Tilda shot the completed article off to the magazine, and then wrote up her interview with John Laryea. It wasn’t particularly fun since Laryea hadn’t told her a whole lot worth writing about, but she scraped up a few decent quotes from her tape, and when she added in some background about the Pharos comic book, it was fairly solid. That one she sent to Entertain Me! on spec, but she was reasonably sure they’d take it. If not, she had a list of lower-paying markets to try next.
She still had the notes from her talk with Hugh Wilder, but decided not to write them up until she knew what angle she was going to take. Instead she sent out half a dozen queries to noncompeting magazines, offering to write an article geared to each. With luck, she’d sell six versions of the piece, but as long as she got one, she’d be satisfied. After all, the original aim of the interview had been to protect Laryea, and that mission had already been accomplished.
By midafternoon she was ready to go after Leviathan. Unfortunately, she wasn’t sure where to look first. Tilda had a substantial database of people to consult when it came to finding old TV actors, movie stars, and even one-hit-wonder musicians, but comic book artists were something new.
The first step was to Google Leviathan. Admittedly, Joni or her secretary or whoever had probably tried that first, but Tilda knew that using a search engine could take finesse, and not everybody was as good at it as she was. She used “Leviathan,” “Pharos,” and “Dylan O’Taine” as search terms to see what she came up with. The answer? A whole lot of hits. There was nothing to do but start going through them.
After an hour of sorting through websites and bulletin boards, she was ready to admit that Leviathan did not have a website for selling old sketches and reliving his glory days. Nor did he have a presence on Facebook, MySpace, or LinkedIn. That was hardly a surprise, because Joni would have found him herself that way, but Tilda would have felt like a complete idiot if she hadn’t looked and Leviathan was on one of those places.
With the easy sources exhausted, she took a break to grab a glass of Dr Pepper before hitting the specialized comic book sites. Though Tilda had read comics on and off for years, she knew she was no expert.
She learned that Pharos was originally published by Regal Comics, but the company had long since gone out of business and she had zero luck tracking it down.
The next step would have to be talking to a real, live comic book fan. Which, in her case, meant Cooper. She called him at work.
“Cooper, I need to pick your brains about comic books. Do you know—”
“Oh, now you’ve got time to talk. When I needed your help, you were busy busy busy. Maybe I’m busy busy busy, now.”
“What if I were to tell you what John Laryea is like in person? And how pissed off he got when a former costar showed up? And about the former boyfriend of mine who showed up with his head in my lap? Or would you like to hear about an interesting bit of detective work I’ve been hired for?”
There was a pause. “Okay, you’ve got me. What do you need?”
“Two things. First off, do you have any copies of Pharos I can borrow? The original comics, not the graphic novel.” She had read them, but she’d borrowed then from an old boyfriend and didn’t have her own set.
“Nope, I’m not big into supernatural stuff. Other than Neil Gaiman’s Sandman, of course, because it’s brilliant.”
“Then I guess I’ll hit the Million Year Picnic. Now who can I talk to about the business end of comics?”
“There’s a dude named Tony Davis—he’s got connections and he knows comics like you know old TV shows.”
“Great. Where can I find him?”
“When you get to the Million Year Picnic, look at the cash register. Tony will probably be standing behind it. He owns the place.”
“Boffo! Then I’m off to Cambridge.”
“What about all the gossip you owe me?”
She launched into a swift but detailed description of all the topics she’d promised, finishing with, “Tomorrow I’m heading back to the Cape to hang around the filming.”
“But Tilda! Everybody knows how boring moviemaking is. You’ll be spending hours and hours sitting while the light gets just right, or for somebody to get their makeup fixed for the umpteenth time.”
“I know.”
“It totally destroys the magic of the movie when you see how unromantic those love scenes really are, and how those daring leaps from cliffs that are really only from two or three feet off the ground.”
“True that.”
“And the actors can be such bitches to everybody!”
“You’re right again.”
There was a pause. Then Cooper said, “God! I am so jealous I can hardly stand it.”
“I know. But if you take me to dinner when I get back, I will share all the gossip with you.”
“Bring pictures, too, and you’ve got a deal!”
Chapter 10
No geek’s visit to Harvard Square can be considered complete without a trip to the Million Year Picnic. Named for a Ray Bradbury story, the store is stuffed with comics and staffed by knowledgeable comic book fans.
—“EVERY GEEK’S GUIDE TO HARVARD SQUARE” BY TILDA HARPER, GEEK TRAVEL
TILDA knew that the Million Year Picnic had been in the same downstairs shop front in Cambridge’s Harvard Square for eons, other than a brief period of relocation when recovering from a fire. It was tiny and crowded with shelves filled with comic books and graphic novels, plus T-shirts, action figures, and other related miscellany. It was, in short, geek heaven, and Tilda had always loved the place.
Figuring that spending money was always a good way to get a store owner to talk to her, she first went to the boxes of back issues to see if there were any copies of Pharos. Clearly somebody had been keeping up with Hollywood news because there were several sets of the full run of Pharos bundled together in Mylar bags, and Tilda could see where the prices had been crossed out and higher ones marked. She picked out the cheapest set of the ten issues and took it up to the counter.
