Wonders Never Cease (27 page)

“Pushing a mop and bucket is what I do,” Emmet said. “It's honest work, and that's nothing to be ashamed of—you should try it sometime. And as for ‘pretending to be a half-wit,' I did no such thing. You thought me a half-wit because of my age and my job—maybe even the color of my skin. That makes you the half-wit in my book.”

Kemp shook his head in disgust. “A
janitor
. Who would have thought?”

“You're confusing what a man
is
with what a man
does
—big mistake, Mr. Kemp. You don't know me; you don't know who I am or where I'm from or what I can do.”

“I guess I underestimated you.”

“You looked right through me, that's what you did. Happens to folks like me all the time—the invisible man.”

“Believe me, it won't happen again.”

“We'll see.”

Kemp looked him over carefully. “What is it you want, old man?”

“No more than I'm entitled to.”

“You're not entitled to anything.”

“I don't see it that way. We both gave that woman a message; you just figured out a way to get that message published.

The way I see it, part of that message belongs to me.”

“But the whole thing was my idea.”

“Take your idea to the bank and see if they'll cash it for you. Folks will be payin' for the message, not for your bright idea. Half that message is mine.”

“Half? Are you kidding? Hayden barely even remembers you. She's been on
Oprah
for four days, and she just mentioned you for the first time.”

“Give the woman time. It'll come back to her.”

“Besides, your message didn't even make it into the book, and the book is where the money comes from. Why should we pay you?”

Emmet arched one eyebrow. “‘We'?”

Kemp hesitated. “The partners.”

“I wondered about that. I didn't think you could manage to pull off something like this all by yourself. Tell me, who are these partners of yours—or should I say, ‘partners of ours'?”

“They're my partners, and it's none of your business.”

“I say it is.”

“How much do you want, Emmet? I figure five percent tops, maybe less when you consider—”

“I was thinkin' half.”

Kemp's mouth dropped open. “Are you out of your mind? There's no way on earth you're getting half!”

“Seems fair to me. Maybe I was too late to make it into the first book, but everything I told Ms. Hayden'll make it into the next one—the ‘sequel' I think they call it. Think it over, Mr. Kemp: I did you and your partners a big favor. You gave her enough for one book, but I gave her enough for another—and that one's bound to make even more money than the first. I think that's worth half, don't you?”

“Look—you can't—there's no way—”

“There's no point in arguing with you. I want to talk to the partners—all of them.”

“The partners? Why?”

“Because you don't negotiate with a middleman—that's a waste of time.”

“I'm not a ‘middleman.'”

“Are you the one who writes the checks?”

Kemp didn't reply.

Emmet nodded. “I want to talk to the partners.”

“Well, they don't want to talk to you,” Kemp said.

“Yes, they do—they just don't know it yet. When they find out who I am—that I know what you did and I know how you did it—they'll talk to me. They'll talk to me because they want to keep me happy—'cause if I'm not happy, I just might tell somebody what I know.”

“Is that a threat?”

“I'm just negotiating—that's what you wanted, isn't it? ‘Negotiating' just means making sure everybody's happy. You want me to be happy, don't you, Mr. Kemp? Then let me talk to your partners—we'll work out something that'll make all of us happy. I promise.”

“What if I refuse?”

“Then I won't be happy. You don't want that.”

“What if they refuse to meet with you?”

“Why take that chance? Let's surprise 'em. They might not like the idea at first, but once we all have a chance to sit down and talk I'm sure we'll get along just fine.”

Kemp paused. “When?”

“The sooner the better. Tonight works for me.”

“Tonight? Impossible.”

“The sooner the better, Mr. Kemp—once your boys hear what I have to say, I think they'll agree. Why not give 'em a call? Tell 'em you got some emergency. Just make somethin' up—you're good at that. The sooner we get this thing worked out, the sooner we can all rest easy.”

Kemp stared at the wall above Emmet's head . . .

“Well?”

“Take your lunch break at one,” Kemp said. “Meet me in the lobby.”

