Faking Life (34 page)

Nico had only touched the gun twice since buying it. In both instances, he'd been harassed by authors who had taken offense at what they deemed Nico's lackadaisical attitude towards their manuscripts, and had followed up their one-page queries with threatening letters, than obscene phone calls to the office. Then they'd started showing up at his home. Twice he'd returned from work to find the doorman with a hand-delivered package. Both packages had manuscripts in them. Both contained notes promising horrible things if he didn't take them seriously. It wasn't until the police were notified that Nico felt safe enough to forget the pistol nestled underneath his loafers.

He'd promised himself that someday he'd get rid of the gun. He would safeguard the privilege of watching his only child grow up to be a man, to rid his home of a weapon he knew had been the death of many young children.

When he bought it, he never considered using it for anything but defense. But the more he thought about it, that's just what he'd be using it for now. Defending his life, his honor. Who was John Gillis to deny that?

He'd agreed to give Esther the Gillis deal, under the assumption it could be salvaged. But it was still his signature on the contract, not Esther's, and he would retain the rights regardless. Esther couldn't prove a damn thing. It would be her word against his, and soon hers would be worth less than the paper Gillis's book was printed on.

Two million dollars. Enough to revitalize his career, to bring in a new batch of highly sought after clients. The trade magazines would want interviews. The commission would be enough to convince Valerie he could properly take care of them both. Enough to shower Pietro with every gift his young heart desired. As far as Nico was concerned, he'd never gotten the email from John Gillis.

John was still his property. Every sentence was still his.

He'd fire Esther as soon as Marlene Van Tripp gave word that the sale was complete. It simply wouldn't work with her involved. He'd clean out her email account the next day, make sure she had no ties to the office whatsoever. She didn't know the details anyway. She might be suspicious, but she couldn't prove a thing.

If it had to end, this was the perfect way. A brilliant conclusion to Act Three.

Nico smiled. These were the very traits prevalent in dozens of third-rate novels that arrived unsolicited at his office every week. Armchair generals and coffee bar soldiers giving their take on the geopolitics of the day. They wrote about stock heroes with ridiculous names that rolled off the tongue like a hammer hitting a granite slab. Colt, Brick, Steele, Frank, Brock. And their last names were Johnson. Always Johnson. Nico wasn't an avenger or a crusader. But what he had in mind could be pulled from any one of those potboilers. The ending, Nico decided, would come on his terms.

After considerable thought, spurred on by three Seven and Sevens, Nico decided the project would, in the end, be better off without John Gillis. He'd have to convince Marlene Van Tripp of he same, but he didn't think that would be a problem. Besides, what was more poetic than inspiration provided by someone whose life was snuffed out before reaching his potential? James Dean was legendary for that. Elvis. Jim Morrison. Poets who spread their message then died before they could burn out. Marlene would see his side. It'd be even bigger than she ever imagined. John Gillis would burn out and his flame would remain lit forever.

In his head, the plan worked perfectly. When it was done, he'd drive down the West Side Highway and cast the gun into the Hudson. The set-up was beautiful. Struggling ex-bartender sells memoir, only to pass away before publication. It would break hearts and inspire millions, reviving the stagnant lives of so many working-class bums.

He'd park his car across the street from John's house and call upstairs. If nobody answered, Nico would wait as long as it took. Boredom was a factor, sure. But the thrill of a stakeout would keep his blood flowing. The rest would be manufactured through caffeine and Italian opera tapes. Timing was crucial. As was dedication. Would he be able to pull the trigger? That was the first question he'd asked himself, and through a scotch-induced haze he'd answered an emphatic 'yes'.

But it was different now. The fog was thinning and he could see again, and what he saw was hesitation. If he couldn't do it the first time, he knew he never would. That's why he'd bring the flask along.

He'd start drinking as soon as he arrived, so that when Gillis
did
show, the safety valve in his head would be worn away. He didn't want any unwelcome attacks of conscience infringing on his duty.

