The Salinger Contract (16 page)

T
he Coq d'Or's pianist was taking a break and had joined some of the tourists at the bar to watch a college basketball game. The TV didn't seem like it belonged in the bar, which itself conjured up an era before the advent of television. When I used to come here to write, nobody watched sports.

On the TV screen,
march madness
!!! was flashing in bright red letters. Only a couple of days had passed since February 29, and I hadn't heard anything about a leap-year bank robbery. Then again, I didn't read the newspapers much; when I did, I pretty much stuck to the front page, the sports, the op-eds, the job ads, and the vegetarian recipes in the Dining section. I looked at the gauze and tape around Conner's wrist, the sling he was wearing. Both were bright white, as if brand-new.

“How much of this is true?” I asked.

“The whole story was true,” said Conner. “At least up until the part that wasn't.”

“When did the story stop being true?” I asked.

“February twenty-eighth.”

According to Conner, all the details he had written about the bank itself were accurate; the entire leap-year plot was bulljive. What happened when midnight struck on the second to last night of February? Absolutely nothing. Video cameras continued to run; locks stayed locked; Lyle Evans remained at his security post, and there would have been little chance for Dex and Pavel to “overpower him” as they had in the novel because, unlike the lethargic caricature in the story Conner wrote, Lyle Evans was a big, muscular, conscientious dude. Plus, just in case, about fifteen minutes before midnight, Conner's plan had been to call Lyle Evans and warn him.

Once Conner had completed the manuscript for the novel he had decided to call
Leap of Fate
, the hardest part was waiting—that, combined with the need to suppress whatever desire he had to tell Angie what he was planning. He wanted to tell Dex he had finished, and worried that Dex might not get in touch until after February 29. If Dex didn't get the manuscript in time to act on it, he would either have to wait another four years or write another novel that wasn't so time sensitive.

But Dex got in touch with Conner on the twenty-seventh of January.

“I bet you remember that date, my friend,” Conner said to me.

“Why?” I asked.

“That's the same date Mr. Salinger died.”

I nodded, pretending I knew.

Conner met Dex and Pavel at the bar of Keens Steakhouse, where he handed over the manuscript of
Leap of Fate
, which he had dedicated to Dex. This was to be a quick meeting, Dex had told Conner over the phone—no meal, no drinks, just a drop-off. At the bar, Pavel regarded the title with his customarily inscrutable amusement.

“Is it a thriller?” Dex asked.

“Yeah, but with a twist,” said Conner.

“Yes, with you, always a
tweest
,” said Pavel. “I like
thees
veddy
motch
.”

“How long do you think it'll take you to read it?” asked Conner.

Dex flipped through the first few pages, then turned to the last page and read the final paragraph before fixing Conner with a stare.

“You asked when you would hear from me?”

“I did.”

“Well, judging from what little I've seen so far,” said Dex, “I imagine that you'll be hearing from me on or around the twenty-ninth of February.”

Dex packed the manuscript in his attaché case and strolled to the exit, leading the way with his walking stick. Pavel followed behind. “So long, Conner,” Pavel said. The way Pavel said “Conner” sounded funny, but it didn't register to Conner until later that he had never heard Pavel use his first name.

F
ebruary 29 took far too long to arrive. Each day seemed to last longer than the one before. Conner tried to pass the time. He worked out—ran ten miles a day, lifted the dumbbells he hadn't used in more than a decade. He repainted just about the entire inside of his house, cleaned it again and again, preparing for what he hoped—no, what he
knew
—would be Atticus and Angie's imminent return. He looked forward to weekend walks and breakfasts with Atticus, who was now able to conduct conversations, albeit brief ones—“Want to go home,” he frequently said. Conner read a lot too, actually read all nine volumes of the Wizard Vampire Chronicles series and, to his surprise, got caught up in the stories. No matter how unpleasant an individual Margot Hetley may have been in real life, he couldn't deny she had mad skills. He understood why her work was worth millions, why Dex had recognized “a raw and ruthless­ talent” in her before she had betrayed him. What struck Conner most profoundly about the books was their ferocity and brutality; Hetley's audience was made up mostly of kids and teens, and yet there was more bloodletting and perverse sexuality in any chapter of the Wizard­ Vampire Chronicles books than in any of Conner's purportedly­ adult crime novels. Conner's characters agonized over the crimes they committed; Margot's wizards, vampires, and vamp­ards never gave a damn.

