Gideon (7 page)

“No. I don’t understand
anything
.”

“What else do you need to know?” she asked.

“Let’s start with why you picked me.”

“Because I need somebody who’s a nobody.”

“Well, thanks for clearing that part up.”

“I’m sorry if that sounds harsh,” she said. “But I can’t let a named journalist anywhere near this—he’ll try to find out who Gideon is, and the whole project will go up in smoke. If I go get an established novelist, I’ll have ego problems. They’ll all want their name on the book.”

“What if I want
mine
on it?”

“The only name on this book will be Gideon’s. I need a true ghost, someone who will do this job totally without credit and keep quiet about it. Forever. No one can know you’re working on this. You can’t tell a soul—not even your girlfriend.”

“First of all, I’m not working on this yet. And Second of all, that’s not a problem. I don’t have a girlfriend.”

“Of course you don’t. You and Amanda have been history for what, a year now?”

He cocked his head and squinted at her curiously. “You
do
do your homework, don’t you?”

Maggie’s lips stretched somewhat tightly across her face. He wondered if that was her smile. “You have no brothers or sisters,” she said, “your mother died four years ago, and you and your father barely speak.”

“What else do you know about me?”

“I know
everything
about you, Carl.”

He hesitated, stroked his chin with his thumb. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, I mean, especially to you, but I think I’ll pass.” She looked at him in shock. He wondered if anyone had ever said no to her before. “I don’t like to be rushed,” he explained. “Especially when I’m completely in the dark. I have a tendency to bump into things and hurt myself.”

Maggie let out a wary sigh, rolling her eyes at him as if he were a recalcitrant child. Then she reached over and picked up a soft leather briefcase that was sitting on the floor. She placed it on the sparkling coffee table, opened it, and removed a glossy-looking pamphlet. It was Apex’s summer catalogue. Without saying a word, she opened it to the centerfold, a double-page spread that read:

GIDEON

COMING THIS AUGUST … THE MOST EXPLOSIVE TELL-ALL STORY OF ALL TIME! IT’S SO SECRET, SO CONTROVERSIAL, WE CAN’T EVEN TELL YOU WHAT IT IS—EXCEPT TO TELL YOU THERE HAS NEVER BEEN A BOOK LIKE IT!

FIRST PRINTING: 1,000,000 COPIES

“A million copies,” he said quietly.

“That’s John Grisham and Stephen King territory. Do you know how many novels you’d have to write to sell a million copies?” she asked.

“About half a million,” Carl said miserably.

“At least.”

Maggie returned the catalogue to the briefcase. Next she pulled out an envelope, which she held in front of her, and gestured for him to open it.

He did. Inside was a check for $50,000 made out to him. The payer was Quadrangle Publications. A new imprint of Apex, she explained, that specialized in topical books of particular news value.
Gideon
was going to launch the imprint. Even as fiction it would be news.

“When you deliver a satisfactory manuscript, you’ll get another check for a hundred and fifty thousand. Since I’ll also pay you an additional fifty grand for your novel, you’ll make out quite nicely. The contracts are being drawn up as we speak. But lawyers take forever, and I don’t have forever. I need to start right away. I suppose we’ll have to find you a new agent, too, won’t we?”

Carl was speechless. This woman was handing him the keys to the magic kingdom. She was saying,
Come right on in—you belong
.

“So,” she said. “Here’s the question: Would you like to make a quarter of a million dollars, have a number-one best-seller, and have the best publisher in New York throwing her weight behind you?”

Carl didn’t have to respond to that one. He knew what his answer was, and so did she.

Instead he stepped over to her wall of black glass book-shelves and removed an object he’d been eyeing since the moment he’d come into the apartment. He held it in his hand, stroking it, almost as if it were alive. It was a small golden statue. An Oscar.

“Is it real?” he asked.

“I don’t have
anything
that’s not real,” she told him.

“You won this?”

“I bought it. At an auction at Christie’s.”

He took his eyes off of the magical statue and looked at her, baffled. “Why?” he wondered.

“Because I always wanted one. And, in case you haven’t realized it by now, I always get what I want.”