The guy at the register, a curly-haired man with mocha skin, a Green Lantern T-shirt, and wire-rimmed glasses said, “I should warn you that some of the comics in that bundle are second or third printing.”
“Is there any difference between them and the first printing?”
“Only the word first in first printing, but some collectors insist on first printings.”
“I just want to read them.”
“In that case, we’ve got it in a graphic novel format, too, and it would be a little cheaper and hold up to reading better.”
“Is there anything in the comic book that didn’t make it into the graphic novel? Or vice versa?”
“The actual books have the letter columns, and ads for other Regal Comics titles. The graphic novel has an interview with the guy who edited Pharos. It’s right there on the shelf on your right.”
Tilda picked it up, flipped through it, decided it was worth the extra expense to buy both versions, and put it onto the counter with the package of actual comic books. Considering how quickly the guy had known what was in the comics and the graphic novel, she hazarded a guess. “Are you Tony Davis?”
“That’s me.”
“My name’s Tilda Harper. I’m a friend of Cooper Christianson’s, and he recommended I talk to you for a story I’m working on.”
“About Pharos, I’m guessing.”
“You guess correctly. I’m trying to track down the guy who wrote it.”
“Oh yes, the mysterious Leviathan.”
“I don’t suppose you know who he is.”
“No, not me. Of course there’s been a lot of speculation about Leviathan in comics circles, thanks to the movie, but that’s about it. You want to hear the theories?”
“Let me guess. Leviathan is somebody famous who doesn’t want anybody to know he did comic books—maybe Andy Warhol. Or he was murdered. Or he was kidnapped to draw for some rich guy’s personal pleasure. White slavery. Something to do
with the Kennedys, Elvis, or Marilyn Monroe. Anything else?”
“You forgot the idea that he’s actually a current comic book artist who changed his name. Nobody has a style that comes close, but I think Frank Miller is the leading contender.”
“What about the idea that he was just this guy who drew a comic that didn’t do all that well and when it was cancelled, he went on with his life?”
“You know, that’s never come up. What fun would that be?”
She had to laugh. “What about you? Do you have any favorites?”
“Your explanation is really the most likely, even if it is hopelessly boring. The only question is why he hasn’t come forward now, but he could be dead—from natural causes, I mean—or living in another country or just not somebody who pays attention to forthcoming movies.”
“What about the comic book company? Regal Comics? I don’t suppose you know anything about that end.”
“Actually, I do,” Tony said. “It was back when I was just working here part-time, during college. The manager gave us a lot of latitude in ordering new titles, and I’m the one who found Pharos first. Regal was a small-time operation, which meant that they weren’t with any of the usual distributors, so I had to order directly from them. The woman in charge of orders was something else.”
“Oh?”
“I never actually met her, but she had this amazing voice. I kept the store carrying Regal titles longer than I should have, just so I could call and talk to her.” In a dreamy tone, he said, “Her name was Alicia.”
Tilda lifted one eyebrow.
“Hey,” he said with a shrug, “it’s not like a whole lot of hot girls were coming into the shop back then.”
“What about the guy in charge of Regal? The editor or publisher or whatever he was.”
“I didn’t talk to him as much, but he seemed pretty cool.” He scratched his chin. “What was his name? Marc something?” He picked up the copy of the Pharos graphic novel and turned to the front matter. “Here it is. Marc Fitzwilliam. The company address will be in the old issues, but I might have something more recent.” He turned to the computer that apparently did double duty as a cash register and tapped away for a few minutes. “This is a few years old, too, but he might still be there.” He scribbled down the address on a piece of paper, complete with phone number and e-mail, and handed it to her. “Maybe this will help.”
“Thanks, I really appreciate it.”
“No sweat. And if you talk to Alicia, tell her I said hello.”
“Will do.”
“Do you still want to buy the comics?”
“Absolutely.” And since he’d been both helpful and nice, she let him talk her into buying a graphic novel of Nazrat, another cult favorite from the 1980s boom in black-and-white independent comics. She wouldn’t be able to claim it as an expense, but maybe they’d make a Nazrat movie someday.
Chapter 11
The success of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles showed the industry that the smallest comic book company, even if run out of a garage or back bedroom, could provide a hot product. The downside was that so many people living in garages and back bedrooms produced such bad products.
—TEENAGE MUTANT NINJA ARTISTS:
THE BEST OF INDIE COMICS BY JERRY FRAZEE
IT was after five by the time Tilda drove back to Malden, but since the number Davis had given her was for the Chicago area, she figured there was a reasonable chance she’d get the office while it was still open. So after letting the dogs out to do what they needed to do, and cleaning up same, she made the call. Somebody answered on the first ring.
“A-1 Printing.”
“May I speak to Marc Fitzwilliam please?”
“Speaking.”
“Is this the same Marc Fitzwilliam who edited Pharos?”
“Man! Did Shelton put you up to this?”
“Excuse me?”