As the last day of the month approached, Conner didn't know whether the fact he hadn't yet heard from Dex was good or bad news. If all went according to plan, he might not hear from Dex at all, he told himself. Dex would try to enter the bank when midnight struck on the twenty-ninth and the first Conner would learn of him would be when he saw his picture on the front page of the
Morning Call
.

By February 28, Conner still hadn't heard a word. He slept fitfully, had trouble eating, left half-finished plates and bowls of food in the kitchen sink, drank Campbell's soups straight out of the can. He tried to read but couldn't focus. He tried turning on the TV but couldn't follow any program, not even sports. He wanted to take a ride, but he worried about getting into an accident. He wanted to talk to somebody but knew he wouldn't take out his phone to make any call until 11:45 p.m., when he would warn Lyle Evans.

Well after night had fallen, the air was cold and damp by the Delaware River. Conner sat outside on the bench, shivering beneath a black, star-filled sky. He was occupying himself by wondering what would happen after it was all over, for he knew this ordeal would soon end. Someday he would be with his wife and son and they would be able to look back on all this. Would they stay here in this house or would they move far away—maybe to Monroeville, Alabama, or to Cornish, New Hampshire, or even to Mexico City, where B. Traven had fled? J. D. Salinger was dead, God rest his phony old soul. Maybe there was still a nice empty home in Cornish available for a decent price.

Conner lost himself in these reveries, these lovely fantasies of what his life could and might very well soon become. He felt intoxicated by possibilities when he heard a car approaching his house. He looked at his phone to check the time—it was nearly half past eleven.

Conner made his way to the top of the path. The driveway was dusted with snow. Conner didn't see a car, but his porch light was on and a set of footsteps led up his front walkway to his mailbox. In that mailbox, illuminated by the porch light, was an envelope. Conner took the envelope, ripped it open, and unfolded a letter
—“Conner, I've read your manuscript and we need to discuss revisions as soon as possible. Cordially, Dex.”

Conner looked up from the letter and noticed that his front door was open a crack and there seemed to be a light on inside.

E
verything inside Conner was telling him to get the hell out, and yet he moved forward. Everything inside Conner was telling him something was going wrong, and yet he tried to act as if the plan were proceeding as it should have. He pushed his front door open all the way and walked through his hallway toward his kitchen, where the fluorescent light was on over the sink. Standing at the counter, drinking water from a black mug, was Pavel. He looked the same as he always did—a husky man in his late fifties in a heavy old sports coat—and yet for those first moments standing before Pavel, Conner couldn't rid himself of the odd sensation that Pavel belonged in this kitchen, while he did not.

“How the hell did you get in here?” Conner asked.

Pavel shrugged. “Doors, locks,
thees
is not so difficult.” Pavel finished his water, then placed the mug down in the sink. “So, Conner, are you ready to go?”

“Where?” Conner looked down at the time on his phone—only a few more minutes remained before he was supposed to call Lyle Evans.

“A ride,” said Pavel. “Dex is in the car outside.”

Conner told himself to play it cool, yet was gripped by foreboding and despair. “The first time I met Dex, we walked, remember?” he said. “You remember what he said? He said if he were in my position, he wouldn't get into a car with a stranger.”

“Yes, but we are not so much strangers anymore, Conner,” said Pavel. Conner wondered if Pavel knew what awful things were going to happen next, and if by calling him Conner, Pavel was trying to reassure or warn him.

“What if I tell you no?” Conner asked.

Pavel tilted his head from one side to the other, bit his lower lip, inhaled then let the breath out in a loud sigh.

“So,” said Conner. “That's the way it is?”

“I am afraid
thees
is true,” said Pavel.

“He says he wants to talk about revisions,” said Conner.

“
Reveesions
, yes.
Thees
is what he wants to discuss.”

“Do you know what those might be?”

Pavel frowned and shook his head. “Dex has his own opinions,” he said. “Mine are not so important.”

“You read this one too?”

“I enjoyed the manuscript, Conner,” said Pavel. “I thought it was quite well done. Perhaps the characters could have been better developed, but the crime was clever, and as always, the details were quite convincing. But this is only my own personal opinion. It does not impact on anything. Come, let us go to the car.”