This
is real
, Nico thought as he entered his apartment, kicking off his boots.
Not like anything in those goddamn newspapers. They were writing about the old Nico Vanetti. John
Gillis wants to write about real life? He doesn't know what real is.

Real is losing your family and having the world turn its back on you.

Real is questioning everything you once stood for and being willing to fight for it all over again.

Real is your reaction to what the world does to you.

For John Gillis, the only “real” is the life I've decided to give him. And that life will last forever. He'll go down in history. Everybody will see it happen. And they will love him for it.

He wants to be real? I'll show him what reality is.

T
he wind burned Esther's face as she stood outside of John Gillis's apartment. She'd buzzed upstairs four times in the past fifteen minutes and had finally resigned herself to that fact that he wasn't home. He
could
merely be ignoring her, but common sense said John would have no way of knowing she was the one ringing his bell like a drunken deliveryman. So she stood there, cursing her thin sweater, hoping it wasn't long before John returned home.

Esther had trouble getting used to the way winter swept through New York, closing like a frosty eyelid over the crisp days of Fall. Those months were a mere transitional season after summer, tiding over the winter solstice before the harsh gusts began to blow from the North. When she first moved to the city, Esther went running nearly every day, looking to reclaim her shape after the lethargy of college. She dreamt of days sitting on the great lawn in Central Park, wearing tank tops and short shorts while eligible young men jogged with their Labradors, pausing to chit chat with the toned brunette reading Tolstoy and sipping Chardonnay from a picnic basket.

No matter how prepared she was for all of Manhattan's silent truths, there were still moments that surprised her. In the end, she was hoping John Gillis might still surprise her.

So many men preferred to walk into oncoming traffic than sacrifice an ounce of their pride. John had no reason to trust that she wasn't lying again. All she had to go on was the truth. If he could see anything, she hoped, he would see what lay in her heart. Shivering, Esther gazed at the empty streets around her.

In her mind's eye, every passerby was John Gillis. At the sight of every new jacket, she eagerly clasped her hands and hoped to see a warm smile approaching. Fifteen minutes earlier she'd nearly jumped into the arms of a black man with dreadlocks who threatened to call the cops. Each time she heard the squeal of tires, her head jerked in that direction, looking for an occupied taxi streaking towards his awning. The only sound she ignored was the fluttering leaves, the only noise that didn't get her hopes up.

By ten o'clock she was ready to give up. John could very well be out for the night. She could freeze to death before he came home. And what if he did return, but in the arms of another woman? Her heart would probably stop that instant. Best not to think about it. She tucked her hands into her coat, closed her eyes, and tried to ignore the wind stabbing her body. She couldn't give up. This was too important.
He
was too important. He…

“Esther?”

Her breath caught in her chest.

“Hi John.”

She slowly turned to face him. John was wearing torn Levis and a gray sweatshirt over a white t-shirt. He hadn't shaved in a couple of days and she noticed large, dark circles under his eyes.

“Esther, what are you doing here?” Her mouth opened but nothing came out.

“Hey John.”
Smooth
. Maybe if she just repeated herself over and over again he'd forgive her. Sure. And maybe there was a palm tree for her to hide behind.

“Esther, I said what are you doing here?”

“I needed to see you.” Her words came out wet, choking back the sobs in her throat. “I need to talk to you about the other night.”

“There's nothing to talk about,” John said. He brushed past her and went for his keys. He had them in the lock when she put her hand on his. He stopped and looked at her.

“Please,” she said, tears welling in her eyes. Her chest felt heavy, her breath weak and coming out in spurts. “Just hear me out.”

John hesitated. Slowly, he removed the key from the lock and put his hands on his hips. Esther could tell the offer wasn't going to last long.

“John, I am so sorry.” He didn't flinch. She was going to have to do better than that. “I did what I did because I thought it was for the best. I really thought you were better off not knowing what I did. I wanted you to see me for me, not with Nico. I wanted you to see how I really felt.”

John's eyes were hollow, lifeless. “What did you do again? Cause I'm not really clear on the whole thing.” Esther didn't want to, but she knew he needed to hear her say it. Esther sucked in a breath and looked into his eyes.

