by Scott Carter
The words wash over Richard, bringing a surprising ease. Maybe it’s Barrett’s tone, maybe it’s the care, but it definitely feels good. Richard opens a soda and the can hisses.
“You look tired.”
“I’m fine,” Barrett says.
“Will you read a story I wrote?”
Barrett butts out the cigarette. “I’m not really into stories.”
“My therapist wants me to write my feelings in a journal, but I’d rather write stories. Like the ones Russell Niles writes.”
Barrett looks at the boy for any signs that he is baiting him and decides the tone is too candid to be so calculated. “Your shrink wants you to write?”
“Every day in a journal.”
“So show him.”
“I want you to read it.”
“This sounds like more of a mom thing. Why don’t you show it to her?”
“Because she’s always afraid I’m depressed, so she’ll tell me it’s good, even if it’s not, just to keep me happy.”
“You’re a stoic little man, aren’t you?”
“What does stoic mean?”
“It means I’ll read your story. But I’ve got a favour I need from you.”
Richard nods. He never thought Barrett would need his help, but he is excited to do anything for him.
“I need you to go into the Russell Niles fan club, ask for Rebecca, and tell her you have a Russell Niles autograph that you want to sell her.”
“You have his autograph?”
“That’s not the point. I do business with this woman and I want to see how she’ll react. Did you hear what I need you to do?”
“Yeah.”
“Say it.”
“Go inside, ask for Rebecca and tell her I have a Russell Niles autograph I want to sell her.”
“Good man.” Barrett pulls out a mini-recorder the size of an index finger. “And I need you to put this in your pocket so I can hear everything later.”
“What if she asks to see the autograph?”
“Tell her it’s at home.”
“Do you have the autograph?”
“What do you care?”
“I don’t want to lie to her.”
Barrett pops yet another smoke in his mouth and lights it in a fluid motion. “Look, think of yourself as a spy. Sometimes they have to bend the rules for the greater good.”
“What’s that?”
“Something uh, something that technically breaks the rules but benefits good people.”
“Okay.”
As Richard gets out of the car, Barrett feels a sense of relief. He has faith in the kid, and there’s an ease in believing.
Richard is more excited about going into the Russell Niles fan club than carrying out the mission, but he respects Barrett and wants to impress him enough to focus on the task. He enters the fan club and approaches Rebecca, who is the only one in the room. She is busy stuffing envelopes and barely notices his presence.
“Are you Rebecca?”
“I am.”
“I have a Russell Niles autograph I’d like to sell you.”
“You and a thousand other dreamers, kid.”
A shelf full of Mil Bennett action figures makes it a struggle to stay focused, so he takes a deep breath and makes a play for her attention.
“You don’t believe me?”
She tosses the last envelope on a table and looks at him for the first time.
These aren’t the loving eyes of his mother, the obligated eyes of his teachers, or the eyes of any woman he has ever seen before. This is his introduction to irreverence, and the words cute, kid, and innocent have no currency in her world.
“Are you really surprised?” she says, matching his tone.
“He signed it for me last month.”
“Right.” She holds up a middle finger face level. “And this means welcome.”
“Why don’t you believe me?”
“Because Russell Niles is too much of a conceited asshole to ever sign an autograph.” She passes him a rolled-up poster. “Take a poster and have a nice day.”
Richard takes the poster, but he doesn’t want to leave. The shelves of Mil Bennett books, the toys, the video games, and the giant blow-up of Mil in the far corner, all fill him with excitement and curiosity. But he knows he has to get back to Barrett, so he makes a promise to himself to visit the place again and leaves.
He slides into the car and passes Barrett the mini-recorder.
“She’s not very nice.”
The kid’s reaction makes Barrett smile. “She’s feisty.”
“What’s that?”
“The best kind of nice.”
Barrett spends the night listening to Rebecca on tape for any clues in her tone that she might be the extortionist. There’s no denying the loathing is there, and she is definitely rebellious, but bitter? The type of bitterness that this extortion requires doesn’t fit her personality. Or is that lust talking? The more he listens to the tape, the less he wonders if she’s dangerous and the more he fantasizes about being with her.
Richard stares at his tongue in the mirror and curses Dr. Burns. He’s never paid attention to his tongue before, but now it feels like it fills his mouth, and combined with the purple beneath his eyes, he is convinced that everyone who looks at him knows he is medicated. He puts a pill in his mouth and lets the bitterness dissolve until his tongue feels coated with shellack. Forget water. If he has to take these pills, he wants the taste to mirror his feelings about them.
He walks into the library and chooses his usual seat at a computer at the end of the aisle. He searches the Internet for cartoons until he finds one with a psychiatrist asleep in a chair while a patient is preparing a noose. The cartoon feels fitting, so he copies it and pastes it into an email for Dr. Burns from his devilhunter9 account. After hitting send, he feels better. It’s a small measure of revenge, but it feels right to do something. He wishes he could share the moment with someone, but he knows better so he texts Barrett instead. I just did something for the greater good.
