Final Appeal (9 page)

Neal Wallace was scowling as he unlocked his mailbox and pulled up on the metal door. The rusty hinges were stuck again. How the hell was he supposed to get his mail when the damn door wouldn't open? Somebody ought to drag Hennessy out of his fancy beach house in Malibu and force him to move into his own rotten building. Then things would be fixed in a hurry! A couple of years ago some judge had actually sentenced a slum landlord to six weeks of living in one of his units. Neal had read all about it in the paper. If he could only remember the judge's name, he'd sic him on Hennessy.

There were plenty of things wrong with Hennessy's building. The pipes leaked, the toilets flushed erratically, and there were hunks of plaster missing from the walls. It was clear the place was falling apart, but Hennessy refused to make repairs. Unless he was openly breaking some law, he didn't have to. When Neal had complained about his toilet, Hennessy had told him to fix it himself or move out. There were people on the waiting list to get his loft. Artists were willing to put up with massive inconvenience as their lofts were big with plenty of light. Good work space was tough to find.

Neal's face was like a thundercloud as he struggled with the mailbox door. The morning had begun very badly. There had been a late-night party for a friend who was leaving town, with plenty of food and drinks. And when he'd crawled out of bed this morning with a pounding head and the terrible thirst of a man who'd munched on salted peanuts all night, he'd discovered that he was out of orange juice.

There had been no choice but to go out and buy some. The water was terrible, and he refused to drink it. It tasted every bit as vile as it looked, with particles of sludge from the decrepit pipes. For all Neal knew, it could be toxic. Maybe he ought to sic the Hazardous Waste Commission on Hennessy.

There was a convenience store three blocks down, and Neal had thrown on an old pair of jeans and a Cal Arts sweatshirt to make the trek. And while he was standing in line behind some construction workers who were getting refills on their plastic cups of coffee, some little queer had tried to pick him up! Why did everyone assume that all artists were gay?

On the way home, Neal had studied his reflection in every window he passed. He didn't look gay. Sure, he pulled his long brown hair back in a ponytail, but long hair was coming back. And he didn't walk gay. No mincing little steps or a swish of the butt. Of course, he wore an earring, but that shouldn't matter. Pirates had worn gold studs in their ears.

And now the mailbox wouldn't open. Neal felt like ripping the whole bunch right off the wall. He'd be doing the rest of the tenants a favor. Hennessy would have to replace them to comply with postal regulations.

It took another few tugs and a good whack with his fist, but at last the door opened with a squeal of protest. Neal stared at the contents of his narrow metal cubicle with shock. There was a whole pile of letters inside, all addressed to him. Not circulars, not bills or advertising offers, but real, personal letters. Neon by Neal was finally getting some public notice. And it was all because he'd landed that commission from the City of Los Angeles.

A pale blue envelope with the
Avant Garde
insignia caught Neal's attention, and he ripped it open eagerly. There was a questionnaire inside with a handwritten note from the editor. Could he please be so kind as to fill out the enclosed?
Avant Garde
was interested in his formal training, his current work, and his future goals. Neal knew exactly what the questionnaire meant. An acquaintance of his had gotten one once.
Avant Garde
was sounding him out about a feature!

Neal picked up the bag with his orange juice and dropped the letters inside. Then he held it under one arm while he unlocked his door. The moment he was inside, he plopped down on the awful green and white flowered couch his mother had given him when she'd redecorated her living room, and propped his feet up on the coffee table. The couch was white wicker, one of Neal's least favorite materials, with a thin cushion on top. Definitely uncomfortable. And the chair that matched it wasn't any better.

He reached for the orange juice and took a swig straight from the bottle, a habit he'd developed in his teenage years that had driven his mother crazy. Who should he call to share his good news? He'd better wait until
Avant Garde
had made a firm commitment before he told his mother. She'd call all the ladies in her bridge club to brag, and if the article failed to appear, she'd take it out on him. His mother's wrath was something Neal went out of his way to avoid.

