The Way of All Fish: A Novel (44 page)

Judge Carolee Menekee ruled in favor of Shirlee Murphee, saying that in her judgment, even if the agency were correct, Ms. Murphee had every right to turn her fiction into nonfiction and that, as nonfiction, it was a completely new book with which the Hess Agency had no connection.

5.

T
he real surprise of the publishing season, hitting stores fast on the heels of
Robbie
(a name affectionately applied to the Bub Biggins bestseller), was The Skunk Ape Trilogy by Donny Thugz. Skunk Ape was
published by the new and forward-looking Humpback House publishers, whose innovative CEO took the book on and turned it into three dioramas with more than two hundred moving parts.

The most popular volume of the three-part book is Volume II, which features an alligator cave where the Skunk Ape (as legend has it) likes to rest. The player can move into the cave a number of little cardboard tourists who are searching for the Skunk Ape. Whether the tourists come out of the cave, or in what condition they exit, is up to the player. (To assist the players, extra little tourists are supplied in various stages of dismemberment.)

The Skunk Ape Trilogy has been a complete and utter smash with children of all ages. When Donny Thugz did his book signing at Barnes & Noble, the store was mobbed. All of the bookstores where Donny appeared on his whirlwind tour were bursting at the seams with wildly enthusiastic kids.

For the first time in Barnes & Noble’s book-signing history, there were protestors—also children—out on the pavement, most carrying placards put out by the recently formed SKUNKBUNK movement. A number of children were interviewed, both Donny devotees and SKUNKBUNKers. “Terrific,” “awesome,” “coolest of the cool,” “hugs to Thugz,” raved Mr. Thugz’s fans. “Crap,” “derivative,” “godawful,” “stink-o” were comments coming from the SKUNKBUNKers.

Two of these children were definitely neither fans of the trilogy nor members of the SKUNKBUNK movement. The Hollander-Trump brothers were leaning against the B&N window watching the procedure. Nodding toward the enormous window display, the twelve-year-old said, “Flash in the pan.” He added wryly, “Like life.” He was carrying a much thumbed and dog-eared copy of DeLillo’s
White Noise.

The younger of the Hollander-Trump brothers claimed to have “read” (air quotes his) this three-part “phenome,” or, as he sardonically put it, “Tried passing it off as my one-book-per-week assignment. Three volumes? That should have been good for three weeks. Dad didn’t buy it.” He rocked his hand by way of illustrating his comment: “But I’ll work it, no sweat.” Under his arm was
The Art of the Deal.

6.

T
he Hess Agency sued Donny Thugz for a discovery fee, claiming that Mr. Hess had spent a great deal of time on The Skunk Ape Trilogy and was himself responsible for it being brought to the attention of Humpback House.

In a surprising move by Judge Owen Oglethorpe, the case was not merely dismissed but banished. Judge Oglethorpe was heard to say in chambers with the plaintiff, “This better be the last ******* time I see you, Hess.”

7.

P
aul Giverney was sitting rather listlessly in his office when Hannah walked in and placed a document on his desk. She said, “It’s still part of
The Hunted Gardens
. It’s got a different title because it’s a squidway.” Hannah walked out.

Paul thought he had misheard. “What in hell’s a squidway?” he asked Molly, who had appeared in the doorway in her apron.

“She asked me what you called it when your story went off on another path. I said that’s called a ‘segue.’ Dinner’s ready in five minutes.” Molly walked off.

Paul picked up the squidway. It was seven pages long. The title page read:

THE RHINESTONE

By Hannah W. Collins

The First Dragon Mystery Ever Written

“You go, girl,” said Paul, turning to the first page.

8.

T
he book that did not make it to the
New York Times
bestseller list was
You Had Me at Good-bye
. The novel was published, however, to great critical acclaim and rave reviews.

