Roll with the Punches

by Gettinger, Amy

  "No, I'm wiped. Up at 3:00 a.m. with Dad, remember? And he’s still awake, pacing and singing."

  "You need a drink." She whistled with two fingers and a teenage boy came running. "My nephew. He's got his Gameboy and a cell phone, right, Drew?"

  The fifteen-year-old pimply faced kid nodded, eyes hidden under a dense mass of hair, and I was sure there was undone homework somewhere in his life.

  She said, "He's your dad’s babysitter.”

  * * *

  In the car, driving fifty in a forty-mile-per-hour zone, she put her hair in a ponytail. "So who in your writing group's suddenly rich?"

  I had to grab the wheel to avoid us sideswiping a car. "What? Nobody."

  She put her foot on the brake, hurling me forward.

  Forehead to the dashboard, I said, "Wait, wait. Marian has a new red Corvette, and she's started wearing designer silk. And George had a pinky ring this week that about blinded me. Other than that, I don't know. I mean Jackie's wardrobe never changes."

  More fast braking, right in traffic.

  "Stop!” I said. “Okay, Jackie did do a huge renovation on her house and bought all new dining room furniture and Faberge china at thirteen hundred dollars per place setting. Shoot. They're all frigging loaded all of a sudden."

  "Okay. We're off to Jackie's house.”

  "Aren't we going drinking?"

  "Drinking? When you're in such trouble? Hon, keep up. We're researching your writers' group members here. They're your prime suspects. They had access to the book in all its stages, right?" She pulled the car into oncoming lanes to avoid men working in the street. My heart stopped and I covered my eyes. Harley was not the best driver, but she always got me there.

  "But Jackie's so nice to me," I said, peeking between my fingers as we wove in and out of cars on the freeway. "Except at that last meeting, needling me about guys. Do you think she was trying to divert my attention from all the gorgeous stuff she's bought with the proceeds from selling my book?"

  "Maybe." Harley made an illegal left turn and gunned it toward Orange.

  "I was joking." I clung to the dashboard as we swerved around a biker. "They're my friends! Except Yvette, who had a Reynard Jackson business card in her purse."

  Raised eyebrow. "Her purse? Whoa, nice work, Sherlock. But she just joined the group, right?"

  "She just showed up. She will not join while there’s breath in my body."

  "So forget her."

  "I can't. She keeps showing up."

  "Oh, Rhonda. Wake up. This couldn't have been her fault. It had to have been done months ago. The book is already out."

  "Look. I finished writing it in late July. That's only three months ago. How could anyone get it published in that short time frame? Publishers have long queues."

  "The group's been reading it for almost a year," she sang. "Could the published version be copied from a first draft?"

  I sighed. "I don't know. I need to see my manuscript and the published work together."

  "Okay, let's go to Yvette's and check out her copy."

  "Damn. I didn't memorize her address."

  She eyed me. "What did you memorize? All her ID numbers?"

  I paused, just long enough for her to laugh. "Duh. And she's a geezer. Thirty-seven." I saw a bookstore. "Stop here. I'll buy the damned book."

  She pulled up and we walked down the well-lit strip mall.

  "Rhonda, look. The other group members have had months to study your book and buff it up. They're all published and could write well enough to pull it off.”

  I headed for the donut shop first.

  Raised eyebrows. "Diet?" Harley said.

  "I just need a whiff," I whined.

  She pushed open the shop doors.

  "And James isn't published. The rest are, but that doesn't—"

  "How long have you known them all, Rhonda? Not even a year.”

  I sucked in the sweet, greasy, yeasty air. Home. Sweet. Home. "But I know them. They wouldn't take my work. It has to be someone else with publishing connections."

  "Or your cleaning lady. Doesn't Marinella clean for a bunch of fancy Newport Beach folks? Some of them might be in publishing." She ordered crullers and bear claws.

  "Not Marinella. Manuela. And she quit working for Shiny Zone months ago.”

  "Did they send someone else to clean for you after she quit?"

  "She only cleaned occasionally for me. She was Mom’s cleaner originally. Mom replaced her, but I couldn't afford it then." I ordered only coffee. "Or now. You're paying.”

