Dastardly Bastard(5)

“I don’t know, Bobbi. Isn’t it just going to be like I’m trying to make up for the fact that Paul isn’t here?”

“Maybe that’s what Lyle needs. Just to know you want to do those same things with him. Think about it, Marsha. I need to get to sleep. Tell Lyle I love him, won’t you?”

“Sure. Good night, Bobbi.”

“Good night.”

“Are we going to go?” Lyle was back in the doorway.

“How long have you…? Never mind.” She offered him a smile, but let it die when she realized he had his face buried in the screen of his cell.

“You actually gonna take me out there?” He lifted his head and met her eyes.

“Do you want me to?”

He shrugged.

“You have to give me a little more than that… Brody.” Marsha wasn’t too fond of her son’s middle name, but Paul had chosen it, and while alive, had called Lyle by the moniker more often than not. Calling her son Brody was a last ditch effort at getting his attention.

It seemed to have worked.

The corner of Lyle’s mouth lifted into an almost smile. “Sure. Let’s go.”

“You going to leave that here?” She pointed at the phone.

“Yeah, right.” He actually laughed. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d heard his laughter.





3




DONALD ADAMS WOKE UP THAT morning just a little bit taller. His newest book, eMurder, had been announced as number one on the New York Times Best Seller List. The hotel room was colder than he would have liked, so his first order of business after checking his email was to adjust the thermostat.

It was almost seven o’clock in the morning, an hour later than his normal waking time. He’d set the alarm so he could catch the announcement about eMurder the minute the news dropped. Rumors had him at number one, but he wanted to make sure. Wondering why the alarm hadn’t gone off, he checked the settings on the clock. He’d set it for p.m., not a.m.. Honest mistake, but he wondered why his internal clock had let him sleep in. If nothing else, he would doze until a quarter past six. Never an entire hour over.

To the literary world, Donald Adams was H.R. Chatmon. His alter ego was a five-foot-nine model named Jeff Carter. Donald used Jeff for all publicity photos and book signings. Jeff’s pockets were amply lined for his services and appearances by Scribner, Donald’s publisher.

The decision to use Jeff had been Donald’s, not Scribner’s. Donald was three-foot-nine with dwarfish features—over-large forehead, stubby arms and legs—and he felt a taller, more attractive man would sell more books. Other little people would definitely take offense at Donald’s decision, but he couldn’t have cared less. He didn’t want to be known as the first dwarf to have made it to the bestseller list, because in the end, that’s all anyone would see. Most would even attribute his stature to the reason he was selling so many books. He would be the literary equivalent of a sympathy-fuck.

Donald had heard through the grapevine that Stephen King had published as Richard Bachman for an experiment. Could King publish under another name and receive the same success he’d enjoyed with Carrie? The prolific author had, and Donald envied the man that. One day, somewhere over the horizon, Donald would let the world in on his little secret and watch his own sales spike. For the moment, he would remain H.R. Chatmon, the five-nine, sexy version of himself. Thanks to Jeff.

His morning shower was hot, relaxing. Donald could hear his cell vibrating on the tile counter over the thrumming of water in his ears, but tried to ignore it. No doubt, it was Lars Stillstead, his agent, wanting to let him know the glorious information he’d received in his email.

“Yeah, yeah, Lars… New York Times… best seller… blah, blah, blah,” Donald droned as he washed his hair with the vanilla-scented shampoo the hotel provided. He always used the stuff, having never brought his own toiletries along on trips. What was the point when four-and five-star places—the only hotels suitable for a bestselling author such as himself—carried the best of the best? If Donald were to go out and buy the shampoo he was currently using, he’d spend over a hundred dollars for a sixteen-ounce bottle. His frugality was the reason Donald was sitting on over four million in his savings account. That, and the fact he had no place to call home.

During his book signing tours, which lasted six to eight months, there was no need for a permanent address. When Donald wasn’t on tour, he stayed with friends and family. None of them knew he was technically homeless, all of them so happy to see him they would offer a guest room or guest house for his use. He would feign shock, adding phrases like, “I couldn’t impose,” and “I have other arrangements,” until people actually begged him to stay.

When his first book, Timber, had become so popular ten years back, he’d been living in a trailer on the outskirts of Flagstaff, Arizona. The entire book had been written on an old Brother typewriter, a clickety-clack machine Donald would hear in his nightmares after day-long writing sessions. He had since moved on to a three-thousand dollar iMac, so quiet he didn’t know he was working half the time.

He stepped out of the shower, drying off with a plush towel that would probably cost most of America a day’s wages. He used the stool he brought with him everywhere to stand on while he combed his hair and tweezed his eyebrows in the steamy mirror. He was using his electric clippers to trim his reddish-brown beard when he heard the room phone ring.