All he needs is a goddamned lily, Hawks grumbled to himself.
He had worried, when he had drifted over toward the reporters, that they would object to his awful smell. But they never noticed it. Either that, or they were extending him their professional courtesy.
"You think you're so high and mighty," the Writer was rambling from his perch up at the judge's seat. "Well, I'll tell you something. Without the writers you're
nothing.
Your whole damned industry, all of you—editors, publishers, salesmen, every one of you—you'd be
noplace
without vour writers. The writers are your gold mine, your oil field, your natural resource. And how do you treat them? Like a dog, that's how. Like a horse or a mule or worse."
Lori was nodding as she listened to the gunman's increasingly passionate tirade. He must be a writer, she realized. And she found herself agreeing with what he was saying.
"I wrote a book," he went on. "Might not be a very good book, but I wrote it as honest and real as I could. And I sent it to your company. More than a year ago, now. And you never answered me. No letter. Not even a rejection form. You never sent my manuscript back! It was the only copy I had! Now it's lost and it's all your fault and you're going to pay for destroying
Mobile, USA.
"
Carl, groggy and sleepy, shook his head. "Did I hear him right? He just accused you of destroying Mobile, Alabama?"
But Lori was suddenly wide-eyed. She gasped. She clutched at Carl's arm. "
Mobile, USA
!
That's the novel I want to publish! He's the writer I've been trying to contact!"
She shot to her feet, breathless with excitement. But before she could say a word there was a sudden scuffle off to one side of the courtroom and the writer, screaming with fearful rage, grabbed the Uzi submachine gun from his desk.
REJECTION SLIPS
The Usual
Dear Sir or Madam:
Thank you for submitting your manuscript for our consideration. Unfortunately, we find that it does not suit our needs at the present time. Naturally, we cannot give individual comments on each of the many manuscripts we receive.
Sincerely,
The Editors
The Cruel
Dear Sir or Madam:
Who are you trying to fool?
Disgustedly,
The Editors
The Japanese
Most respected author:
We have read your work with inexpressible pleasure. Never in our lives have we seen writing of such sheer genius. We are certain that if we published it, your book would be brought to the attention of the Emperor, who would insist that it serve as a model for all future writings. Since no one could possibly hope to equal your sublime masterpiece, this would put us out of business. Therefore we must return your manuscript to you and lay it at your feet, trembling at the harsh judgment that future generations will have of us.
Most humbly and sincerely,
The Editors
TWENTY-SEVEN
P. T. Bunker, Junior, was standing off to one side of the courtroom, by the empty jury box, wondering if he should get in line for the toilet in the judge's chambers or just whiz out the window. He made his way through the shadowy courtroom to one of the long windows and stood on tiptoes to see outside. Squinting against the powerful glare of the police searchlights, Junior saw that the street below was still jammed with TV news crews, cops, soldiers, and hundreds of onlookers.
No whizzing out the window, Junior said to himself. Not unless you want it shown on
Good Morning, America.
Junior utterly failed to notice the rather tall, bearded man sidling up behind him with one hand in the side pocket of his suit jacket. The bearded man failed to notice the stocky form of Lieutenant Jack Moriarty stealthily stalking him.
It all happened in a flash. Junior turned away from the window and was suddenly confronted by the bearded man, who whipped his hand from his pocket and started to poke at Junior. But Moriarty grabbed the man's arm and yelled, "Get out of the way, kid! He's a killer!"
A strangled scream came from the judge's banc, where the gunman leaped to his feet and cocked the submachine gun he had grabbed. Then a woman's voice pierced the courtroom:
"Don't shoot! I want to publish
Mobile, USA
!"
Moriarty wrestled the bearded man to the floor and twisted the thorned stalk of the Rita Hayworth orchid from his hand. The false beard slipped off the man's chin. Even in the shadowy light, Moriarty recognized him from the photographs he had studied in his hospital bed.
"Weldon W. Weldon, you're under arrest for five murders and one attempted murder," he said.
