The Salinger Contract (4 page)

T
he sun was beating down hard, and here we were—two forty-year-old guys in swimming trunks and baseball caps sipping club sodas in the shallow end of a pool at a roadside Hilton in West Lafayette with a view out onto the Interstate and the Flying J rest stop. I joked to Conner that we probably looked like a couple of kingpins planning a drug deal, but that was wishful thinking. I'm sure we looked more like a couple of washed-up dads waiting for our kids to come down to the pool. My baseball cap shaded my face, but I could still feel the sunlight reflecting off the water, charring my cheeks. Conner's skin was already bronzed, which pretty much summed up the differences between him and me—he tanned; I burned.

“How was Chicago?” I asked.

“Not all that great,” he said. He had taken the first flight out of Indy, and arrived at ten in the morning at the Drake Hotel, where he checked into the Author's Suite, reputed to be the smallest suite in the hotel—even I had stayed in there when I was touring to support
Nine Fathers,
which should give you an idea of its modesty. He got a ride to Navy Pier, where he conducted an interview at WBEZ with the daytime host Rick Kogan, who had replaced Steve Edwards, the dude I held partially responsible for ruining my relationship with my mother.

Conner called Angie a couple of times to check in and see how she and Atticus were doing but, as always seemed to be the case these days, her temper was short and she seemed rushed; all she wanted to discuss was the work she needed to do around the house and what Conner would need to do when he got home—the toilet was backing up again; paint was chipping in the nursery and she sure hoped there wasn't lead in it; the seventh year on their adjustable rate mortgage was rapidly approaching. So Conner spent most of the day wandering along Lake Michigan, checking out the boats, the swimmers, the sunbathers, and the chess players, seeking inspiration for his next novel. Then he started heading north to his bookstore event.

“That's just about when things started getting weird,” he said.

Conner's publisher had hired a driver to take him to his reading at the Borders on Clark Street and Diversey Avenue, about three miles from his hotel, but since he didn't have any plans, he'd decided to walk. The Chicago weather was oppressive, steamy; the bricks of air-conditioned buildings sweated out heat as Conner strode north on Clark Street, making his way past the singles' bars and restaurants of the near north side. He strolled by the tony homes of heirs and heiresses to industrial fortunes on the Gold Coast, then on through Lincoln Park, once home to David Mamet, Stuart Dybek, and a handful of other writers Conner admired. He took a shortcut through the Lincoln Park Zoo, where even the animals seemed to be having a hard time contending with the heat. Sad rhinos were gathered in small, muddy pools; the weary and somewhat mangy polar bear didn't seem to want to get out of the water; the gorillas were in a better mood—they had air conditioning.

Near the gift shop on his way out, Conner caught sight of a lone coyote that seemed almost to blend in with the slab of slate upon which he was standing. Conner spent some time staring into that animal's pale blue eyes. “You and me, man,” Conner told that coyote. “You and me. We're just doing what we have to do to survive, and here we are, man, doin' it on our own.”

When Conner got to Diversey Avenue, he started to feel more upbeat about his life. He was healthy, strong. He had a great wife, a beautiful son, both his parents were still alive. The streets and sidewalks were busy and the people on them seemed young, full of energy.

There was a line of people in front of the bookstore; the line was made up mostly of tweens with dyed hair accompanied by their parents and black-clad Goth kids on their own. Two news vans and a limo were parked in a loading zone, and a couple of bodyguards were standing by the front door, speaking furtively into their mouthpieces. Conner half convinced himself his interview on NPR had gone better than he had imagined and had generated this crowd. He also half convinced himself that Barack Obama was in town, perhaps visiting one of his major fund-raisers, Penny Pritzker, who lived in the area. Maybe the president and the Pritzkers were fans of his work and wanted their very own copies of
Ice Locker
. Only when he got to the front door did Conner realize he was at the wrong bookstore—this was not Borders; this was the Barnes & Noble across the street, a relic of the late 1990s and early 2000s, when people actually thought a neighborhood could support two big-box bookstores. The people outside the B&N were waiting to meet Margot Hetley, who would be reading from
The Fearsome Shallow­: Wizard Vampire Chronicles #8
, or WVCVIII
,
as fanboys and fangirls referred to it. Everybody in line had a copy of WVCVIII­; no one was holding
Ice Locker
. Across the street at Borders­, a sign in the window read
conner joyce reading tonight!
but no one was waiting in line outside.

Inside Borders was a more depressingly familiar scene—rows of mostly unoccupied folding chairs upon a grim, gray carpet; stacks of hardcover Conner Joyce novels no one was waiting in line to buy; a disinterested store manager marking time before the store would close for good and she would get laid off. Yes, there was a better crowd than there had been at the Bloomington store—about fifteen or twenty, Conner estimated—but nothing that would make his next phone conversation with Angie go any better than the previous ones. Nevertheless, he tried to stay focused and positive. When he stood up in front of the audience and took his place at the podium, he performed his usual spiel. Afterward, he answered the usual questions—he said he did the same thing whether he was speaking before five people or five hundred, felt that each person deserved respect. Then he took out his Sharpie and sat down at the signing table.