Cindy Sella, who had never expected her novel to sell even as well as it did, was perfectly content. Her contentment was owing less to the great reviews than to the miniature pig she had purchased from a sleazy sidewalk pet vendor. She had bought the pig to take to upstate New York but had found it increasingly difficult to part with. She named it Herman and marveled at its ability to use a litter box. Herman sat with Gus on the bench and watched the (still nameless) clown fish lounge on their bed of pink anemone.

Cindy goes often to the Clownfish Café and talks to Frankie and eats the same spaghetti dish she was eating when two hoods came in, hidden in coats, and shot up the aquarium.

She does not need to text or tweet or take pictures.

Cindy remembers.

9.

C
andy talks about maybe entering Oscar in a contest.

“Contest? Fuck’s sake. What kind of contest is there for fish?”

“There ought to be some endurance contest, something like that. After what he’s been through.”

Karl shakes his head and tries to snap
Publishers Weekly
to show his impatience. “So you line up a bunch of fish, shoot a gun in the air, and shout, ‘Go!’ ”

“You think you know everything about fish, right? The way of all fish, you think you know all that?”

Karl snaps
Publishers Weekly
again, or tries to. “I just know the way of that fuckin’ fish, is all.”

Oscar hangs out in his little Hotel W.

Oscar endures.

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Vertigo 42

Vertigo 42, the City

Monday, 6:00
P.M.

I
t was far too high to see Old Broad Street down below, but the windows that traveled all the way around the lozenge-shaped room gave as great a view of London as he’d ever seen. The Thames, Westminster, St. Paul’s, Southwark, everything miniaturized. He was so high up he fancied he’d almost had an attack of vertigo on the fast elevator that made only one stop, and that one at the top of Tower 42: Vertigo.

Jury was looking down at the Thames, moving off in one direction toward Gravesend and Gallions Reach, which he couldn’t of course see; in the other direction, the Isle of Dogs, Richmond, and Hampton Court. He tried to picture all of those ships that had once steamed toward London’s docks, toward Rotherhithe and the Blackwall Basin in the not-so-distant past, and in just such light as Jury was seeing now, the sun setting on St Paul’s. In the deep sunset hovering over buildings, the outlines blurred. They might have been dark hills.

He was looking toward Docklands, an area that used to comprise the West India Docks and beyond to the Blackwell Basin, one thing that remained after the docks closed. Eighty-some acres of what was now the Canary Wharf estate. Hundreds of dockers had once lived and worked there; now it was office workers, glass buildings, and converted warehouses.

Vertigo 42, this bar at the top of one of the financial towers in the “square mile” that made up the City of London—London’s financial district—might have been designed to create the illusion of a city down there. Or perhaps that thought was merely brought on by the champagne Jury was drinking. Champagne was something he never drank and wasn’t used to; but that’s what you got up here, that’s why people came here—to drink champagne.

The champagne had been brought by a waiter “at the request of Mr. Williamson, sir.” The waiter set down two glasses and poured into one of them. Jury drank. He had forgotten champagne; he had certainly forgotten great champagne, if he’d ever known it at all. This lot (he had checked the wine list) was costing Mr. Williamson in the vicinity of 385 quid. One bottle. That much. It was Krug. Was wine this expensive meant to be swallowed? Or just held in the mouth as the eye held on to the barges streaked with orange light there on the river.

The waiter returned with a dish of incandescent green olives, big ones; he placed them on the counter that ran beneath the window and between the rather trendy-looking but very comfortable chairs.

Jury was there to meet not an old friend, but a friend of an old friend, Sir Oswald Maples. The friend of the friend was Williamson, who had ordered the champagne. Oswald Maples had asked Jury if he could spare some time to talk to Tom Williamson, and Jury said, “Of course. Why?” To which Oswald had said, “You’ll see.” Jury filled his glass again before he moved to another window and another view of the Thames.

“My favorite view,” said a voice behind him. Jury turned.

“Superintendent Jury? I’m Tom Williamson. I’m very sorry I’m late.”

“I’m not,” said Jury, lifting the Krug from its ice bed. “You will notice this is considerably below the waterline.”

