The Devil You Know (38 page)

Sneak Peek:
Take Back Tomorrow
by Richard Levesque

"Raymond Chandler meets Robert Heinlein in this fun and
inventive crossover SF novel from Richard Levesque.
"--
J. Orr, Amazon
Reviews
"Apart from stopping to have something to eat I haven't been able to
tear myself away from this until I had finished it. This is good old time story
telling that is well written, and definitely well worth reading.
"--
M.
Bowden, Amazon UK Hall of Fame Reviewer
What if all you had to do to make your dreams come true was violate the laws of
the universe?
That's not just a philosophical question Eddie Royce has to answer. It's a
choice he has to make when the most famous science fiction writer of the 1930s
goes missing and his unscrupulous publisher becomes convinced that Eddie knows
all of the older writer's secrets--not just the secret of where he's gone, but
the secret of how he's traveled in time.
Until now, Eddie's fooled himself into thinking he's got the system figured
out, "borrowing" plots from Shakespeare and rewriting them as space
operas to make a name for himself in the pulps. But when he finds out that
Chester Blackwood--his idol and inspiration--has been cheating the system in
ways Eddie could never have dreamed of, the hack science fiction writer finds
himself in the middle of a plot that his pulp readers would never have
imagined.
Now he has to do all he can to save himself--and Blackwood's beautiful
daughter--from the powerful figures who all want Blackwood's secret. And
violating the laws of the universe might just be the least of Eddie's problems.
"The pace of the story is quick, and the time transitions are handled well.
Overall, this is a good novel, one that even readers with little interest in
sci-fi might enjoy."
-- Publishers Weekly.*
"Hardboiled 30
′
s crime thriller meets
time-traveling pulp science-fiction for an original fast paced, page
turner,"
--S. Sager, Amazon Reviews
"It has a distinctly 'noir' flavor as well as an old school science
fiction feel. It is fast paced and clever."
--C. Pellitteri, Amazon
Reviews
*This review was of the manuscript version submitted to Amazon's Breakout Novel
Awards competition in 2012.

From
Take Back Tomorrow

Copyright
© 2012 Richard Levesque

CHAPTER
ONE

Eddie
Royce sat in Whistler’s office on the sixth floor of the Meteor building and
waited patiently for the editor to look up from the galleys he studied, a smoldering
cigar held between his thick lips and a look of quiet disgust on his face as he
read. The muffled clack and ding of a typewriter made its way into the office
from somewhere beyond Whistler’s closed door, and Eddie tried hard not to let
it distract him. He sat in one of the mismatched chairs that faced Whistler’s
enormous, scarred desk and thumbed nervously through the March 1940 issue of
Stupendous
, silently going over the
pitch he had been formulating for days and hoping Whistler would not notice his
anxiety. The magazine had hit the newsstands only three days ago, and Eddie had
already read it cover to cover, focusing most of his scrutiny on one
story—“Dark Hearts of Mars” by Edward Royce. It was his second
publication in
Stupendous
, his second
publication anywhere, really, but he already had two more stories and a serial
accepted. After finally seeing his name in print following months of trying and
failing, he had quickly come to believe in his success as a writer in spite of
what he knew to be true—that he was at best unoriginal and at worst a
plagiarist.

As with every issue of
Stupendous
,
the cover of the magazine in Eddie’s hands was a work of art that no doubt
accounted for a large portion of sales each month. The covers were always
sensational, and this one featured a beautiful female space explorer watching
in exaggerated alarm as her space ship exploded in the background, apparently
leaving her stranded as she floated in space, her skin tight suit accentuating
her curvaceous figure. Eddie knew from having carefully studied “Castaways in
Space” in this issue that the story featured no such character or scene, but
that did not matter. The
Stupendous
covers pulled readers in, and the stories kept them there until next month.
Dozens of recent issues were scattered around Whistler’s office, each with its
brightly lurid variation of the barely clad female warrior, seductive
villainess or imperiled princess to draw the eye. With the first installment of
his serial to appear in the May issue, Eddie knew that promoting it with a
cover illustration would ensure reader interest and secure his position in the
stable of
Stupendous
authors, and he
had phoned to make an appointment with Whistler this morning to try to convince
the editor of the same thing.