Neal reached for the phone and dialed the Cal Arts switchboard. The only person he really wanted to tell was Tom. Tom had landed a teaching position after they'd graduated, and he was still doing some decent work on the side. One of his pieces had hung in the County Art Museum. It wasn't his best work. Those pieces were a little wild for the general public. but it was still a real achievement. Because this was Tom's conference hour, he'd probably be in his office on campus.

After a moment's thought, Neal hung up the phone before the call could go through. Tom would be so excited at the news that he'd rush right over with a bottle of champagne. Then they'd sit around and get stoned all night, and two nights in a row were more than Neal's system could take. He had to be in good shape to start work on the city mural tomorrow. It was the most ambitious project he'd ever attempted. As far as he knew, no one had ever done a neon mural on a freeway overpass before. His scaffolding was already in place, and the electrical cables were in. He'd provided the workers with a diagram of the wiring, and everything had been done to his specifications. Tomorrow Neal would personally connect the tubes so that the mayor could throw the switch at the public unveiling this weekend.

Neal shivered a little as he thought about the scaffolding. Whenever he made signs, he hired someone else to climb up on the roof to bolt them in place. Heights scared him. He got dizzy just climbing up on a step stool to get something out of the cupboard. The thought of lowering himself on the scaffolding with nothing but the freeway beneath him was a real white-knuckle proposition. He'd been planning on hiring a crew to connect the tubes while he directed them by walkie-talkie from the nice safe ground below. But then the hostess of
On the Town,
a local television program, had called to ask if she could do on-the-spot coverage.

The request from
On the Town
had changed Neal's whole outlook. His fear of heights had seemed insignificant in light of the publicity he'd get. It had always been his dream to be featured on the cover of a national magazine, and now he had a good shot at it, especially if
On the Town
got some good footage of the fearless artist at work, his ass hanging out in the breeze.

Neal looked through the rest of his mail and sorted it into piles. A letter from a lady who'd been to MONA, the Museum of Neon Art, and had seen his display. She wanted to buy Blue Flamingo, the piece he'd donated to the museum. Everyone loved that damn thing. He could make a fortune if he mass produced it, but that wouldn't be fair to MONA. He'd call and try to sell her one of his other works.

Two people wanted estimates on business signs, a restaurant on Pico and a real estate office in the valley. Neal hated to do signs, but they were his bread and butter. It was boring work, and they never wanted anything creative or different, but he always got his money up front, and it paid the rent. After
On the Town
made him famous, maybe he could turn down the sign work.

Another letter, on cream-colored monogrammed stationery, sounded promising. A lady in Beverly Hills wanted to commission a large neon sculpture for her husband's office. Beause he owned a film production company, Neal knew that it meant plenty of people going in and out to admire his creation. This could lead the way to a goldmine in private commissions.

The rest of the mail was stuff he could answer later. There was a student who wanted to work as his apprentice for the summer, and a request for him to teach a class in neon technique. They couldn't pay much, just a small stipend. He'd call to find out how small their stipend was.

The last letter, written in ballpoint pen on tablet paper, was a real gem. It was a plea for help from a couple in Minnesota named Deke and Sally Torgesen. Neal had no idea how they'd gotten his address. The Torgesens had inherited her grandfather's farm, and they were turning the old barn into a neon museum. They'd resurrected over a hundred antique neon signs. That was very nice, but the last few sentences were the ones that had captured Neal's interest.

Deke and Sally were doing the outside wall of their museum, the one that faced the highway, in neon. They were using an original quilt pattern that had been designed by Sally's great-grandmother. Because the pattern called for a rainbow of colors, they were desperate to know the mixture of gases that would make up a good strong purple.

Neal laid Deke and Sally's letter on top of his pile. It was the one he'd answer first, right after he'd filled out the
Avant Garde
questionnaire. A barn draped with a neon quilt. The concept fired his imagination. When he got the money for the city mural, he might just fly out to see it.