Tom Williamson laughed and poured a measure into his own glass. He was a tall man, taller by an inch than Jury himself. “Fortunately, there’s a lot more sea.” He raised his glass, tipped it toward Jury’s. “You like ships, Superintendent?”

“I don’t know anything about them, except there’s a waterline on the hull.”

Tom smiled. “I love them. My grandfather was in the shipping business. Down there used to be steamships of the East India Company loaded with stuff—tea, spices, as many as a thousand ships going toward the docks. And barges. Now we’ve got tourist cruisers and speedboats. Still a lot of river traffic, just not the same traffic. Thanks for meeting me.”

The thanks came without a pause between it and the river traffic. The way he talked, the directness, as if he didn’t want to waste any time, made Jury smile. Williamson had yet to remove his coat, which he now did, and tossed it over one of the coolly blue amoeba-shaped chairs.

“An interesting bar to choose,” said Jury. “Light-years above the ones I frequent down there.” He nodded toward the window and approaching dark. “Do you work in the City?”

“No. I know nothing about finance. You wonder why I chose it?”

Jury laughed. “I’m not complaining, believe me. It must have the best views of anyplace in London.”

“Yes. I don’t come here often.” He sat back. “Perhaps I chose it because up here is quite literally above it all.” He sipped some champagne.

Jury smiled. “What’s the ‘all’?”

Williamson looked perplexed.

“That you want to be above?”

Williamson picked up an olive but didn’t eat it. He put it on one of the small paper napkins the waiter had supplied. “You know a man with the Devon-Cornwall police. A Commander Macalvie?”

Jury was so surprised by this sudden segue he spilled his champagne, fortunately only on himself. “Sorry.” He brushed at the spill with a napkin. “Brian Macalvie? I certainly do. But it was Sir Oswald Maples who spoke to me about you—”

“Of course. I’m sorry. I’m tossing too many balls in the air.” He plucked the bottle from its stand and poured more for each of them. “I don’t know how much Oswald told you . . .”

“Nothing, other than that you worked for the Government Code and Cipher School, GC and CS. Not when he was there, but after it changed to GC Headquarters and got moved to Cheltenham.”

Tom Williamson nodded.

Jury went on: “Sir Oswald knows I’m a sucker for that stuff. I stopped at Bletchley Park to see the Enigma machine. It was incredible work they did, Alan Turing and the others.”

Williamson said, “Oswald was at Bletchley Park during the war. He was really into it, very high up. I wasn’t so much; my work was small potatoes by comparison. Your name came up—that is, he thought of you when I was visiting him one evening in Chelsea. It’s about my wife, Tess.”

“Your wife?” Jury looked over his shoulder, quite stupidly, as if he expected to find Tess there, behind their chairs.

“She’s dead.”

Somehow, Jury had known that, even as he turned to look for her.

“Seventeen years ago.” He paused long enough to have counted every one. “We had—I still have—a house in Devon, very large, too large for us, certainly. Woods, extensive gardens, tiered and rather Italianate, I suppose, and too much to maintain, even with the gardener, who’s been there for years. But Tess wasn’t really interested in bringing it back, as they say, to its former glory. She liked the unruliness of it, the wildness. She was a bit of a romantic, Tess.”

It had grown dark now and the lights had come on along the Embankment and across the river in Southwark. “I met Tess in Norfolk, along the coast. We liked to watch the lights in the harbor. That’s the other reason I like this bar. Down there. The lights coming on.” He stopped.

Jury waited.

Tom cleared his throat and went on. “I was talking about our house in Devon. As for me, I saw a lot of unkempt lawn, tangled vines, rioting weeds, and tree rot.” The laugh was perfunctory, not happy. “At the rear of the house in the gardens there were—are—two concrete pools, ornamental once, I expect. Empty now. There’s a wide patio and a flight of wide stone steps. Urns placed strategically round the patio and at the top and bottom of the stairs.” He looked away from the dark Thames below, curving in the distance. “Excuse all of the detail, but this is where she died, you see. At the bottom of these stairs. Tess was given to attacks of vertigo.”