“I lied to you.” There was a beat of silence. “About Nico, about me. He's been playing you behind your back. He got you fired. He sent that bottle to the restaurant. He wanted your life to be harder, more dramatic. He thought your life would sell for more money. I wish it was all him, but I knew he was going to do it. Please forgive me, I didn't stop him. I wanted to see you succeed so badly but…” she stopped, the tears flowing freely, her stomach felt like it was being ripped apart. “I never wanted you to get hurt. Everything I did was because of how I felt for you. I guess in a way that's the only part I never lied about.”

“And how do I know you're not lying to me now?” Her head dropped.

“You don't.”

“See, now that's what
really
hurts,” John said. He ran his hand through his hair and then over his face. “I felt like you were reading my mind so many times, I thought we had a connection. But the truth is, you already knew. Did you ever think maybe I would have
liked
to know you'd read my letter? That I might have
liked
to know how you felt? Even the day we met, you planned that, didn't you? And just when…forget it.”

She nodded. The sentence went unfinished.

“John I swear, I really thought what I was doing would help you. I thought if you knew I'd stick with you through everything, that I wasn't there for any other reason, you'd see how I felt. I wasn't doing anything for Nico that I didn't think was the best for you. I thought if you knew I worked for him, you'd assume I had other motives. And I knew, in my heart, from your words, that I needed to be a part of your life. In any way I possibly could.”

The air blew through Esther's hair and sent a shiver through her body. The cold didn't seem to have any effect on John. He just stood there shaking his head as though ridding himself of a cobweb he'd inadvertently walked into. Then he moved away from the steps, closer to her. She wasn't sure whether to step back or move forward, and decided to stay right where she was. He stopped, barely a foot away, his breath coating her face, warming her.

“Esther, did you ever think that maybe I could decide for myself?” She resignedly shook her head.

“I didn't think that. I know I should have but I didn't.” She wept, her eyes stinging as the wind blew around them. “ John, I'm so sorry that I hurt you.”

John stood silently. She watched his lips tighten, his resolve firming.

“I don't need you or Nico,” he said, taking his time with the words. Esther could hear a hint of indecisiveness in his voice. “I can do this on my own. I believe in myself, more than I ever did before.”

“No, you don't need me. Or Nico,” she said. “And you
should
believe in yourself. I know there are so many people who will see what I saw.” He nodded absently.

“And if you want to do that, I'm not going to stop you. I'd rather see you succeed with someone else than not at all. But I need you to know that I've believed in you every step of the way. Even the stuff that must have been the hardest to tell, but was the bravest to say.” She paused. “Like Gloria. Like how you drank the wine at dinner. I wish you could have known what I was thinking. And I should have told you.” Esther heard John gulp down air. “You have every right to blame me for everything, even what happened to Paul, but I have faith in
you
, John. Nico won't have anything more to do with you, he gave me his word. If you'll still have me, I still want to represent you, to be with you.” John looked up, his face a stone slab.

“Esther, Paul's in the hospital.” Esther gasped.

“Why?” she said softly.

“He tried to overdose. I don't think he really meant it, but he popped a dozen pills and went to a bar after he left us.”

“Jesus, John…is he ok?” He nodded.

“They had to pump his stomach. He knocked himself a good one when he passed out, but they say he'll be fine in a couple weeks.”

“I'm so sorry.”

“I know.” He paused before speaking again. “Why would you want to represent me? I haven't proven anything.” Esther slowly gently and leaned forward. She reached out and took his hand, shivering as he wrapped his fingers around hers.

“But you're wrong,” she said. “And that's what makes you so special. You were just doing what you felt inside. You just let it come from in here. By doing that, you proved everything to me.” She took her free hand and gently placed it on his chest. He looked down and let it stay.

She could feel his breath on her lips, staining her mouth with a sweetness she couldn't bear to feel so far away. He was looking straight into her eyes. Her teeth chattered as John squeezed harder. She laughed softly and looked at her bluish hands. He smiled and shrugged.