  "When did she quit?"

  "Summer. Look—" I inhaled the fragrance of glazed donuts in the bag. No, I would not have one.

  "She could have had access to your finished the book?"

  "Honestly … my cleaning lady?"

  Harley paid for the donuts and we went out to the sidewalk and headed for the bookstore. My feet dragged. My stomach dreaded finding the truth in Jackson's awful book.

  "Rhonda, just imagine. You're a writer—a fresh New York Times Bestselling author and you've done a few too many book signings and slept with a few too many groupies and drunk a few too many mai tais and your creative well has gone Sahara and you have a week to write three hundred pages before your next deadline.”

  My mouth fell open. She was good.

  She bit into a cruller, her eyes following a passing hunk of manhood in ripped jeans.

  I said, "But the most I've ever written in a week is fifty pages? That's it. So I need a quick book to fulfill a contract and keep my name on those shelves.”

  "And you've already asked for extensions before, and your editor is in a trough of manic-depression." Her donut disappeared fast.

  "So I can't ask for another extension. This is great. But I'm a household word. Whatever I write will sell, even if it's garbage. So I figure I could just lift somebody else's idea and expand a little on it.”

  The hunk followed us into the bookstore. Hubba hubba.

  "But then your mother gets sick or something and you don't even have time for that." She scanned the displays, winked at the hunk.

  "Yeah. My editor's calling me every day from the top of the George Washington Bridge, threatening to jump."

  Eye roll from Harley.

  I said, "Okay, from his rehab bed with a razor. So I just decide to copy something, polish it up a little. Just this once. No one will know. My God. That could really happen."

  "Where would the work come from?" Her forehead wrinkled as she scanned the romance section and picked up two books.

  "I don't—I guess someone who could write."

  "Who's naïve, can’t get a publisher," she said. "Or has a cleaning lady."

  "Oh, please. That is so unlikely."

  "Well, then, you troll a—a—a writers’ conference for half-assed manuscripts. Or a writers' group. See?" She beamed. The bestseller tables in the front of the store yielded no Reynard Jackson books. "Where are these idiot books, anyway?"

  We kept moving. "But I didn't give out any full manuscripts at conferences after I finished writing this thing. And writing groups are small, intimate. Won't the author figure out who stole her work?"

  "Okay, an online group. Remember the anonymity of the web. Hackers can do amazing things."

  I said, "Maybe. But why would anyone hack me? I’m nobody. Oh, look."

  We found the Jackson shelf in mysteries. No Memory Wars. We headed to the cashier for information.

  "Or what if the thief says he'll read your work, then never returns it? Says he lost it."

  "Could work. People do that a lot," I said. Like every friend I had. We got in line.

  "Like who? Group members?" she said.

  "Not usually. Groups are supportive." Why were we whispering as we approached the sales people? This wasn't a library.

  "Did you submit work online? Are there crooked agents or editors who would take your work and sell it?"

  "Maybe.
Hell, maybe the whole world is a bunch of evil hackers who want nothing more than to copy my Word docs. But why Memory Serves? It’s had no hype." I breathed. "I just keep coming back to Yvette, who has Jackson's business card. Damn, I wish I'd kept it. It had that same stupid Jokerman font as his book covers." I gestured toward his display.

  "The same colors?" She knew about my color thing.

  "Yeah. Damn cutesy stuff. And all wrong. Yellow A's? A blue Y? A green R? Sacrilege.”

  She rolled her eyes.

  "Do you think Yvette could have stolen my book from one of my group members, before we even met her?"

  "Jackie said they didn't know her."

  "She didn't. Someone else might have." The line was moving slowly.

  "Then why would she come to the group and point it out to you?" Logical Harley.

  "Good point. Maybe she's just mean." I picked up a book of quotes. "Or mentally ill."

  Harley said, "But how does Jackson commit plagiarism on this scale without the real author noticing until the book comes out and it's too late? Oh, wait. That was you! Have any Men in Black altered your memory lately?" She smiled angelically.

  I poked her. "Maybe he figured I'm just too dumb to notice. Damnation."

  We were in line behind a lady with kids, who all turned their heads at this.