 

 

Michael watched through the peephole as the delivery man walked away. It was a bit like Christmas, and Stan had played Santa again. When they'd talked last night, Michael had mentioned he wanted a computer. Was there some way he could rent one? Since Stan had told him to stay in behind locked doors, he might as well put the time to good use by learning something about the new technology. Then he'd be better equipped to find a regular job after Stan had won his appeal.

Stan had seemed pleased at his interest, especially when Michael had confessed that he was going a little stir crazy, and that he was really tempted to go out. But if he had something productive to do, he was sure he wouldn't even think about leaving the apartment. Stan had told him to sit tight, and he'd promised to see what he could do. And less than fourteen hours later, the delivery man had rung his bell.

Michael had stripped off his shirt and opened the door with the chain on. He'd told the delivery man that he was just out of the shower, and he'd asked the man to leave it in the hallway. Michael would take it in himself just as soon as he put on some clothes. The only part of Michael Hart's anatomy the delivery man had seen was his right arm poking through the crack in the door to sign the receipt. Not even a borderline paranoid like Stan would be worried that the delivery man could recognize his bare arm!

When Michael was sure the hallway was empty, he opened the door and lugged the heavy box inside. He'd call Toni right away. She was the one who'd told him what to order so his system would be compatible with hers. Now that he thought about it, he'd really put his foot in his mouth when he'd told her he was a writer. That first night at dinner she'd seemed so uncomfortable, he'd asked more questions about her computer. And after she'd demonstrated a couple of functions her system could perform, he'd commented that it seemed like a useful tool for a writer to have. That one little comment had opened the floodgates.

The next night she'd told him about software. There was a wonderful thesaurus program that came with Microsoft Word. And their user-friendly dictionary contained more than a hundred and thirty thousand words.

Later that evening, after a delicious roast pork stuffed with apricots and apples, she'd zeroed in like a preacher saving a sinner's soul. They'd been sipping a glass of Stan's Lafite Rothschild when she asked if he remembered the spelling program she'd mentioned. Michael had nodded, and Toni had continued to tell him about it. Had she told him that it was interactive? That meant he could run it and correct his misspelled words right in the document itself. Wouldn't that save him time if he didn't have to worry about checking his spelling?

The next night they'd covered printers. Toni had served five-alarm chili with big hunks of meat and no beans. After dinner, she'd started to talk about computer things again. It seemed the new laser printer could give him camera-ready documents, and since it had to down-loadable fonts, he could call up any typeface he wanted. And if Michael bought a system that was compatible with hers, he could bring her a memory stick and use her printer to print his work.

The next night was turkey with oyster stuffing and creamy mashed potatoes. As soon as they'd eaten and gone into the living room, they'd discussed training. So what if he knew nothing about computers? The training was simple as long as he didn't try to download and read the manuals. Toni swore they'd been translated into English by someone in a third world country. And she'd promised that she could teach him everything he needed to know to write his novel. He'd be computer literate in just a couple of days.

The next afternoon she'd called him to come over and look at her modem. It connected her computer with data banks all over the country, and it made her research a snap. He would have no need to buy expensive reference books or go to the library. If he had a computer and a modem, everything would be right there at his fingertips.

Michael was aware that Toni was wearing down his resistance. He'd given her the argument he'd been saving for this moment. Computers were expensive.

Not really, Toni had countered. Michael should realize that he wouldn't have to buy any of the extras. She could provide practically any program he needed. She'd simply give him a link to the software she'd stuck on the cloud and he could use everything she had.

Michael had hesitated and finally agreed that it sounded like a computer was something he could use. But he wasn't sure he was quite ready. It was true that it would be much less expensive if he bought a stripped-down model and relied on Toni for the software, but it was still a lot of money to spend, especially since he was living off a limited family inheritance.