Barrett is in the middle of updating his website with information about the three-million-dollar donation to the woman’s scholarship foundation when he gets the text. He looks to see it’s from Richard and feels his blood pressure drop. The message pries a smile from his stressed lips, and he texts back: Now you get to do something good for yourself guilt free. Talk soon. He sets down the phone and admits he is grateful for the kid’s text. The mirth puts him in the mood to write, so he finishes up with the website and is opening up a fresh page when there is a buzz from his front gates.
He turns to the video monitor and is shocked to see Martin Brouge.
Seeing him for the first time in a decade at Don’s party felt odd, but now that he’s being extorted, Martin’s presence has him shaking with suspicion. On screen, from the camera’s high angle, Martin is even better-looking than in person, and the image makes Barrett cringe. For a moment, he considers pretending that he isn’t home before hustling down his winding staircase to greet him. As he watches Martin walk up the path, his mind swirls with suspicion. He’s wondering if he should confront him as the extortionist when Martin’s confused look makes him pause.
“Barrett? You live here?” Martin asks.
Barrett nods.
Martin cocks his head and smiles. “Really? Now that’s a coincidence I’d pay for.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I had no idea this is your house. I’m here to buy the Lamborghini.”
“The Lamborghini?”
Martin nods slyly.
“How do you even know it’s for sale?”
“My agent saw the ad and tipped me off.” He gestures to the mansion. “It looks like Don wasn’t exaggerating when he said you’re a money-maker. What happened that you’re selling Sinatra’s Lambo?”
“I’m buying a new one.”
Martin pats him on the shoulder. “Fair enough. So where’s my new car?”
The tone m
akes Barrett wince. This is the type of bravado that he can’t resist. Call it pride, call it insecurity, or call it a capitalist spirit, but he would rather lie than be dominated. “I’m sorry,” he says. “But I got an offer this morning.”
“I’ll give you fifty thousand more.”
“I already accepted the offer.”
“A hundred.”
This is exactly what Barrett would do if he wanted someone’s car, and the ease that Martin is pulling this off with leaves him seething.
“I’m sorry. But I’ve already accepted the offer.”
“I see. Well, if you change your mind, call me. And remember, I’ve got a launch tomorrow night. I’d love to see you there.”
Everything about his tone heightens Barrett’s suspicion. With the frustration of a child flowing through him, Barrett marches upstairs, grabs the life-size doll of Mil Bennett from the corner of his office and rips it apart. First the right arm, then the left leg, and then he pulls so hard on the head that he falls awkwardly onto the floor with the doll’s torso on top of him. He is about to put the doll in a headlock when the phone rings. He sees Sidney’s name and hits speaker.
“You sound out of breath,” Sidney says. “Did I catch you in the middle of something?”
Barrett pushes the doll off his chest. “Nothing fun.”
“I have some good news for you. Rebecca’s having that fanatic she mentioned come to her office under the guise of winning a contest.”
“Good.” It’s difficult to focus on being extorted when he hears her name. “Did she mention anything about running into me?”
“Just that she did. Is there more to mention?”
Barrett shakes his head casually but internally screams in frustration that she would reduce him to an afterthought. If she’s bringing this fanatic by the office, he wants to be there.
“I’ll go,” he says.
“You sure?”
“I don’t want to miss this.”
“You like her, don’t you?”
“Of course I like her.”
“So?”
“I’m working on it.”
Sidney smacks his lips. “You think if it works out you can pass me on some of your regulars?’
“I’ll think about it.”
By the time Barrett reaches the fan club, it’s clear to him that he would give Sidney the phone number of every woman he’s ever met in return for it working out with Rebecca, and this is a reality that makes his palms sweat. Maybe it’s because she’s rejecting him, but he can’t stop thinking about her. The mischief in her voice, the fact that she was at sensitivity training, and the way she gave the finger to the woman that shushed her, all left deep impressions in his mind. This isn’t just desire, these are feelings. He taps himself on the temples as a reminder that his career is at stake and greets Rebecca with a smile. She is all business though and talks fast while leading him to a back office.
“I’ll give you a minute to get ready before I bring him in,” she says in a voice just raspy enough that he imagines her saying more erotic things.
The office is even smaller than the room in which he first met Rebecca, but sliding doors lead to a back patio that lets in enough light to avoid claustrophobia.
Now that the surroundings have his attention, a sigh slips out of his mouth. Russell Niles memorabilia is piled everywhere, making it look more like a toy store inventory room.
He considers going out onto the patio for a smoke but Rebecca returns with a dishevelled man with long dirty blond hair pulled into a ponytail.
“This is Phillip Nawe,” she says, escorting him to a seat across from Barrett.
Barrett wants her to stay, but she’s gone before he finds a way to ask her.
This Phillip smells like a pawnshop, as if he has slept with mothballs for the last decade. A quick appraisal provides a strong outline. Late teens with fingernails chewed until the corners are bloody and glasses so thick his eyes look like a cartoon character. Everything about him is anxious, and it is clear being here has him stressed. The writer in Barrett can’t resist the setup, so he leans back in his chair and offers his best detective face.
