What Have We Done (21)

“Mr. Danger’s my dad,” Donnie says, instinctively carting out the rock-star persona. “Not that I ever met that son of a bitch.” He barks a laugh. “Call me Donnie.”

“Hi, Donnie, I’m Reeves Rothschild.”

“Reeves Rothschild,” Donnie repeats, amused. “Sounds like royalty. I feel like I should bow or something.”

“A handshake works,” Reeves says.

They shake and sit. A waitress with a tight blouse and piercings crawling up her ear asks if they want anything to drink. Donnie thinks on it—maybe just one; it’s been a helluva week, after all.

“I’ll have a Car Bomb.”

The waitress looks confused, then realizes it must be a drink. She nods, looks to Reeves. He hesitates. “I’ll have the same.”

This makes Donnie smile.

“Thanks for meeting with me,” Reeves says. “It’s amazing you’re already out of the hospital. Are you feeling better?”

“I’ve got a nasty bump on the head, but otherwise, good as new.” There’s an awkward silence.

Donnie finally says, “So they say you wanna write my story.”

“I do.” The kid says it like he almost means it.

“Now why in the hell would you wanna do that?” Donnie asks with a crooked smile.

Reeves gives his own sideways grin, acknowledging that maybe this isn’t the Great American Novel he’s always envisioned.

The waitress arrives with two tall glasses of Guinness, and two shots of Jameson mixed with Baileys Irish Cream.

Reeves has a bemused expression.

“Tell me about yourself,” Donnie says, making a show of holding up the shot glass and dropping the liquor into the glass of stout. He quickly chugs the beer before the cream curdles. “Where’re you from, Reeves?”

“Westport, Connecticut.”

That fits.

Reeves mimics Donnie’s move and downs the drink. “I live in New York now,” he says, wiping foam from his mouth.

“How long you been a writer?”

Reeves smiles. “My first novel was published five years ago. I was actually in law school—both parents and my two siblings are all lawyers—but I dropped out.”

That’s one point for the kid. He’s passionate, breaking away from what was expected of him. It still doesn’t explain why he’d agree to write a book about some washed-up rocker, but still.

Picking up on Donnie’s thought, Reeves says, “Look, I know I’m not an obvious choice.”

“What, were your parents big fans or somethin’?” Donnie asks.

This amuses Reeves for some reason. “I wouldn’t say that.”

“Then what?”

“I had this dream, you know? Everyone thought I was crazy dropping out of law school. My father’s still furious. And while my first novel received starred reviews and literary awards, it sold fewer than five thousand copies. My publisher dropped me. I’m the joke of my family.”

“And you need the money?”

Reeves smiles. “Well, there’s that.”

“Now that’s somethin’ I can relate to,” Donnie says. He downs the remnants of the drink, raises a hand to catch the waitress’s attention.

“But it’s more than that,” Reeves says. “When my agent called, I thought she was kidding. But then I did some research … on you.” The writer makes eye contact with Donnie now. “And I think I can do your story justice. I think I understand.…”

What it’s like to be a joke, Reeves mercifully doesn’t say. Donnie examines the kid. Against his better judgment, he asks, “How would this work?”

“However you want. I suggest we get to know one another and perhaps you can tell me about your life. I can identify the parts that I think would make for a good story and write an outline. We can

discuss the outline, and then I’ll write a first draft and get your feedback.”

“That’s it?” Donnie asks.

“That’s it, though we’ll need to spend at least a week together.”

Donnie thinks about this. Mickey consulted with one of his contacts in the publishing world, and the terms for the deal are a bit unusual, he said, but so is falling off a cruise ship into the Atlantic, and the money is right.

“Seven days in my life.” Donnie laughs, motions to the next round of drinks the waitress sets on the table. “Think you can handle that, Reeves?”

“It’ll be like Hemingway in Paris.”

Donnie has no idea what that means, but he likes this kid.

They drink more Car Bombs. Talk some more. That leads to dinner, sixteen-ounce dry-aged bone-in rib eye at one of the hotel’s fancy restaurants called StripSteak. A woman approaches their table and asks Donnie for a selfie. He hasn’t gotten so much attention outside the cruise ship or second-rate venues in years. He offers a crocodile smile for the photo and she scuttles off.

By midnight, Donnie is feeling sloppy, but he’s made a decision and he thinks he’ll be okay with it when he sobers up. He and Reeves stumble into the hotel lobby. Donnie looks at the writer.

“Hemingway, my boy, let’s do it.”

Reeves’s eyes are bloodshot. With slurred speech, he says, “You’re sure? We can talk tomorrow if you need to think about—”