he had succeeded, of course. Because it was something he had wanted. A knee-length coat, an embroidered waistcoat, knee-breeches and socks, and heeled shoes with a big square buckle. All maroon, except for the socks, stockings more like, which were white. It was a special outfit for a special day. His debut as a world-conquering poet.
After the shower, he struggled a bit to slip into the stockings, as they seemed a bit small, but, again, he succeeded. He looked like George Washington without the powdered wig. Though he saw a highway robber/dandy hybrid, like Adam Ant on his second album. Which was great because retro was cool. As he checked himself out in the mirror, he thought back to how this had all happened. He loved it when a plan came together, and this plan had just fallen into his lap. Well, into his crotch, more like, he thought, with a sly smile at himself in the mirror.
It had only been a month ago. Shocking how quickly things could change.
Vince had called him up one night, frantic. He was downstairs, around the corner at the Starbucks on Columbus Circle. The others, Flora, Vereen and LeRoy, were getting antsy and demanding a meeting. They had things to discuss. Would he please come down and talk to them?
Idiots! he had thought as he'd hung up. Bumbling fools!
Mike Brown felt contempt for most of the human race, and the dullard collection of actors he had paid, handsomely, he thought to himself, was no exception. Still, if you wanted a job done well, you should do it yourself. But that had been impossible in this case. The only person who couldn't play two muggers, an anesthesiologist and his mother was himself. His fellow con artists were imbeciles, and he hated dealing with them, but imagining Gretchen's wails of sorrow and shame was worth the time he might have to spend with them sullying his presence.
He'd gone downs
tairs as Vince had asked and, after another phone call to establish which of the many Starbucks they were actually at, had met them.
He had barely registered their whining and silly complaints. He had thrown a few hundred dollar bills on the table, told them it wouldn't be much longer, then had left. What he wondered as he left was the purpose of that? Why did they bother calling me? But he knew the answer: because they were dumb.
As he rounded the corner of the cafe, a girl rammed into him. An Amazonian, with oversized cat-eye spectacles, a nose ring and dark blue lipstick, her fingers weighed down with clunky, garish (in his eyes) jewelry, closely cropped black and green hair. Tears were streaming down her face.
“Watch where you're going, you stupid—”
Mike bit off his anger. It wasn't the tears that did it, it was her hotness. He felt his manhood stir. Phwaough! She was at least five inches taller than him. What a conquest! He would conquer it! Like 2K! He turned on his charm.
“Are you okay?” he asked. “I'm Maximus Voo. At your service.”
He gave a little bow.
“Ohhhh!” the girl sobbed into the top of his head (she couldn't configure herself to sob into his chest). “It's awful! The most horrible thing has happened!”
“Calm down,” Mike said, leading her over to a bench, shoving aside the homeless man who had been sitting there gnawing a chicken bone with no meat on it. “Begone, filth!” The homeless man shuffled off. “The stench has left,” he cooed at her, grabbing her hands and massaging her fingers through the multitude of rings. “Tell me all about it. What's your name?”
“D-Daisy,” she sobbed. “And my boyfriend's just dumped me!”
“Don't worry about that, Daisy,” he murmured, now running his hands through her two-tone hair. “I'm here to help you now. To protect you. Is your boyfriend, your ex, still about? I'm quite a fighter, you know. I'll beat the shit out of him if you want me to.”
“N-no, he's gone. But I feel so alone. I've just been wandering the streets, not knowing what to do with myself. It's horrible! I'm useless! Nobody loves me!”
“I'm sure that's not true,” he said softly. “I'm sure that's not true at all. I, for example, find you quite amazing.”
She looked up at him, her watery eyes seemingly filled with incomprehension.
“How c-can that be?” she wondered.
“You don't believe me?” Mike asked softly. “How about if I show you?”
It was the easiest pickup he had ever had. The quickest. In moments, they were in a taxi—she had refused to go to his apartment, and he hadn't wanted to press the point and miss out on a spectacular lay—and then they were in her apartment, and then they were in her bed. Handcuffs and all.
And after, as they lay side by side, murmuring their mutual satisfaction, Mike had looked around the bedroom. It seemed she and her ex, if he had lived here too, were loaded. There was a bookcase on the far wall, filled with books in a strange language even Mike hadn't seen before. And he thought he had seen all the languages in the world!
It wasn't sexy, he knew, but he just had to ask.
“What language are those books in? Are you American?”
“Of course I'm American,” Daisy had said with a giggle. “They belong to my asshole ex. He's from Svardia. I guess they're in Svaridan. He went...” here she seemed on the verge of tears again, “he caught a flight back there tonight. He's got some cheap floozie there. Years younger. Dumped me and told me to clear out by the end of the month. Five years we were together! Five long years!”
She sobbed anew. And suddenly bounded from the bed and picked up a notebook sitting on a table.
“I know what I'll do! I'll burn this! His precious notebook! His precious poems! He said they were amazing. His friends said they were amazing. What do they know? They're Svardian! Though...I guess the country has some of the best poets in the world. There must be something in the water there.”