“I understand you wrote Mr. Niles some rather nasty letters.”
“Not nasty, disappointed.”
Phillip’s voice is surprisingly confident, yet over-pronunciation suggests he used to have a speech impediment of some sort.
“Disappointed?”
“Yes. He was on his way to being a legend.”
“On his way?”
“His stories aren’t evolving, okay? Any writer with his impact evolves. There’s a responsibility to the reader. Take Spider Man, for example.
“With the introduction of the Spectacular Spider Man came an edgy character living in a society that had moved beyond the morals of the sixties and the Amazing Spider Man. And the readers were forced to evolve with the character.
“And then the Web of Spider Man evolved to fit the dark side brought out by materialism. It reflected the eighties, it mirrored the time. The Niles books don’t evolve, okay? They don’t live up to their responsibility.”
Barrett is amazed that anyone takes his books this seriously, and while his ego is effectively stroked, it always surprises him to see an adult so passionate about children’s books. But as he watches Phillip wipe at his chapped lips, there is no denying that this man qualifies as a fanatic. The real question is whether or not he’s dangerous.
“Is it fair to say you’re angry at Mr. Niles?”
“Oh, I couldn’t be angry at Mr. Niles?”
“And why’s that?”
“Because I learned to read with his books. I knew how to scan symbols before them, but I learned to read because of their intrigue.” He taps his glasses. “And when you have a situation like mine, you’re a little more connected to the experience than the average person. Hell, if Russell Niles walked into the room, I’d bow.”
Barrett gives an “if you only knew” look before turning away. As much as he wants Phillip to be the extortionist, he knows he isn’t. This is a man too wrapped up in the magic of his own thoughts to observe anyone for long. And as much as Barrett wants Phillip to be evil, as much as he longs for this to be over, he has to admit that the man is gentle in a way he envies.
Rebecca steps into the room, walks past him, and gestures to the outside patio. Aloof has never felt so good. He takes a few breaths to make sure not to appear too eager and joins her at a set of cheap, green plastic furniture. She sips from an extra large mug of coffee that makes him wonder how much liquor she can drink.
“Any luck?”
“I don’t know. He’s definitely over the top, but not vicious like the letters. That’s part of the problem, anything’s possible.”
“I hope that wasn’t a waste of your time.”
“No lead’s a waste at this point.”
“Mr. Niles is still getting the letters?”
Barrett nods, and if she knew him better, she would recognize it as the most truthful thing he’s done yet.
“You work with Russell Niles directly, right?”
Instinct cuts through his lust, leaving him painfully aware that the question feels too convenient. A part of him wants to take a defensive stand, but the survivor in him knows it’s better to take her lead and see where they end up.
“I do.”
“What’s he like?”
“I, uh, I’m not supposed to talk about him.”
“Pretend I’m someone you can trust.”
“Okay. He’s a good guy, funny, charming, generous.”
She puts her giant mug of coffee on the table with a bang. “I heard he was gay.”
Barrett’s eyes widen. “Gay?”
“Yep.”
“He’s not gay.”
“Really?”
“I know he has gay friends, but I get the impression that he wouldn’t keep it a secret if he was gay.”
“How do you know?”
The statement leaves him f
lushed and while his composure unravels, her grin widens. “Because I’ve seen him with a lot of women.”
“Could be friends.”
“They weren’t friends.”
She takes a pack of gum from her pocket and snaps four pieces from their plastic tombs into her hand. “What about money? Is he as cheap as everyone says?” She pops the gum into her mouth and chews like she’s avoiding smoking or biting her nails.
“Who says he’s cheap?”
“It would be faster to say who doesn’t.”
“Name, names.”
“Bill Lecker. Bill Lecker said he heard he doesn’t tip more than five percent no matter how big a bill.”
“Well, Bill Lecker’s a jealous fuck.”
“What are you so defensive about? Does Russell give you bonus money for being his guard dog?”
“No, but he’s a good guy, and I don’t like hearing him run down. I’m not a fan of gossip.”
Rebecca blows a small bubble and sucks it back with a jarring pop. “Can you keep a secret?”
Barrett’s so worked up that he wants to let her know how ironic the question is, to let her know that if she’s toying with him that he’s on to her, but he settles for, “Go on.”
She leans into the table, and the smell of vanilla makes Barrett imagine massaging the back of her neck. “I don’t even like his books.”
Barrett is equal parts offended and impressed. “Really?” He smiles. It’s as if the woman can read his mind, as if he wrote her dialogue for her. “And yet you manage the fan club?”
“I needed a job, the pay is reasonable, and the work is straightforward. And years later, I’m too comfortable to do anything else. Pretty bad, huh?”
“No, pretty great. I’m a fan of his early work, but the latest stuff is terrible. Disappointing really.”
“Really?”
“Totally. The last few are uninspired dog shit, and I’m amazed so many people buy them.”
“Do you want to have dinner sometime?”
It’s not often Barrett finds himself surprised, but the question freezes time. “I thought you weren’t interested.”
“That was before I knew we had something in common.”
