The Salinger Contract (11 page)

I
told Conner we could meet again after I'd told the kids their bedtime stories—
Lyle, Lyle, Crocodile
for Beatrice, a chapter of
All-of-a-Kind Family
for Ramona. I had grown to cherish those bedtime story hours more than any other part of the day. They marked the only times I could say unequivocally that I was doing something worthwhile. Watching my children's enchantment as I either read a story or made up my own, I understood that sometimes all a story needed was one or two people to read or listen to it to make it matter.

But as night fell, I grew leery. What did I really know about Conner other than what he had told me during our interviews? I remembered the first time Beatrice had seen his picture in the aisle of Borders, by now out of business and functioning on a month-to-month lease as Fireworks City. Beatrice had seemed frightened of him, and I wasn't willing to dismiss her instincts any more than I was willing to dismiss those of my generally easygoing dog, who had growled and barked when he had seen Conner approaching. What did Conner mean about deciding to be a hero and asking if I'd act like a decent human being in return by telling his story? Might he have been going mad? Might he have chosen me to listen not because Dex would never “mess with” me, whatever that was supposed to mean, or that he trusted me with his story, or that he wanted me to tell it in case something happened to him, but rather because deep down he knew I was the only one gullible enough to believe him?

We agreed to meet at the Starlite Drive-In Movie Theatre, a half hour out of town on Old State Route 37, midway between Bloomington and Indianapolis, where he would be catching his flight home. Driving north through Ku Klux Klan country in Martinsville with Miles Davis's “Elevator to the Gallows” playing loud on my Volvo's stereo, I worried I would attract attention being a single male attending the drive-in, and that when I got into Conner's car, or he got into mine, we would look like a couple of guys about to give each other hand jobs. But no one seemed to pay us any mind when I pulled into a space, Conner pulled his Nissan beside mine, and he got into the passenger seat of my car, patted me on the shoulder, and shook my hand.

“Hey buddy, what's the flick?” he asked.

“Dunno,” I said. “I didn't even think to check. Let's take a look.” But the credits were long since over; the movie was already more than halfway through. It was a cops-and-robbers movie—motorcycles, automatic weapons, and a strong hero who was a man of few words—the Rock or Vin Diesel or some other strapping dude I'd never seen in a movie before.

We began by discussing our usual topics—parenthood, literature, the lousy economy—and when we were done, Conner told the rest of his story. The violence on-screen seemed to underscore the elegant bloodlessness of Conner's tale of a purloined flash drive and an embargoed manuscript. But then again, as I had told Conner, I hadn't been reading the newspapers lately, and so I didn't know where Conner's story might be leading, and that it might not wind up being so different from the movie on-screen after all.

I
expected to hear back from Dex in a few weeks, maybe a month at most,” Conner said. His face flickered in the darkness, reflecting the images of the movie. The book he had written was quick and uncomplicated, the sort he imagined one could buy at an airport bookstore and finish during a New York–Chicago flight. For the first few weeks after giving Dex the manuscript, he wondered why he wasn't hearing back. He obsessed about the sorts of revisions Dex might request, the details he might want Conner to add. Maybe he wouldn't like the novel at all and would ask Conner to write something else.

Conner became haunted by the possibility he might never be done with the project, that Dex would keep pressing him to write and revise; conceivably, he could be working on the same story for decades. He would never publish a book again, would have to lie to Angie for the rest of his life, and all for the $1.66 million he had been paid so far, a great sum, to be sure, for the little work he'd done, but a less impressive number if spread across his lifetime. He wondered if that was why Salinger, Dudek, and Harper Lee ultimately stopped publishing; maybe they had spent the rest of their lives writing and rewriting for Dex. Nothing in the contracts he had seen would have prevented that from happening. Maybe none of them had been hiding from the public; maybe none of them really wanted to be recluses; maybe all of them had just been hiding from Dex.

Two months passed without a word from Dex or Pavel, and Conner began to think less about
The Embargoed Manuscript
. He busied himself with home-improvement projects—drywall, plumbing, repainting the nursery; he took Atticus for walks along the Delaware River; he wrote little stories for Atticus and for Angela, never wondering if he would ever publish them. He and Angela began having sex more frequently, trying for a second child. It would be lonely for Atticus in the Poconos, Angela said. She had grown up in a big family in Hamilton Heights; having a younger brother or sister would be good for the boy.

It was just about then, with life seeming more beautiful and filled with possibility than it had since the first days of his marriage, that Dex reappeared.

“He just showed up?” I asked.

“Well, it wasn't Dex exactly,” said Conner. “I didn't see him, but he made his presence known. Are you sure you haven't read the papers?”