  "Hey, maybe he asked some nasty agent or editor to slam your book at a conference appointment so you'd forget about it. Did that happen?"

  I frowned. "Nah. Nobody listens to the agents at conferences anyway. Authors are tough as toenails. When panned, we just keep querying.”

  "Or maybe he only takes old, unsold manuscripts from people's closets. Rejects."

  "Memory Serves is no reject!" I hissed. "It's selling big! Just not in my name!"

  "Can I help you?" We were finally at the checkstand. The female clerk had boxy glasses and an unflappable expression.

  "I'm looking for …" I had to swallow the sudden rush of bile in my throat. "Memory Wars."

  "Sorry. We sold out yesterday. All the stores in Southern California did." She leaned in, misreading my slack jaw. "I know. I want to read it, too. It's set here in the Southland, and rumor is there are big clues to Reynard Jackson's real identity in it. There's an Internet contest offering $100,000 to the person who can guess his real name by November 15th, so everybody wants to read it. Can I order one for you?"

  I stood there, my head imploding, my heart playing ping pong with my stomach. People in line were staring, but I couldn't move. Tears threatened to form, then started to spill. Then my legs took over and propelled me out of the store.

  * * *

  "Agghh! My life is a terrible B-rated movie! Film noir!" I beat my head on Harley’s dashboard. I think I left dents.

  "More like film puce," Harley corrected.

  We were back in the car after I'd run down the entire block looking like an Edvard Munch painting. "Take me home right now! I'm a negative energy vortex. If I stay in this car, we'll likely explode."

  "Tough as toenails, huh?" Harley said.

  I fumed until we pulled past Jackie's house. The lights were on. "Shoot. She's home. Let's try Marian's.”

  I was in too black a mood to resist.

  Harley dug a vitamin pill out of her pocket. "Have some 5-HTP and relax." She held up a slim hardback. "You should read this book I bought by Farah Moan, that Oregon skater. How to Release Your Inner Roller Queen -- On and Off the Rink. Be brave, spontaneous, in the moment. Cool." She looked at me. "Or in your case, just try to unclench your fists."

  I hid said fists and glared at the night passing by. I'd resisted Harley's conspiracy theories, but the more we talked, the more plausible they seemed. How well did I really know my writing group? I made one last attempt to defend them. "Look, most writers just aren't that smooth. We're all loners, and about as subtle as semi-trucks, all trying to funnel our work into the few bestseller slots.”

  "And you all have sports cars like Marian."

  "No." I crossed my arms. “We’re not going to Marian’s.”

  She started singing our favorite song from White Christmas: "Sisters, sisters …”

  I couldn't help but join in. Harley and I were just like devoted sisters, having made a sisterhood pact in blood at the age of twelve and sealed it with this song. Then we'd watched the movie and eaten brownies until we felt sick. Now we belted out the lyrics in perfect Rosemary Clooney/Vera Ellen style. Until the part claiming a mister would never come between me and my “sister.” Unfortunately, that had happened a couple of times over the years.

  She got quiet. "What would you buy if you were as rich as Reynard?"

  I said, "Perfect, cushy care for my parents, a cruise for me, and a boy toy for you—with pecs to die for and loaded with cash.”

  She said. "Fine, but I'm not sharing, ever again.”

  “Course not.” Seriously? She was still mad about that? It had not been sharing, anyway, more like me dating her castoff goods. For a minute.

  To lighten the mood, I treated her to my most colorful version yet of my incredible kissing scene at Darya Delhi with James, and how he saved my life again. Except that storyteller that I was, I stretched the truth just a tad, making the new story that James had rushed up to save an emotionally frozen me, standing sobbing in the parking lot, from an oncoming truck. Hey, a girl has to practice her craft.

  Soon we reached Marian's lovely two-story home in Anaheim Hills. No lights, no cars. I called Marian's number on my cell phone. No answer. Harley parked and pulled me out of the car and across the grass to the shrubs that edged the property. "Trust me. She'll never know we were here.”

  A big dog barked next door, and I jumped. My stomach felt funny. "But Marian's my friend.”