Weldon cackled insanely. "You can't arrest me!" he screamed. "I'm the chairman of the board of Tarantula Enterprises! I can buy and sell your whole police force!"
Across the courtroom, P. Curtis Hawks heard the old man's shrieking voice. "My god!" he gasped. Forgetting the condition of his clothes, he dashed across to where his erstwhile boss was writhing in the grip of the long arm of the law.
"You can walk!" Hawks cried, astonished at the sight of Weldon out of his wheelchair, even though he was stretched on the floor with the solid weight of Lt. Moriarty on his chest.
Weldon glared up at his employee with insane fury flashing in his eyes.
The Writer, meanwhile, stood frozen up at the judge's banc, the Uzi in his hands, cocked and ready to fire.
"You want to publish my novel?" he asked into the midnight air. "Did somebody say they wanted to publish my novel?"
"I do," said Lori, rushing to the foot of the banc. Carl came up beside her, protectively.
"Who're you?" the Writer asked.
"I'm an editor at Bunker Books. I've been trying to contact you for more than six months. I've written half a dozen letters to the address you put on your manuscript, but they were all returned by the post office with a stamp that says you've moved and left no forwarding address."
The Writer put the Uzi down on the desk top. "Uh, yeah, I did move," he mumbled, feeling sheepish.
"I want to publish
Mobile, USA
," Lori said. "I think it's a great work of art."
The Writer sagged back onto the judge's chair, his mouth hanging open, his arms dangling by his sides. He felt suddenly dizzy, weightless. The room swam before his eyes. Slowly his head came forward and clunked on the desk top. He had passed out.
*
It took nearly a week to straighten out everything. A week of surprise after surprise.
The following Sunday, however, was one of those brilliant Indian summer days that Washington Irving admired so much. The sun was bright and warm, while the air sparkled with the crisp bite of autumn.
Carl, Lori, Ralph Malzone, and Scarlet Dean were having brunch together at the penthouse restaurant atop the recently re-re-renovated Chrysler Building. The restaurant was small and elegantly decorated in art deco style with bold angular motifs that matched the spire's high, slanting windows.
Despite the stylized crystal flutes before each one of them and the silver bucket that bore a heavy magnum of champagne in the middle of the table, Carl stared morosely out the window nearest their table at the skyscrapers that marched row upon row up the long narrow avenues of Manhattan. Like the windmills of Don Quixote, he thought glumly. And like Don Quixote, I've tilted against them and lost.
For this was a farewell party.
Even so, there was laughter. "The crowning blow came the next morning," Scarlet Dean was saying, "after we all returned to the office and started to sort things out. Mrs. Bee came running into my office, waving a sheet of paper from the law firm that represented us at the trial. The bastards had charged Bunker Books $45,000 for the nine hours those five twerps had spent as hostages!"
Ralph Malzone wiped at his eyes. "That was the last straw. When P. T. heard that he ran right out of the house and bought the yacht."
"And they've already taken off?" Lori asked.
"Yeah. First stop, Bermuda."
"And P. T. has made you the head of Bunker Books while he and Mrs. Bee sail off around the world," Lori said.
Still looking slightly dazed by it all, Ralph ran a hand through his rust-red thatch of hair and replied, "Yeah. I'm now the chief operating officer of Bunker Books. And Scarlet is taking over Mrs. Bee's role as publisher."
Carl had drunk as much champagne as any of them, but he did not feel drunk. Nor happy. He was numb.
Ralph toyed with his fluted glass, gave a sidelong glance to Scarlet, then turned his attention back to Lori. "And I've got some news for you, kid. You're the new editor-in-chief of Bunker Books."
Lori gasped with surprise. "Me? Editor-in-chief?"
"That's right," said Scarlet. "Ralph and I agreed on that right away."
Forcing a smile that he did not feel, Carl raised his champagne glass. "Here's to your success, Lori," he toasted. "You've earned it." With bitterness burning in his gut, he added, "And to yours, Scarlet. And to yours, Ralph."