“I'll be there,” Emmet said. “You know, I believe I feel happier already.”

36

I
t was just after one a.m. when Kemp and Emmet stepped into O'Hara's bar on Gayley Avenue in the heart of Westwood Village, just three blocks south of UCLA Medical Center. The bouncer at the door let them pass without a second look; he was busy explaining the legal drinking age to a belligerent young man with a phony ID. When the door opened, blinding neon light from the Fox Theatre across the street poured into the room ahead of them. The bar was impossibly crowded despite the late hour, with UCLA students jammed around every table and packing every corner. The ceiling seemed low and the room looked dingy and worn. The walls were covered with black-framed photographs of famous patrons and celebrities and UCLA luminaries from years past, and a dozen plasma-screen TVs presented obscure sporting events from all over the globe. The noise was almost overwhelming—a deafening din of laughter and catcalls accompanied by a sound track of classic rock anthems and forgettable '80s tunes. No one in the bar seemed to mind the noise. No one noticed anything beyond their immediate circle of friends—so no one noticed as Kemp and Emmet worked their way toward a table where three other older men were already seated.

Emmet leaned over to Kemp. “It smells like feet in here.”

“College bar,” Kemp shouted back. “They always do.”

Biederman, Wes, and Tino Gambatti sat at a table in the corner of the room. They seemed to hunch over the table slightly, as if they were huddling around a campfire for warmth. They all looked at Kemp as he approached the table—then all eyes immediately shifted to Emmet.

No one said a word.

“Guys, this is Emmet,” Kemp said simply.

Emmet nodded a polite greeting but offered no explanation for his presence; he simply pulled out a chair and sat down. Kemp did the same.

All three men turned to Kemp for an explanation, but Kemp was busy trying to get the attention of a waitress.

Biederman tried to ignore the old man. “Is this your idea of a meeting place, McAvoy?”

“I don't have much time,” Kemp said. “This place is walking distance from the Med Center. It's one of the only places in Westwood open this late.”

“My shoes are sticking to the floor.”

“O'Hara's is a Bruin hangout. All the kids come here.”

“I can see that.” Biederman turned and looked behind him; a young woman was dancing enthusiastically, though no one seemed to be dancing with her.

“We can talk here,” Kemp said. “There's less chance of being overheard than there is on the street.”

“I believe you,” Biederman said. “I can't even hear myself.”

An attractive young waitress sidled up to their table and set a check down in front of Kemp. “Hey, fellas, how you doing tonight? What can I bring you?”

“What's good?” Kemp asked for the group.

“We've got Miller Lite on the cheap tonight—eight bucks for two liters. The Irish nachos are good too—great combination.”

“It was a great combination forty years ago,” Biederman replied. “Today it would eat through my stomach like battery acid. Can I get a glass of white wine, sweetheart?”

She grinned. “You're kidding, right?”

“Just bring us some beer and glasses,” Kemp said. “Clean ones if you've got any.”

The waitress winked and waded back into the sea of bodies.

Wes finally addressed the issue of the unexpected visitor. “Who's your friend, Kemp? When you called this emergency meeting I assumed it would be private. No offense, sir.”

“None taken,” Emmet said. “You must be Mr. Kalamar, since you're the youngest of the three. That would make you the publisher.”

Wes didn't reply.

Emmet turned to Biederman. “And you must be Mr. Biederman—the talent agent, Mr. Kemp said. Is that right?”

Biederman just looked at Kemp.

Last of all Emmet turned to Tino, who had said nothing so far. “That would make you the man from Baltimore—Mr. Gambatti, is it? The investor—the man with the pocketbook.”

Tino kept his eyes fixed coldly on Emmet. “That's odd. You seem to know all about us, but we don't know anything about you.”

Wes glared at Kemp. “You know, this is the second time you've expanded our membership without asking us.”

