by Marco Ocram
“I’m busy, Markie.”
“It’s about my book.”
“His mom’s baking and he wants her to listen about his stupid book.”
“No, listen. I’ve made a new world record, Mom.”
“A new record? You made a new record? You’re a clever boy, Markie. I was telling Mrs. Angelman what a clever boy my Markie was. Her daughter, Josette, Markie, you should see her. She’s such a sweet thing.”
My mom greased a baking tray on autopilot, imagining me and Josette settled down in a nice place in the Bronx with at least six kids.
“It’s the royalties, Mom, for the first year of sales. Listen to this: eight million,” I paused to let it sink in, “eight million, six hundred and thirty-two thousand, four hundred and eight dollars, and fifty-seven cents!”
“Royalties? What do you want royalties for? Your poor mom never had no royalties. She brought you up without a single royalty, Markie, and all I hear you talk about is royalties. You got more money than you know what to do with, Markie. You want more?”
“It’s not for me, Mom. It’s for charity. I’m giving it to the police.”
“You’re a good boy, Markie, a good boy. When you give it to them, tell them about that bum who’s always hanging out by the salon. Tell them he’s always dropping bits of sandwich on the sidewalk. For all those royalties they should do something about it.”
I wandered back into the lounge, staring at the enormous number on my screen. My mom was right; I didn’t need the royalties. I had my income from the spin-offs—the merchandise, the endorsements, the speaking engagements. Honoring the promise I’d made all those chapters ago, I emailed Barney and told him to send every single cent to the Clarkesville County Police Benevolent Fund.
He called me within five minutes.
“Every single cent? Every single cent? Are you out of your mind? And for the police? If you wanna throw your money around, Markie, your uncle Barney knows plenty of places that need it more than the police, for Chrissakes.”
“Barney! It’s a promise, a promise I made to Como.”
“A promise! What’s a promise? We make promises all the time, Kiddo. Where’d we be if we all started keeping promises?”
“Barney, I know it’s a lot of money, but I’m not going to change my mind. No more arguing—just do it.”
“Okay, Kiddo, it’s your funeral. But don’t say I didn’t warn you. One day soon you’ll be back to your uncle Barney crying over it and wishing you’d listened to what I said.”
About a week later, I was signing books at a promo event when Doris Day sang Que Sera Sera in the pocket of my anorak.
“Publishing legend Marco Ocram speaking. How may I help you, Caller?”
“Writer, it’s me.”
“Como! I wasn’t expecting you to call until the first page of The Sushing Prize. How’re things?”
“I was just ringing on behalf of the Benevolent Fund, to say we’d got the check.”
“No problem, Como. A promise is a promise.” I thought of the good works that might be done with my bounteous donation. A home for retired police officers, perhaps. An annual prize for the best example of community police work. A bursary scheme to send disadvantaged kids to police college. “Have they decided what they’re going to do with all the money?”
“All the money? Are you kidding me? What are we meant to do, with fifty-seven cents?”
“Fifty-seven cents?” For a moment I was too confused to type.
“In the Clarkesville County Gazette, it says author Marco Ocram sets a new record with royalties of eight million, six hundred and thirty-two thousand, four hundred and eight dollars, and fifty-seven cents, and you send us a check for fifty-seven cents. I remember the promise was every single cent, Writer, but I never thought you’d use that as a loophole to keep the dollars. And after everything we went through. I saved your life, Writer, and this is how you thank me, sending a check for fifty-seven cents.”
“No, Como, no—I wanted you to have all of it. I told Barney to…” Barney! “Como, it was Barney. I told him to send you the money. He sent the check. I’ll sort it, I promise, you’ll get a new check. Soon, today, I promise. I just need to sort Barney. I’ll call you back.”
“Well, we’ll see.”
He said it with such doubt and disappointment, it broke my heart. I knew he wasn’t upset about the money itself, but about the thought that he was no longer important to me—that now I had finished my book I was casting my character aside like a worn sock. I grabbed a cab and headed for Barney’s office for a showdown. I’d felt so good about giving all the money to the benevolent fund, righting the injustice that saw an author paid more than a cop, and now Como thought I was a cheap shyster weaseling out of a commitment, that I no longer cared about him. I was devastated by the thought that Como felt betrayed by me, his Writer. I was choked and incoherent when Barney opened his door.
“Hey, Kiddo, wassamatter? You get dumped again?”
He went to put an arm around me. I brushed past him and tried to master my emotions, my face flushed, my eyes wet.
“I’ve just spoken with Como. I can’t believe that you’ve let this happen, Barney. I’ve trusted you with everything, and you actually did it. You actually sent him a check for fifty-seven cents.”
Barney shook his head in sorrow. “You see, Kid—you should always listen to your uncle Barney, especially when it comes to throwing all that money around. I told you you’d regret it.”
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Heartfelt thanks are due to the following people who played an important part in bringing Marco to the world…
Galen and the team from Tiny Fox Press, who have encouraged and nurtured whatever it is that passes for talent in Marco’s mind.
Literary guru Jonathan Eyers, whose advise, unlike Herbert’s, one should always follow.
Minette Walters, who gave Marco his treasured first blurb.
The honorary life members of The Awful Literature Appreciation Society (#ALAS), whose kind comments are a constant source of motivation.
And finally, my lovely wife Leona, without whose ideas and support this book would never have been written.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Little is known of Marco Ocram’s earliest years. He was adopted at age nine, having been found abandoned in a Detroit shopping mall—a note, taped to his anorak, said the boy was threatening the sanity of his parents. Re-abandoned in the same mall a year later, with a similar note from his foster parents, he was homed with his current Bronx mom—a woman with no sanity left to threaten.
Ocram first gained public attention through his bold theories about a new fundamental particle—the Tao Muon—which he popularized in a best-selling book—The Tao Muon. He was introduced to the controversial literary theorist, Herbert Quarry, who coached Ocram in a radical new approach to fiction, in which the author must write without thinking—a technique to which Ocram was naturally suited. His crime memoir, The Awful Truth about the Herbert Quarry Affair, became the fastest selling book of all time, and made him a household name. It was translated into every known language—and at least three unknown ones—and made into an Oscar-winning film, a Pulitzer-winning play, a Tony-winning musical, and a Golden Joystick-winning computer game.
Ocram excelled at countless sports until a middle-ear problem permanently impaired his balance. He has yet to win a Nobel Prize, but his agent, Barney, has been placing strategic back-handers—announcements from Stockholm are expected imminently (and it might not just be physics and literature). Unmarried, in spite of his Bronx mom’s tireless efforts, he still lives near his foster parents in New York.
ABOUT THE PUBLISHER
Tiny Fox Press LLC
5020 Kingsley Road
North Port, FL 34287
www.tinyfoxpress.com