A
black Crown Victoria was parked in Conner's driveway, motor running, Dex at the wheel. Dex wore a chalky gray suit and a lavender pocket square that somehow managed to contrast well with his shimmering, indigo tie. Conner got into the back of the car and looked at the digital readout on his phone, which matched the time on the dashboard clock. It was a quarter to midnight—no way to call Lyle Evans now.

“So, these revisions?” he asked as Dex steered the car off Conner's property, heading toward Interstate 80. “You didn't ask for any revisions the first time around.”

“Yes, that's true.” Dex said. “But you must understand that's unusual. With some of my authors, we've had to send the manuscript back and forth a dozen times before we got it right.”

“What about Salinger?” asked Conner.

“Him especially,” he said. “Very sloppy. I probably let him get away with too much. With you, we got it right the first time. And in this case, I'd say you're almost there; the revisions I'm talking about are quite minor.”

“Just minor changes?” asked Conner. “Why do you even bother me about minor changes? Why don't you just make the revisions yourself?”

“But that's not the agreement, Conner,” said Dex. “You are the writer. This is your work.”

Conner let out a short, thin breath. From the backseat, he looked out through the windshield. The snow was slanting down as Dex pressed on the gas pedal and merged onto the highway, heading east toward New York City. He drove in the right lane, windshield wipers going fast. The highway seemed empty; save for a truck here or there, everyone heading to the city had already made it there. The three men watched the road. For some time, nobody spoke.

“All right,” Conner finally said. “What do you need me to do?”

“Well, here's the difficulty.” Dex steered the Crown Vic using only two fingers on his right hand, apparently unconcerned by the weather. “I truly am fond of the setup you wrote,” he said. “And I do like all the detail. You're very good at that, but you already know that. I like the business about leap years too. I found all that quite original. I think once you switch the characters around a bit, you'll really have something that we'll be able to use.”

“Switch characters?” asked Conner. “What does that mean?”

Dex signaled a turn. Conner had expected they might be driving all the way to New York, but now Dex was turning off at the first exit, heading for East Stroudsburg.

“You see, I like the story of the bank teller, Rosie Figueroa,” Dex said. “You really captured the way she spoke; but there's something about her that doesn't quite add up. I think you rushed the writing of the story too much. All that business about her ex-husband using her to do a bank job—it's all so convenient and convoluted. I just didn't buy it. I didn't really think Rosie would marry somebody like that, not the way you wrote her. And, even if she had, I didn't believe a character like that ex-husband of hers would be clever enough to come up with the sort of scheme he does. He seemed too simple to know so much about computer systems and video security, and certainly too simple to conceive of a crime of that nature. To tell you the truth, Conner, the crime would seem so much more convincing if it were committed by someone like …” Dex's voice trailed off.

“Someone like who?” Conner asked.

“Someone like you, Conner.” Dex stopped the car.

The Crown Victoria was now stopped in front of the East Stroudsburg Credit Union. No other car was parked on the street. There were no police cars in sight. The bank looked dark; the only lights emanated from the security booth, where Lyle Evans's face was illuminated in the flashes of video monitors. Conner looked at the clock on the dashboard. It was 11:59 p.m. “What's going on?” he asked.

Dex put the car in park and turned back to face Conner. “It is one minute to midnight,” he said. “When sixty seconds pass, it will be February 29. Leap year, you remember. The security systems in the bank will go down; that's what you wrote. They will have ten minutes to recalibrate; that's what you wrote too. For that amount of time, the bank will be ‘essentially unguarded.' All you have to do is ‘take care of the guard.' Isn't that right? Isn't it as simple as that?”

Conner gazed blankly at Dex, whose eyes looked as pale and unsympathetic as the yellow eyes of the falcon on his walking stick.

“I do not like being fucked with,” Dex said. “And I have told you I do not like being lied to any more than you or your wife do. You have ten minutes to do everything you wrote in your novel. If what you wrote was true, then you won't have any difficulty.” He turned to Pavel. “Hand Mr. Joyce your gun,” he said.

Pavel reached into a shoulder holster and withdrew the weapon that he had handed to Conner back at the Coq d'Or Lounge, the weapon J. D. Salinger once held, the weapon Norman Mailer once fired at Dex's wall. Pavel pressed the gun into Conner's hand, then stepped out of the car and opened the back door.

Conner looked at the clock. It was now midnight. He got out of the car, holding the gun.

“Ten minutes,” Dex repeated. “Go.”