  We headed toward the back yard gate. Just then, Marian's fancy sports car drew up in the driveway and Harley shoved me inside the gate and shut it. We hunched down behind the fence to watch Marian, who wasn't alone. A tall, dark hunk of about my age bloomed from the passenger's side and pulled a meter-square object from the trunk before accompanying Marian inside, lugging the thing.

  "Who's that?" Harley asked.

  I shrugged.

  "That's not a Corvette. It's a Porsche 911," Harley breathed. "What's in her garage, a Rolls Royce? I think she's our thief.”

  We stood there in the dark, and soon bird-like sounds emanated vaguely from one of Marian's upstairs windows. Okay, enough. I started to creep out the gate.

  "Wait." Harley was biting her lip.

  "What? We're leaving. Now."

  "I have to pee. Bad," she said. "I had a couple Red Bulls earlier, and …"

  "Wait until we get home." I tugged her toward the car.

  "I have to go now." Harley's bladder was notorious. We'd had to get out of line so many times at Disneyland when she'd had to go and wouldn’t go alone.

  Harley ran up and knocked on Marian's door. Hard.

  After about ten knocks, I ran up to pull her hand away, but just then Marian peered around the door, her hair all ruffled, her pupils large. Jungle sounds and heavy drums blasted from behind her. "Oh. Rhonda?"

  "I'm sorry," I began.

  Harley pushed me aside. "Hi, Marian. I've heard a lot about you. We happened to be in the neighborhood, and I," her face squinched up, "need your bathroom."

  I stood there, red-faced, as Harley stormed the castle and bounded up the stairs past Marian’s shocked face.

  Marian reluctantly let me into her foyer. Her face was flushed and she was wearing a toga, or maybe a sheet. From the hallway, I could see a long massage table in the living room, covered in creamy sheepskin. Lit candles lined the edges of the room, on end tables, window sills, the mantelpiece. The thrumming jungle sounds and exotic candle scents conjured up Africa.

  "Early Halloween party?" I said weakly. "Hey, I'm so sorry if this is a bad …"

  Marian blinked her dilated eyes.

  I tried another tack. "Um, we—er—were d
riving around discussing my book and I—Could I talk to you?"

  "The phone?" Marian had found her voice.

  "Well, it was just as we passed your street. Harley said, 'Hey, let's go ask Marian. She'll know.' And I said no, then she insisted …"

  "Her bladder." Marian sighed.

  "Marian, what can I actually do about the plagiarism? I mean I know my work's got a copyright the minute I type it on a page, but so what?"

  Marian took pity on me and led me to the kitchen where we sat at her glass-top wrought iron table. Then, patting down her wild hair, she gave me a measuring look. "You need a copyright lawyer. Your work is copyrighted, but I don't think you can start a suit unless you register it first. Which could take some time. Meanwhile, the lawyer will want copies of your work and the Jackson work compared side by side."

  "I just tried to buy his book. Sold out. The whole state …"

  She frowned. A thump sounded overhead. We both looked up. What was taking Harley so long?

  I said, "What if they're not exactly alike? Do I have any chance in hell of winning a lawsuit over this Jackson guy when I have no famous name and he's got a huge publishing corporation and a world of fans behind him?"

  She put a finger to her chin. "You wrote it, right?"

  "Of course." I looked her in the eye. "Every word. I swear."

  "Good. Take the evidence of that—old drafts and new—to the lawyer. I'll be a witness.”

  Another thump, downstairs this time.

  She looked around. "I need to go check on my … cat."

  She left, and I took in the cozy room. A gorgeous antique stove, warm cherry cabinets, lovely old china, with large windows looking onto her green, green garden: pure Marian. A desert highway postcard on the bulletin board behind me caught my eye. I quickly checked the back.

  "Received check. Marking debt paid. Guess Pala still trumps us all in your affections. Please, for the millionth time, try G. A. Love, Matt."

  * * *

  "G. A.?" said Harley, back in the car. "Glenlove Applesauce or Geritol Anise flavor? And who's Pala?"

  "I don't know. Her horse?" I said. "She gave me the name of a lawyer, but I'll have to sell my condo to pay for a consult."

  "I've got four hundred dollars."