The people who waited in a small line to talk to Conner after the reading were the typical amalgam of fans, writing students, and collectors, the latter of whom were hoping that someday Conner's books would be worth more than they were right now. He took his time signing; he had plenty of it. The only items left on his schedule were a ride to his hotel, sleep, then a six a.m. trip to the airport. He would catch his flight to LaGuardia. He would pick up his car and drive it back to the Pokes, where he would have a serious conversation with Angie about selling the house.

Conner capped his Sharpie and was getting ready to leave when he saw another man waiting for him to sign his book. He hadn't noticed the man during the reading, and felt fairly sure he must have shown up long after it had begun because, given his leathery face and imposing presence, he certainly would have remembered him.

“Was he anyone you recognized?” I asked.

“No,” said Conner.

“Who was he?”

“He said his name was Pavel.”

P
avel wore sunglasses. He was a bulky man in a mothballed tweed jacket, black shirt, and dark pants, all of which seemed a little tight for him, and he had a demeanor and sense of personal space that would have indicated he was Eastern European even before he opened his mouth and revealed his accent. Conner said he looked as if he might once have worked on a security detail for Vladimir Putin. He was hulking over the signing table, thumbing through a copy of
Ice Locker
when Conner caught his attention and asked if he wanted him to sign the book. The man nodded with a slightly sardonic smile that suggested a sly sense of humor at work beneath the thuggish presence, the bullish posture, and the shades. There was a bulge near one of his shoulders that made it look like he might have been carrying a weapon.

The man proffered his copy of
Ice Locker
. “If you
plizz
,” he said.

Conner took the book from the man, who told him how much he had enjoyed it. Odd—the man didn't give off the impression of being much of a reader, and Conner was further surprised when he told him how accurate his novels always were, how much specific detail they provided about forensics and police procedures.

“You know my work,” said Conner.

“I do.”

“So,” Conner asked. “Who should I make it out to? The signature?”

“Make it ‘To Dex.'”

“Sure.” Conner signed and dated the book, at which point Pavel slid a stack of about a dozen books across the table and placed them in front of Conner.

“All these too,” Pavel said.

“Signatures on all of them?” Conner asked.

“Yes. And make them all ‘To Dex,'” said Pavel.

“You must be quite a fan,” said Conner.

“Dex is, yes.”

Conner stopped in the act of signing. “You're not Dex?”

“That I am not. But he would like to meet you.”

“Who? Dex? Is he here?” Conner continued to sign the books that Pavel was placing before him.

“No, but I can take you to him whenever you like.”

“I don't think so, buddy; I don't swing that way,” said Conner.

“Neither does Dex.” Pavel took off his sunglasses and looked directly into Conner's eyes. The man reminded Conner of that coyote he had seen at the Lincoln Park Zoo—searching, scheming, alone.

“It would be worth your while. I guarantee this,” Pavel said, and after Conner asked him what he meant, Pavel told him Dex wanted to make Conner “a sort of proposal.”

The proposals Conner tended to get from strangers at readings were usually either bizarre or depressing, most often some combination of the two. Sometimes, a writer wanted Conner's opinion on a manuscript or a recommendation for an agent or editor. Once in a while, there was a woman, usually unhappily married—she would want to know how long Conner was staying in town and if he had time for a drink. Conner always kept his responses polite yet guarded. He gave the writers his agent's e-mail address and the name of his editor; he told the women he was busy and, if pressed further, married. The conversations usually ended there, but when Conner offered to give Pavel the name of his editor and publicist, Pavel said no, that wouldn't do.

“This proposal Dex has to make to you, he will do it in person,” said Pavel.

Conner almost laughed out loud. He wondered whether Pavel's use of commanding phrases—you
will
do this; he
will
do that—was intended to sound as threatening as it did or if Pavel's English was just that lousy.

“Oh, he will, will he?” Conner asked.

“Yes, he will,” Pavel said. “Tonight, in fact.” And after Conner asked him what Dex's rush was, Pavel smiled slightly. “This is because you are leaving on the seven forty-five a.m. flight for LaGuardia, are you not? There would not be time tomorrow, would there?”

“Seven forty-five?” Conner's voice wavered.

“United Airlines, Flight 110, to be exact,” said Pavel. “This is true, yes?”

Conner got up from the signing table and, as he did, Pavel added, “Or, Dex could meet you at your hotel. You're staying at the Drake, this is also true?” Conner said nothing. He maintained his silence when Pavel added that Dex would be happy to meet either in the hotel's Coq d'Or cocktail lounge or in the Palm Court.