“I can explain,” Kemp said. “Emmet works at the hospital—on the same floor I do. He's not a nurse, he's just a janitor. A couple of weeks ago, when we were working on—you know—our little project? Well, Emmet happened to—he sort of—”

“I walked in on him,” Emmet said with a smile. “A man pretending to be an angel—never saw anything like it in all my born days. I remember seeing you a few days later, Mr. Biederman, come to pay a visit the moment that poor woman came out of her coma. Right nice of you, I remember thinking. A soul needs a friend at a moment like that—someone to lend a guiding hand when your mind is all muddy and confused.”

Biederman looked as if he'd swallowed those Irish nachos.

Emmet turned to Wes now. “And you, Mr. Kalamar. What a lucky man you must be—blessed, I'd call it. I heard about the new book coming out, and in record time—almost like you wrote it before it even happened.”

Wes opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

Emmet looked at Tino last of all. “And Mr. Gambatti—I don't know exactly what part you play in all this, but you sure know a good investment when you see one. Hookin' up with these three—what a bargain that was.”

“Emmet's the second angel,” Kemp explained. “You know, the black one—the one Liv Hayden told Oprah about this afternoon. Hayden wasn't just making it up, guys. Emmet figured out what we were doing—he came into Hayden's room each night after I was finished and before she went back into her coma. He—he sort of—”

“I threw in a few thoughts of my own,” Emmet said. “Sort of a closing comment, you might say—a different take on things.”

Wes Kalamar looked at him indignantly. “You did
what
? Who do you think you are?”

“Beg pardon?”

“Are you a writer? Have you ever published anything? Do you have any concept of character development or plot or pacing? Do you have any idea how to—”

Emmet interrupted. “Can you tell me how to get to Valencia?”

“What?”

“Valencia—can you give me directions?”

“No,” Wes stammered. “I've never been to Valencia.”

“Then I best get directions elsewhere,” Emmet said. “You don't give directions to a place you never been.”

“We're wasting time,” Kemp said. “The point is, he
knows
—and he wanted to meet with all of you right away.”

Tino glared at Kemp. “And you agreed.”

“I had no choice—he threatened to tell if I didn't. What difference does it make? He knows—he figured it out.”

“He figured it out. All by himself.”

“That's right.”

“Did he figure out our names all by himself?”

Kemp just stared.

Emmet leaned across the table. “Mr. Kemp was nice enough to brief me on your names earlier this evening—just so's I'd know who's who.”

“That was very thoughtful of him—and very bad for us.”

“What's the difference?” Kemp said impatiently. “He knows!”

Tino slowly shook his head. “Bobby, you are a very stupid man.”

“Huh?”

“Why do you think this man wanted to meet the rest of us? Because he only knew about your involvement; he didn't know about the rest of us until you told him. If he had tried to blackmail you, I could have easily killed him—after all, he could only have exposed you, and why would I care about that? But thanks to your stupidity, now he can expose all of us. You've practically made him a partner, you fool.”

Kemp looked at Emmet.

Emmet nodded. “That's about the size of it.”

Kemp tried his best to drum up some justification for his actions but could think of nothing.

Tino ignored him and focused on Emmet instead. “Why did you want to meet with us, old man?”

Emmet cleared his throat. “First of all, I wanted the chance to say to each and every one of you: Shame on you.”

“Excuse me?”

“Shame on you—shame on each of you—for taking advantage of a poor young woman, and for putting words in the mouth of the Almighty. You ought to be ashamed—and fearful too, though I imagine you're all too thickheaded to know it.”

“That's all you wanted? To slap our hands?”

Emmet paused. “No. I want in.”

Tino smiled. “Of course you do. Why should a little shame cause you to miss out on a business opportunity like this?”

“I like to think some good can still come from all this,” Emmet said.

“Why not? A new car, maybe—or a couple of weeks in Vegas.”

“The point is, I know who you are and I know your whole plan, and that makes me practically a partner—you said it yourself. Like it or not, a part of this ‘message' belongs to me—and I think that entitles me to something. Fair is fair.”