That Whistler had largely ignored him after having him
seen into the office had not helped Eddie’s nerves any. He was made even more
agitated when Whistler looked up from the desk for a moment and mumbled around
his cigar, “Blackwood’s coming in this morning. I mentioned you’d be here. Says
he wants to meet you.” He paused, an eyebrow rising to make deeper wrinkles in
the editor’s already craggy forehead, before adding “Can’t imagine why” and
returning to ponder the galleys before him.

Eddie did not know how to respond. Chester Blackwood was
the most famous, most successful writer of science fiction in the last fifteen
years. His stories and novels had been among the most inspirational things
Eddie had ever read, and meeting his idol was something he had been hoping for
since he had first begun getting published in
Stupendous
.

“I assume you don’t mind,” Whistler said, pulling the
cigar out of his mouth and holding it over the galleys like a pen.

“About Blackwood?”

“Yep.” The editor set the galleys down now and stared at
Eddie with more scrutiny than Eddie would have liked.

“No,” Eddie said a bit too quickly. “I don’t mind at all.”
He paused. “Why would I mind?”

Whistler shrugged. “Star struck maybe. A writer like you.
A writer like him. Some guys get antsy.”

 
“No, no,” he
said. “It’s fine. What time’s he coming in?” He realized he might not get his
chance to bring up the cover illustration if he didn’t say something about it
quickly.

Whistler glanced at his wristwatch. “Should be here now.
SOB’s always late, though.”

Eddie barely had time to register shock at the epithet
when the door to Whistler’s office swung violently open behind him, slamming
against a wall and half bouncing closed again before Eddie could turn in
surprise. He heard before he saw the woman in the doorway shouting, “Whistler,
goddammit, I’ve had it!” Twisted around in the chair, Eddie beheld a beautiful
woman whose anger practically bubbled out of her. With platinum hair hanging to
her shoulders and bright, gaudy makeup exaggerating otherwise stunning lips and
eyes, she stood in a tattered green terry cloth robe, her chest heaving, her
face red and her eyes brimming with tears of rage. She looked to be about 25,
perhaps a year or two younger than Eddie.

Whistler stood up behind the desk and calmly said, “Now
look, sweetie.”

“Don’t sweetie me, you son of a bitch!” she shouted,
stepping all the way into the room, only two feet away from Eddie but oblivious
to his presence. “I’m not doing it. Not this time. Not anymore.”

“All right, all right. Just calm
down and catch your breath for a second.” When she remained silent, Whistler
continued. “This is Mr. Royce, by the way. You may be modeling for one of his
stories next month if he gets his way.” Eddie turned again to look at Whistler,
stunned at what appeared to be Whistler’s amazing intuition. The editor really
did know writers. But probably not women, Eddie thought.

The woman barely glanced in Eddie’s direction and then
said, more calmly now, “Not a chance. You either need to get Klaus another
model or you need to get me another artist. I’ve had it, I tell you.”

“Let’s not go overboard here, Roxie.” Whistler was
beginning to take a patronizing tone with her. Eddie doubted that it would do
any good. “Now tell me what the problem is, and we’ll see what we can work
out.”

“This is the problem,” the woman said, her voice rising
again as she quickly undid the terry cloth belt and pulled open the robe. Eddie
felt his face grow red, and he glanced quickly at the floor before finding
himself compelled to look up again and stare. She stood in an outfit that would
have been perfectly suited to one of the women on the covers of
Stupendous
: gold boots that went to just
above the knee, fish net stockings covering her thighs, gold short pants that
went only to the tops of the thighs and wide, gold suspenders that crisscrossed
her bare chest, leaving her breasts almost completely exposed. They swayed
slightly from the motion of her arms having yanked the robe open, and Eddie
found himself wondering what kept the suspenders in place. It was the same
question he would have asked if he had seen her on the cover of the magazine.