They sipped, but then Ralph's face grew somber. "My success isn't going to do you any good, pal."
"I know," said Carl. "I understand."
Scarlet put a hand on Carl's arm. "The only way to keep the company from going down the tubes was to make a deal with Woody and the sales staff. We've agreed to drop Cyberbooks."
Carl's lips pressed into a tight, white line. But at last he said, in a low voice, "Lori's been keeping me informed. I guess it's the only thing you could do."
"I didn't want it to end like this," Ralph said.
"It's not your fault," said Carl. "I understand the fix you're in."
Lori tried to brighten things. "At least I get to publish
Mobile, USA.
"
"Now that's something I don't understand," Carl admitted. "You told me that the novel was a work of art, and if you published it, it wouldn't sell enough copies to pay for the ink used to print it."
"Oh, that was before the author became famous. Taking over the courtroom and holding us hostage has made him a celebrity."
"But he's in jail, isn't he?"
"We got him released into our custody," Scarlet said. "He's doing interviews with all the big news magazines and TV talk shows. We're rushing his novel into print, to take advantage of the publicity."
Carl took a longer swig of his champagne. "You'd be able to get the book out this week if you'd do it as a Cyberbook."
Ralph shook his head. "No can do, pal. We made the deal with Woody and his people and we've got to stick with it. Nobody in the whole publishing industry will touch Cyberbooks."
"It's a damned shame," said Scarlet without much feeling.
Carl took a deep breath. "Yeah. A damned shame."
They finished their brunch in a quiet, subdued mood. Ralph and Scarlet were obviously overjoyed at being handed Bunker Books on a platter, but they could hardly celebrate properly when the price of their good fortune was scuttling Carl's invention.
The four of them took the long elevator ride to the lobby and went out onto the sun-filled street, where Ralph and Scarlet hailed a taxi uptown. Carl and Lori walked toward their apartment building, some twenty short Manhattan blocks downtown.
"What will you do now?" Lori asked him.
Shrugging, "Go back to MIT. My sabbatical is just about over, anyway."
"Carl, I'm so damned sorry about all this. . . ."
"It's not your fault," he said. Then, looking squarely into her dark, limpid eyes, he worked up the courage to ask, "Lori— would you come to Boston with me? Will you marry me?"
Tears welled up in her eyes. "I can't," she said, her voice almost pleading. "I've just gotten the first big break of my career. And with this novel finally coming out, I can't leave now. This is my first real chance. I can't give it up, no matter how much I love you. Carl."
"You do love me?"
"I do. I love you. Didn't you know?"
"I love you!"
They melted into each other's arms and kissed passionately. Thirty-seven pedestrians, including three married couples accompanied by children and fourteen singles walking their dogs, passed them on the sidewalk before they broke their fervent embrace.
"Stay here in New York, Carl," Lori said eagerly.
"No," he said. "This isn't the town for me."
"But . . ."
He shook his head sadly. "It's not like the romantic novels, Lori. This is real life. True love doesn't always win."
"I don't want to lose you!"
"Then leave the publishing business and come up to Massachusetts with me."
"I can't! You can't expect me to throw away my career, my life. . . ."
With a bitter smile, Carl said, "And I can't stay here and let you support me. I've got a career to think about, too."
They walked in dejected silence back to their apartment building. Once in the elevator, going up, Carl said:
"We'd better say good-bye right here and now, Lori. It'll hurt too much to prolong it."
The elevator stopped at Lori's floor with its usual jolt. The doors slid open. Lori leaned a finger against the button that held them open.
"You mean . . . this is it?"
"I'm going to take the next train to Boston. Today. This afternoon."
"But . . ."
"Good-bye, Lori. I love you and it's tearing my guts apart."
They kissed one last time and she pulled away from him and stepped out of the elevator. Carl stood there, frozen with grief and guilt and doubt, staring at Lori's troubled, teary face. Then the elevator doors slid shut and he could no longer see her at all.