T
he Starlite Drive-In was showing a double feature, and the late show was a horror movie, something about a serial killer stalking high school kids. I had always been scared of horror movies. When I was a kid, my mom took me downtown with one of her boyfriends to see an old movie called
Laura
at the Carnegie Theatre. But before the movie began, there was a trailer for
The Last House on the Left
. It traumatized me. Truly. So much so that, when we watched
Laura
, I kept thinking that the movie's villain was my mom's boyfriend. And so, even though the audio was off at the drive-in and I wasn't watching the screen, every so often, some terrifying image would insinuate itself into my peripheral vision—a masked man wielding a knife; that same man plunging the knife into someone's flesh—and I couldn't help looking. Meanwhile, Conner didn't even seem to register the film on the screen; he was too involved in his own story.

“Hey, tell me something,” he said. “Was it a nice day here the day before yesterday?”

“Not really,” I said. “It's been raining all week.”

“It was gorgeous in the Poconos, man,” said Conner. “The first real warm day of spring. The sky was blue, not a cloud in it. I heard warblers, woodpeckers, nuthatches, all those gorgeous birds singin' all their gorgeous songs. It was as beautiful a day as it was on 9/11, you remember that day?”

“Yeah,” I said, “I do.” I had been working at
Lit,
and our office was only a mile and a half north of the World Trade Center. Later that day, even at my apartment all the way uptown, I could smell the smoke and the melting metal, and my dog hadn't been able to stop panting and whining. At the drive-in, I tried to rid myself of that memory. And I tried not to start at the screams coming from the other cars.

“Yeah,” Conner said. “It was one of those days that was so beautiful, you almost knew it couldn't last.”

It had been early morning; Conner had arisen before Angela and Atticus to take in the air and chop some firewood. Whenever he woke up early, the newspaper was already there waiting for him, but he rarely read it until later in the day. This time, for some reason, he decided to unwrap the paper. With his ax in one hand and the newspaper in the other, he sat down on the porch swing and unfolded the paper to read the front page. On it was a full-color image of a haggard Margot Hetley, shadows under her eyes; below her picture was a headline:
digital pirates make off with new wizard chronicles; publisher and author stand to lose millions.

“Christ,” Conner said to himself as he read the story. “He did it. The motherfucker went and did it.”

As he sat on his porch swing, Conner looked up to see whether anyone was watching him; he saw no one—Atticus and Angela were inside; the nearest neighbor was half a mile away. But as he looked up, he noticed an envelope sticking out of his mailbox, even though it was far too early for the mail to have arrived and he was certain he had taken in the mail the day before.

Conner stood up; he dropped his ax to the ground. He turned the newspaper facedown on the porch swing. His face felt hot, his legs so unsteady he could barely make his way across the porch to his mailbox. He was afraid of what he might find, and yet he already knew what was inside.

O
n the screen at the drive-in, the credits were rolling. Conner had taken his time telling me his story, and now the horror movie was over. All the other customers had driven their cars out of the Starlite parking lot. Only two cars remained—mine and Conner's.

“What was in the envelope?” I asked.

“I ripped it open,” said Conner. “I expected there would be a letter inside, but there wasn't—just a check.”

The check was made out to Conner for $833,333.33. On the memo line, Dex had written, “Upon Acceptance.”

“Holy shit,” I said.

“You said it, pal,” said Conner. “But there was something else in there too.”

“What?”

“A flash drive.”

“Monogrammed?”

Conner took a long, deep breath. “Yes, my friend, it was.”

As he stood on his porch in the Poconos, Conner held that flash drive in his hand and stared at it, wondering what exactly had happened and what he should do, when the door swung open and Angie appeared. She was holding Atticus in her arms. If Conner had been a more slippery character, one to whom lying came easily, he wouldn't have panicked. When Angie asked him what he had been looking at, he would have said something like, “Oh, nothing much.” When she asked him what he was reading in the newspaper, he would have said, “Oh, just an article about my old editor; isn't that freaky?” When she saw him holding the flash drive and asked what it was, he would have said, “Just something I got from those rich folks in Hollywood.” Then, he would have pocketed the flash drive, kissed Angie good morning, and asked her what she wanted for breakfast. He shouldn't have grabbed the newspaper and hidden the headline, then stormed into the house, demanding, “Why the hell can't I have at least a little peace in the morning?” He shouldn't have made a beeline for the upstairs bathroom and caused a big racket while flushing the damn flash drive down the toilet.

In fact, as he looked back on it, he had done just about everything wrong. He had overreacted to the flash drive and to the note from Dex. He had panicked when he saw the article in the newspaper, and, when Angie asked, “What the hell's the matter with you, CJ?” he tried too hard to act as though everything were normal. He explained way too much. He said he had eaten “something weird” at dinner and that's why he had run to the john. And, after he had made a plane reservation to Chicago, a fairly odd thing to do if he was, as he claimed, going to meet with “those Hollywood guys,” he talked more than ever about the “writing project” and how “demanding” the aforementioned Hollywood guys were.