Whistler cleared his throat. “A little too much skin,
huh?”

“Yeah,” she responded sharply, her eyes growing wide,
challenging.

“You know he’ll change your face on the final drawing.
It’s not like you’ll be walking down the street and people will recognize you
from the cover. They never have before.”

“That’s not it, and you know it. He’s a pervert! You
should see the way he stares.”

“He’s an artist, Roxie. He’s got to look if he wants to
paint you.”

“But do I have to be dressed like this while he does it?
Couldn’t I just strike the pose?”

Whistler sighed as though he had been through this with
her before. “You know he’s got his limitations. He needs his models in costume,
or he can’t capture the feeling of the scene.”

“He can change my face but not the outfit? You know that’s
not it. You know it as well as I do. Even you can see that, can’t you?” This
last was addressed to Eddie, and he felt himself grow redder, both at having
been acknowledged by her and at having been caught so obviously staring at her
breasts.

He self-consciously looked up into her eyes. They were
deep and blue and stared right back at him. “I . . .” he began, but she waved
her hand dismissively at him, glared once more at Whistler, then turned on her
heel and strode out of the office, the robe still open and fanning out behind
her as she walked past a tall, gray haired man outside Whistler’s door.

“Hi, Daddy,” she said and kept walking.

Behind Eddie, Whistler let out a long sigh and then said,
“Eddie Royce, meet Chester Blackwood.” Eddie spun quickly to look at Whistler,
then turned again as he got out of the chair to face the door. “You’ve actually
met the whole Blackwood family now,” Whistler added, sounding quite amused.

Blackwood stepped into the office, a mischievous look on
his face. He was taller than Eddie had imagined and looked considerably older
than the pictures on the backs of his books. He wore a wide brimmed fedora,
which he took off almost immediately to reveal a head of thinning gray hair. He
had a full, thick mustache that drooped down past the corners of his mouth,
hiding his smile almost entirely. His eyes were the same deep blue as his
daughter’s but with deep crow’s feet around them. When he smiled, the wrinkles
lifted and were more expressive than his mostly hidden mouth, but when the
smile faded, the wrinkles made his eyes appear heavy, weary and empty. He
smiled now as he gave Eddie a firm handshake while Whistler formally introduced
them.

“Roxanne can be a bit volatile,” Blackwood said as he
released Eddie’s hand and looked back at the door his daughter had just stormed
out of. Eddie could only grin in embarrassment. Painfully beautiful, Roxanne’s
presence alone would have been enough to shake Eddie, but her outburst and her
costume had left him in a spin, and immediately meeting the writer he most
wanted to be like after Roxanne’s tempestuous departure had caused Eddie to
feel almost numb and self-consciously foolish. It was not the professional
meeting of peers he had fantasized about. After a few moments of exchanged
pleasantries, Whistler left them, clearly feeling the need to find a pretense
to leave the two writers alone. His departure was so awkward and obvious that
it made Eddie even more nervous, as though Blackwood had made it known ahead of
time that he wanted to be alone with the younger writer, something Eddie had
not been prepared for. Under any other circumstances, he would have been thrilled,
but now it made him uneasy.

When the door clicked shut after Whistler, Eddie smiled
unsteadily and Blackwood, who had remained standing since entering the office,
now walked around Whistler’s desk and sat in the editor’s swivel rocker, making
it squeak loudly. He pushed himself back from the desk a bit and crossed his
long legs, his elbows on the arm rests and the fingertips of each hand meeting
lightly in front of his chest. He nodded toward Eddie and then directed his
eyes downward toward the chair Eddie had hopped out of when Blackwood had
walked in the room. Taking the cue, Eddie sat, continuing to smile at the older
writer, not knowing what else to say or do. Blackwood had seemed pleasant
enough when being introduced to Eddie, the deep lines around his eyes making
him appear open and inviting. But he was not smiling now as he quietly asked,
“Did you think no one would figure it out?”