She now removed a final item from her briefcase: a business card, which she also handed him. “There’s a number written on the bottom. It’s my personal cell phone. If you need me, call me there. Don’t ever go through the Apex switchboard. Don’t ever leave your name on an answering machine. And don’t even
think
about coming here again unless I invite you, and if I do, it won’t be for professional purposes. Officially I don’t know you. Officially you do not exist.” She held out the card, and he took it. Her hand lingered in his a moment longer than it needed to. When she spoke next, her voice was a low, sexy growl. “But unofficially, Carl, I may still have to fuck you.”

Carl Granville put the Oscar back in its proper place on the shelf, then took her card and stuck it in his shirt pocket.

“Please,” he said. “Call me Granny.”

* * *

Several years ago, when he first moved to New York to become a writer, Carl had fantasized about that special day when he would at long last sell his first novel,
Getting Kiddo
. This was no idle fantasy on his part; he’d worked long and hard on refining and perfecting every detail. There were, he’d decided after much thought, three things he would do.

First, he would phone his mother and tell her the news. After all, she was his biggest—and for years and years his only—believer. His father? His father felt Carl should have gone to a proper, responsible business school and gotten a proper, responsible job. Preferably on that called for wing-tip shoes.

Second, he would buy himself a leisurely, solitary lunch at Tony’s, a cozy neighborhood Italian restaurant on West Seventy-ninth Street that was his absolute favorite haunt. he knew exactly what he was going to order, too—a green salad, ravioli with homemade sausages, cannoli for dessert, a bottle of Chianti.

Third, he would split a very expensive bottle of Moët & Chandon champagne with his special lady. They would toast to
Getting Kiddo
, then they’d make love until dawn.

It was, he reflected now, still a lovely fantasy. Which was too damned bad, because his mother was dead, Tony’s was now a shoe store, and there was no lady in his life, special or otherwise. It was, he reflected, awfully damned strange how the world can change around you.

Briefly he thought about calling his father and telling
him
the good news. Then he thought better of it. He thought about calling Amanda and telling
her
. Thought better of that, too. What it boiled down to was that there was no one in the whole world to tell.

Awfully damned strange indeed.

Still, Carl headed for home with a bounce in his stride and fifty thousand dollars in his pocket. He stopped at Citibank and deposited the money into his savings account. Then he bought that bottle of Moët & Chandon at a liquor store on Broadway. He would just go ahead and drink it himself. That much he could do. Hell, yes.

Oddly enough, his feet kept climbing when he reached his apartment door. They took him one flight up, to Toni’s door. Well, why not? She was gorgeous. She was friendly. She was there. He was about to knock when the door flew open and she came running out, fumbling for her keys. She was frantic and out of breath and in a big hurry and she stared at him in surprise, evidently wondering what the hell he was doing standing outside her door. Suddenly he was wondering the exact same thing.

“Something?” she said finally.

“Kind of,” he said. “I was looking for someone to celebrate with. See, I wrote this novel and—”

“That’s fabulous. I’d love to hear all about it, but I have an audition for
All My Children
in fifteen minutes and I haven’t even seen the pages yet and they’re looking for a new vamp and it’s a great part and … oh, God, how do I look?”

She had her hair up, and she wore a tight black minidress with high heels. The effect was absolutely spectacular.

“You look like if they don’t hire you, they’re crazy.”

“You’re a bunny. Thanks! Bye! And congratulations!” Then she went dashing down the stairs as fast as her teetering heels would take her.

Carl sighed and stood for just a moment in the silent hallway, feeling the tiniest bit foolish. The he shrugged, wondered if being a bunny was a good thing or a bad thing, and went back down to his place, unlocked his door.

He felt it before he saw it. As he stepped inside, he whirled to his left.

There was a guy sitting on his bed. He was puffing on a long, slim cigar.

“You brought champagne, Carl. How thoughtful. Listen, I couldn’t find an ashtray. Where do you hide them?”

Carl swallowed, frightened. The man was calm, smiling in a relaxed manner. But there was something about him that made the hair on the back of Carl’s neck stand on end. “I don’t smoke,” he said. The man grunted, dissatisfied. Carl suddenly wished he had something in his possession a little more substantial than a miniature Swiss Army knife in his pocket, which he’d carried since high school. It had just a two-inch-long blade and a nail file. He gripped the neck of the champagne bottle, wondering what kind of weapon it would make. “What do you want?”