Maybe he should have just stayed put, maybe he should have just read the article in the paper, destroyed the flash drive, cashed the check, and moved on with his life. Dex and Pavel had obviously used his novel to steal the flash drive, but nothing connected Conner to the crime. When John Lennon was murdered, a copy of
Catcher in the Rye
was in Mark David Chapman's pocket, yet no one ever accused J. D. Salinger of being his accomplice. All Conner had thought he was doing was writing a story, getting every detail right, the same thing he had done with every one of his books. He wondered if this had always been Dex's intention or if Dex had just read his book and had seen an opportunity. He felt responsible for the theft, and at the same time, he felt a bit awed by his own mind. He had read stories about people who turned their dreams into reality; it was a recurring theme in Jarosław Dudek's novel, poems, and memoirs. Had Dex used all of his writers for this purpose? Had he commissioned crime novels from every writer he met, then committed those crimes, or had Conner been the first one, just lucky enough to write the crime that Dex could actually commit? He had to see Dex again, not only to discover the answers to these questions but to answer the new questions he had about himself. Was this who he truly was? Was there all that much difference between conceiving a crime and committing it? Was he good at this?

Once he had decided to go to Chicago, Conner didn't even pack a bag. He just bought a plane ticket and drove to LaGuardia on Angie's old motorcycle, the one with the Devil Shotgun exhaust pipes. He figured he would go straight to 680 N. Lake Shore Drive, buzz Dex's apartment, and if Dex wasn't there he'd leave a message and go to the Coq d'Or Lounge. But after he boarded the plane and fastened his seat belt, he noticed a broad-shouldered man in a tweed jacket and wrinkled black slacks hulking his way down the aisle, then taking the seat beside him. The man carried a black leather dopp kit and reeked of aftershave.

“Dex?” I asked.

“Pavel,” said Conner.

Pavel sat down beside him, and Conner let loose with a flurry of whispered expletives. What had happened? What the fuck was going on?

“I suggest that you take these matters up with Dex,” Pavel said.

“Where is he?” Conner felt fully prepared to whip off his seat belt, climb over Pavel, and have it out with Dex in first class, which was where he assumed Dex would be sitting. But Dex wasn't on their plane.

“He will meet us at airport,” said Pavel. He added that he noticed Conner had not
pekked
a
begg
. He proffered his dopp kit to Conner. Dex had made a reservation for Conner at the Drake Hotel, he said.

“I'm not staying,” said Conner. “After I get some things straight with Dex, I'm going home.”

“This, of course, is up to you,” said Pavel. He added that he had quite enjoyed
The Embargoed Manuscript
and thought it was Conner's strongest work since
Devil Shotgun
. He could tell that writing it had indeed been
“leeberating”
for Conner.

“What the hell are you? Some kind of book critic?” Conner was about to start swearing again. But then he felt himself torn between outrage and curiosity. “Wait, you read it?” he asked.

Pavel nodded.

“The whole thing?”

“That I did.”

“You've read all of them, haven't you?”

“That I have.”

Yes, Pavel said, he had read the Dudek, the Lee, the Hetley, the Mailer, the Capote, and the Pynchon. Yes, he had read them all.

“You read the Salinger.”

“I did, yes.”

“What was it about?”

“These matters, I must keep them confidential,” Pavel said. “It's in the contracts, you understand.” And then Pavel pointed out that the flight attendants were beginning to perform their safety demonstrations. Once those demonstrations were over, Pavel closed his eyes and slept through the entire flight.

“Of course, I didn't sleep at all,” said Conner. Instead, he sat staring out the window, watching the lights of the city give way to blackness, then thick gray clouds, which persisted all the way to Chicago so that, for the majority of the flight, all he was able to see was his own reflection. Who was he? Who was he becoming? He was a rich man now by most estimates, and could become even richer the moment he deposited that final check from Dex. And yet, in doing so, he would be admitting his complicity, wouldn't he? Wasn't that why Dex had sent him the flash drive? To explain the costs of the money he had earned and the risks he would incur if he ever spoke of it to anyone? And yet, if you thought about it, he considered as he looked around at the other passengers on the airplane, wasn't every person here an accomplice to some sort of crime? Didn't everyone here pay taxes that supported all sorts of misbegotten military adventures? Wasn't supporting the airlines supporting their manufacturers, who probably built horrifying weapons systems as well? Living in a prosperous society in the twenty-first century, weren't we all complicit in something? Weren't we committing a crime every time we ate at McDonald's or filled up at a BP station or bought a pair of Nikes? And wasn't the crime Conner had aided and abetted a bloodless one that targeted only a couple of wealthy individuals? Sure, the logic might have been tortured, but wasn't there some truth to it? Wasn't everyone on this plane, in some way, guilty of something? Weren't they all working for Dex?

“This was yesterday?” I asked Conner.

“It was,” he said.

A white pickup truck was driving around the parking lot of the Starlite Drive-In. It flashed its headlights twice before it pulled up alongside us. A rent-a-cop, probably in his sixties, wearing a state trooper's hat, lowered his window and motioned for me to do the same.

“Closing up here,” he said. “Pretty soon we'll have to lock up the gates.”

“We're just finishing up a conversation, bud,” said Conner. “How long before you close?”

“Maybe fifteen minutes? Half hour?”

“Can we stay here till then?” asked Conner.

The cop shrugged, then drove off, steering his way through the lot as Conner continued his tale.