“Or,” Pavel added with a sly smile, “if you prefer, the two of you can meet in the Author's Suite, Room 813, is it not?”

“How do you know all that?” Conner asked, but before Pavel could respond, Conner decided he didn't want to hear the answer. He headed for the door. His Spidey sense was tingling big-time, he said. Conner reached the front door of Borders in time to hear Pavel tell the bookstore manager, “I will take the rest of these. And I would like to have them delivered to Six Hundred and Eighty North Lake Shore Drive.” When Conner looked back, he saw that Pavel was buying every one of his books and taking out a phone to make a call.

C
onner stepped out of Borders and flagged down a cab. He didn't have much of a plan in mind other than to return to his hotel, pick up his suitcase, and check out. He didn't understand how Pavel had known where he was staying and what his travel plans were. Maybe Pavel was a friend of his editor, or maybe he worked for a publisher from the former Eastern Bloc, one as yet unschooled in Western codes of conduct. But Conner didn't want to stick around to find out. When he had worked as a crime
reporter, he had no fears of interviewing gangbangers, of flashing press credentials at the wardens of Rikers Island, of hanging around precinct station houses well past midnight, then walking all the way home—in fact, he had met Angie at the Twenty-Fourth Precinct headquarters on 100th Street, and they routinely walked home to her mother and aunt's apartment in Hamilton Heights, where she continued to live until she and Conner got married. But now that he was a husband and father, he preferred to let his characters take risks while he enjoyed cups of hot tea and mugs of home-brewed beer on the back deck of his house in the Pokes.

Traffic was heavy on Diversey Avenue. The Margot Hetley reading had just let out, and all the tweens and Goth kids who had been waiting for Hetley to sign books were pouring onto the streets; they were heading for the bus stops and elevated train stations, forming a flash mob as they threw “vampard” signs at one another and roughly shoved passersby while Hetley's limo sped away from the store. Conner exited Borders before Pavel, but by the time his taxi managed to make an illegal U-turn to start heading south toward his hotel, he could see that Pavel was getting into a cab too. At that moment, Conner felt an urge to say all the things detectives say to taxi drivers in other genre novelists' books, but rarely said in his own: “Step on it, Driver,” and “Lose that tail.” But he just gazed silently out the window at the boats on Lake Michigan, the cars speeding along Lake Shore Drive; he looked west toward the Lincoln Park Zoo—an immense black emptiness beyond the rippling Lincoln Park Lagoon; he could imagine that lone coyote howling upon his slab of gray rock. He looked through the back window of the cab, trying to see if he could spot Pavel's taxi, but there were at least a dozen cabs and it was impossible to say which one might have been his.

When Conner got back to the hotel, he greeted the doormen and security guards loudly—he wanted them to know who he was and to remember him in case anything happened to him. He had never had these sorts of morbid, nervous thoughts before he became a parent. He zipped up the blue-carpeted steps, taking them two at a time. He greeted businesspeople heading to the cocktail lounge, tourists clutching bags from the Apple Store, tuxedoed and evening-gowned couples en route to rehearsal dinners. At the hotel's front desk, he told the clerk, an officious young man of about twenty-five with a pencil-thin mustache, affecting some sort of English accent, that he wanted to check out early.

“Certainly, Mr. Joyce.” The man typed on his computer to pull up Conner's bill. “Oh,” he said. “Some men were looking for you before.”

“Men?” Conner asked.

“Two of them. They left this.” The man produced a note written on watermarked, ivory-laid stationery. On it, in exquisite handwriting: “Mr. Joyce, I'm downstairs at the Coq d'Or Lounge. Regards, Dex.”

Conner gave the note back to the desk clerk. He passed the man a twenty-dollar bill, and asked him if he could arrange to have a bellhop take his suitcases down to the lobby.

“Are you sure there's nothing wrong?” the man asked. Conner looked down to the main entrance of the hotel and saw Pavel approaching the revolving doors. Conner headed downstairs. He made his way to the first door he could find, which led to the men's room.

Conner scrubbed his face, using a white washcloth from a small wicker basket by the sink. Was he overreacting? What was there to be frightened of? An Eastern European man had bought a bunch of his books and asked to introduce him to a friend. Sure, something about the man seemed sinister, but no one had threatened him. Perhaps this Pavel and his friend Dex, whom Conner imagined as a bald-pated Russian mobster who dabbled in the black market—maybe something to do with uranium rods—didn't understand that you didn't randomly approach authors, buy all their books, and demand special meetings. Perhaps Dex was just uncommonly rich and didn't think the usual protocols applied to him. Perhaps the usual protocols were stupid. Conner was continuing to work through scenarios when he looked in the mirror and saw the door to the bathroom opening. Pavel was entering.

To his left, Conner espied another door. On it was a brass plaque engraved,
to coq d'or lounge
. His face not yet dry, Conner made his way to that door and entered.