“I want you to close the door,” the intruder said. He didn’t move from the bed. Carl realized the apartment was dark and shadowy. Whoever this guy was, he’d drawn the curtains.

“Look, I don’t have any money on me, and—”

“Close it, Carl.” He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t even sound impatient. No need. He was in total control.

Carl closed the door and stood there.

“Good man. Now I want you to go over to the desk, turn on the light, and sit down facing me.”

Carl did as he was told and sat in his swivel chair. The man now stood. He was bigger than Carl, 6’3” or 6’4”, and powerfully built. His hands were monster-sized. His movements were precise and compact, elegant, like a dancer’s. He was maybe thirty-five, with a flat-top crew cut, a neatly trimmed mustache, and heavy black-framed glasses. He was an elegant dresser, to the point of foppish. He wore a fawn-colored silk suit, houndstooth, a linen vest, a lavender broadcloth shirt, and a yellow polka-dot bow tie. He went over and locked the door, paused to tap his cigar ash into the kitchen sink.

“How the hell did you get in here?” Carl demanded.

A faint smile crossed the man’s lips. “It was something of a challenge, I’ll admit. Took me almost six seconds. You ought to invest in a Medeco dead bolt, Carl. Those can sometimes take me up to a minute, depending on the construction of the door frame.”

Carl’s apartment had been a formal parlor ninety or so years ago, before the old town house had been broken up into apartments. There was a fireplace, nonworking, and built-in oak bookcases with glass doors. In place of a chandelier, Carl’s sixty-pound red leather Everlast heavy bag hung in the middle of the room. He’d gotten it the day after Amanda moved to Washington. It wasn’t until three months after that that he’d realized there might be some connection between the two. For furniture he had his bed, a huge old iron one that came from a lunatic asylum in upstate New York, and his desk, a battered rolltop that once belonged to a railroad stationmaster. Also a small dining table, which had no story behind it whatsoever other than the fact it was cheap. It was set up in front of the bay window.

The intruder went over to the window, opened the curtain an inch, and studied the street outside carefully. That’s when Carl saw it. Underneath the expensive silk jacket, over the white vest.

“You have a gun,” Carl said slowly.

“Mmm,” the man said in agreement. “Don’t you like guns?”

“No,” Carl said.

The man nodded his head sympathetically. “Well, get used to them. That’s my advice.”

Carl said nothing. For the first time the man looked impatient. “We have work to do.” When Carl didn’t move, just peered at him curiously, the man said, “It’s a rush job. I thought you understood that part.”

Carl let out a slow breath. It felt like the first breath he’d taken in months. “You’re Gideon.”

“I’m Harry Wagner,” the man said, puffing on his cigar. Short for Harrison, not Harold. And no, I’m not Gideon. I’m what is known in underground circles as the go-between. Rather a quaint, Regency-era term, don’t you think? Carries with it the whiff of tender romance. Intrigue of the trembly, virginal heart. Most inappropriate, don’t you think?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Then trust me. There’s no love going on here, Carl. None at all. There’s only people fucking each other.” As punctuation, Wagner hit the heavy bag with a thundering right hand.

“What people?”

“Nice try, Carl. And I appreciate the effort. But I was told you also understood that part of our little endeavor—no questions.”

Carl glowered at him, not liking any of this. Who was this asshole? What the hell had he gotten himself into? He had the card that Maggie had given him, the one with her cell phone number on it. Abruptly he reached for the phone and dialed.

She answered on the first ring. “What is it Carl?”

Carl froze. “How’d you know it was me?”

“I haven’t given this number to anyone else,” she said impatiently. “Now, what do you want?”

“There’s a very large white man wearing a very ugly tie in my apartment …”

Suddenly Carl felt Harry’s fingers wrap around his wrist. This was not a gentle laying on of hands. This was an iron grip. One that, with so little effort, was causing extraordinary pain. Somehow the man had sprung across the room. Carl hadn’t heard him, hadn’t seen him move. But here he was, crushing the bones in Carl’s right wrist as easily as one might crumple a paper cup. Carl looked up into Harry’s eyes and was very afraid.