Something niggled in the back of Mike's brain. He thought he had read something about that online. Svardia, the country of poets.
She had the notebook clutched in her hands and was trying to tear it in two, but it was too bulky.
“I'm going to rip it to shreds! And then burn every little scrap! We've got, or he has, a fireplace in the living room. It actually works.”
“No!” Mike said. He finally leaped from the bed himself and grabbed the notebook from her. “It's a...a sin! To destroy art! Like the Nazis! Do you want to be a Nazi?”
“No, but...” her lower lip trembled. “I hate him. He didn't take it with him. He doesn't care.”
Mike flipped through it. He was relieved it was in English.
“He...had this translated?”
“His English is perfect.” And here the girl seemed on the verge of laughing, or maybe her mouth was twitching because she wanted to cry again for this stupid lost lover, as laughing wouldn't make much sense, Mike thought.
He read a line, then flipped a page, then read another line at random, and then another. Something clicked in his brain. He held the notebook tighter. Away from the girl.
“You can't burn this,” he said. “You can't destroy it. It's amazing.”
“I want it out of this apartment! I want it out of my sight! It's like...it's like him, he himself being in this room with me! Get it out of my sight! Get it out of here!”
So, after giving the girl, this Daisy, a fake phone number—she already had his fake name—he split. With the manuscript under his arm.
He had changed the titles, typed it up, sent it off to Peggy, and the rest was soon going to be history.
The buzzer rang. His Hummer limo was there. To take take him to the launch. It would be a night Mike Brown would never forget.
CHAPTER 19
“MICHAEL!” PEGGY ENTHUSED through her artfully-enhanced lips, planting a kiss on each cheek and drawing him into her bosom. “It's going to be marvelous! They are thronging the place, absolutely thronging it!”
She had met him on the corner, her shawl fluttering, and held open the door of the limo for him. Now, clutching his elbow eagerly, she led him around the corner to the Poet Club, New York's most grand society for the shakers and movers of the poetry world.
“Your outfit!” she bubbled into his ear, “Oh, you look perfect...” ...ly ridiculous! You goddamn fool! She giggled with glee. “This is going to be such! fun! Everyone, and I mean everyone who's anyone, is inside...the critic from the Times, people from the New Yorker, The Atlantic, The New England Review. I think I might have even spied Khalil Gibran in a corner... Before tonight, not many people, well, let's be honest here, nobody, knew the poet you. But after this evening, you're going to be the talk of the town! Just what you always wanted!”
When Gretchen had contacted Peggy, told her she was Mike Brown's ex-girlfriend, and asked if she'd like to join in on the fun, Peggy had purred down the line, “With pleasure, dear. It will be absolutely delicious!” All Peggy had to do, Gretchen told her, was invite her literary contacts here to the Poet Club for the chance to see the silly young thing she had gotten herself involved in make a total fool of himself. He fancied himself a poet? He didn't know the first thing about poetry!
Mike snickered secretly to himself. He had dumped Peggy before she had gotten around to dumping him. He had never read her any poems during their relationship. How could he have read her something when he hadn't written anything? But he knew she would snap up whatever she could sell from any source, even from someone who had put her through so much hell. And he certainly had.
The red carpet of the Poet Club had been specially rolled out for him. There were no flashing cameras, or, worse, phones as cameras, no crowds lining the barriers, but this Mike had expected. Poetry wasn't the tacky world of Hollywood or the Grammys. It had restraint, class. Just like himself, he thought proudly. His maroon jacket fluttered in the breeze as he strutted down the carpet in his shoes with the big square buckles. Peggy nodded at the doorman, who bowed and grappled the heft of the gol
den door handle and pulled. They stepped into the lushness.
How many nights, after a quick jerk off, had Mike dreamed of reading snippets of his debut volume here! This was no shoddy, cheap 'spoken word' venue. The Poet Club was steeped in tradition. Tiffany lamps hung over their heads, the walls of the entrance were lined, behind bulletproof glass, with leather-bound classics. Mike imagined his modern masterpiece would instantly take its place there, where it deserved to be, nestled between Robert Frost, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow and John Keates, Robert Burns, Rudyard Kipling and Dylan Thomas. The spine of his book between those books he now looked at reverently, if slightly dismissively. They were great, but his work was better. Perhaps the Poet Club would soon hang his photo in the Shrine of Poetry. There it was now, off the entrance way of the club, mostly paintings of the greats, as photography hadn't been invented when many of the world's best poets had written their wonders.
Mike's heart thudded in his rib cage with excitement at the sound of the babbling of the most respected critics and agents and publishers and, he supposed, those hangers on lucky enough to have gained entrance. The readers. The pitiful readers, he thought.
“It's best to make an understated entrance,” Peggy whispered in his ear. “Let's go over to the bar. And we've the most wonderful buffet of nibbles laid out as well. Only the best, you understand. Tenderloin bruschetta with red-wine mayonnaise, lobster quesadillas, potato-chive blinis with hot smoked trout and caviar, stuffed shiitake with chestnut and apple chutney. And so on.”
Emergency Exit (The Irish Lottery Series Book 6) Page 26