“When is he going to quit ragging me over this? If he doesn’t believe I published Pharos, tell him to just say so.”
“Mr. Fitzwilliam, my name is Tilda Harper. I’m a reporter, and I’m trying to find Leviathan, the creator of Pharos.”
There was a pause. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“Wow. How did you track me down?”
“It’s what I do,” Tilda said, which sounded more impressive than going to a comic book store. “I’m doing some work with the director of the movie Pharos, and we’d love to be able to talk to Leviathan to get his take on the film’s casting and script. Do you know how I can get in touch with him?”
“Sorry, no. The truth is I never met the guy. Never even talked to him on the phone. We did all our stuff by mail.”
“Then you must have his address.”
“It was a PO box but the last few things I sent him bounced back marked ‘Return to sender—address unknown.’ And that was years ago, not long after the last issue came out. I guess he didn’t need the PO box anymore. He never published anything else.”
“I knew he didn’t bring out anything with that name—I thought he might have used a different name for other work.”
“Maybe, but I never saw anything that looked like his style. And I don’t know what his real name is.”
“How did you address stuff to him? And write checks?”
“Mr. L. E. Viathan.”
“You’re kidding me. What about tax records?”
“Now you’re kidding me. I was a twenty-something-year-old kid running a comic book company out of my parents’ basement. I paid an advance and royalties, and he took care of his own taxes. I figured he had some reason for living off the grid and I thought it was kind of cool. Like maybe he was on the run or something.”
Or worried about being fired from his real job, Tilda thought. Or embarrassed about writing comic books. Or dodging alimony, or hiding from the mob, or any of the other speculations from the comic book community.
She asked, “If you never met him, how did you acquire Pharos?”
“It was an over the transom submission. I went to the Heroes Convention in Charlotte right after I decided to start up Regal, and I gave out a stack of business cards to wannabes. A couple of months later, I got photocopies of the first issue of Pharos in the mail. Leviathan said in his cover letter that we’d spoken at the con, but honestly, I didn’t remember it then, let alone now. The stuff was so good that I really didn’t care how he’d found me. It was the best thing I’d had come across my desk.” He laughed. “Hell, it was the best thing Regal ever published, and that includes the books I wrote myself. A couple of titles sold better, but that was just chance. Pharos was head and shoulders above anything else.”
From the other Regal titles Tilda has seen, she agreed with him, but didn’t think it would be particularly diplomatic to say so. “And everything was by mail? How did that work? The editing process, I mean.”
“Well, it wasn’t very formal,” Fitzwilliam said with a laugh. “I was still new to the business—Pharos was only the third title I brought out. Basically Leviathan would send me the script and the thumbnails for the pages, plus cover sketches. I’d take a look, and then send my comments and corrections. I didn’t have many—he was way more professional than I was.”
“Wait, if you don’t know who it was, how do you know it was a guy?”
“I just assumed. It was pretty much a boys’ club. There still aren’t that many female comic book artists.”
“I suppose not,” Tilda said. When she herself went to buy comics, she was often the only woman in the place. “Sorry for the interruption. Please go on.”
“So I’d mail back my comments, and a few weeks later, he’d send me the finished pages.”
“He did it all by himself? I thought pencils and inking and lettering were done by separate people.”
“They are usually, but like I said, I was new at it and didn’t know any better. Besides, he wanted to do it all. He even did the coloring for the covers.”
“What happened after you go
t the pages?”
“I’d make another pass, but I don’t think I changed anything at that point more than three or four times. Honestly, he was like a dream for me, especially compared with the other guys I was working with. The only sticking point was having to do everything by mail, but he worked the extra time into his schedule and still made all his deadlines with days to spare.”
“Why did you cancel the book if it was so good?”
“I just ran out of money. When I first started up, people were so excited about indie comics that any lousy book could sell out a print run of 20K. Naturally most of them were pretty bad, and a lot never even put out a second issue. People were buying comics for investments, as if every title was going to be another Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. It was all about the money.”
“I’m sure all you publishers were in it purely for art,” Tilda said dryly.
He sniggered. “Yeah, yeah. I was hoping to make a fortune, just like everybody else. But when the investment buyers realized that most of their comics had zero resale value, and the publishers realized they weren’t going to get rich, titles started dropping like flies. By the time we got to the eighth issue of Pharos, the print run was down to 5K. I was leaking money, and something had to give. So I told Leviathan he had two issues to wrap up any plot threads, and he did such a great job I hated to see it end. I kept Regal going for maybe a year after that, but the craze was over and I had to get on with my life. I was lucky to find somebody to buy the whole shebang, and I still lost money.”
Tilda checked her notes. “You sold your back titles to MasterWork Comics, and MasterWork sold their assets to Allman Ink, and then Joni Langevoort bought the movie rights for Pharos from them, right?”
“That’s what I hear. I didn’t really keep track after I sold to MasterWork.”
“How did that work? Did Leviathan get any money out of the deal?”
“He got paid for the first printing, and then a little bit in royalties. The character and the right to reprint those issues belonged to me.”
“But Leviathan created Pharos.”
Blast from the Past Page 5
