Since his earliest inklings, Max had written on legal pads
with a Pilot, fine point, black pen. Nothing else could
satisfy him, but the feel of those words flowing beneath his
hand, the scratching sound of the pen against paper.
Hell, how could he tell Ruth and Cynthia that this was the
only way it worked for him? More than anyone knew, he hated
having to depend on others to put his books into a format
accepted by the publishing world.
He hated needing them. Need in human relationships always
led to compromises he felt he couldn’t make.
But the process only happened one way. He had to write, then
had to edit, by hand. It was the only way. Like a baseball
player who put his clothes on in the exact order before each
game, this was his superstition.
“No. I can’t try typing the book myself.”
Ruth sighed, looking at him with worried eyes. “Are you sure
you don’t want to try again to give me the pages you’ve
handwritten. I can get them transcribed and bring the text
back to you?”
It was Max’s turn to sigh roughly. “You know what happened
last time we tried that. No one can read my damned
handwriting. I need to be in the vicinity when the typing is
being done.”
“That’s the problem. You don’t like your typists and they
then prefer not to be in the ‘vicinity’ where you are.”
After a momentary pause, he said suddenly, “You, Ruth. You
could do it.”
“Max, I can’t be your typist. I have a job, a family.
Clients, believe it or not, who aren’t you. I cannot be your
typist. Besides, I can’t read your writing, either!”
His gaze dropped from hers in silent acknowledgment of her
point.
His joy had always come from his words, from the pure, clean
crafting of sentence after sentence. He also enjoyed running
through the park, drinking endless cups of strong coffee
and, of course, having sex with women. There were pleasant
moments to be had in this life, but his greatest peace came
when falling asleep after a day of upending his visions onto
paper.
Ruth shuffled through a stack of phone messages. “Oh. Pete
called yesterday after I left.”
It had always seemed ironic to Max that he and his brother
shared the same literary agent. As writers, they were most
divergent in their work. Actually, the two were divergent in
every significant way, and always had been.
They hadn’t spoken in several years. He wished he could miss
him, but how could he miss a brother with whom he’d never
really connected?
Not once in the last five years had his brother called him,
but who would expect him to, considering everything. Still,
there was that unshakeable sense of loss that made no sense
to Max. He and Pete had never been particularly close.
“Have you talked to him lately?” Ruth asked.
“What?”
“Your brother. Have you talked to him recently?”
The concern in her voice sandpapered a tender spot he’d long
avoided.
“What an interesting question,” he said gently. “What do you
think?”
Ruth was slow in answering. “I think you’re too isolated,
Max. You’re great with my family, and Cynthia’s. Won’t you,
at least, try connecting to your own? This feud between you
and Pete has gone on long enough. He is your only family,
after all.”
Max’s laugh clanked in his own ears, the bone-deep sound of
a harsh, cold pain. “I should have remembered that little
point, shouldn’t I, Ruth?”
“People make mistakes.”
Her voice was matter-of-fact. If she’d offered him sympathy,
he’d have succumbed to the urge to snap back at her. But
there was no vestige of pity in her words. Ruth knew him too
well after all these years.
“Yeah. Mistakes.” Max kept his own words dry and bored. “One
of these days I’ll send Pete a greeting card and mention that.”
“His latest book is doing well. Some people really care
about pampering African Violets.”
Max swallowed at the tightness in his throat. “Well, I’m
glad. Pete has to eat. It’s good for you, too. More than one
string to your bow.”
“Don’t you think Pete misses you, too?”
“I think not.” He turning the conversation back to his
principle concern. “How many typist imbeciles to interview
tomorrow?”
“I don’t know exactly. I’ve arranged for job candidates from
two different agencies to come by in the morning. But you
better find someone you can tolerate, Max. We’re running out
of options and, most importantly, out of time.”
“Yes.” His anxiety conjured up the hallucinations that kept
him pacing the nights away. Failure. No manuscript to turn
in to Cynthia. No words. No world all his own to engulf him,
wrap him securely in its silken web.
Max moved to get up. “Well, I’ll be leaving and let you get
on with returning your phone calls.”
“Wait.” Ruth looked at him, indecision in her face. “You
know Pete has been divorced for almost four years. You ought
to call him.”
Max turned toward the door. “I’ll be expecting the typists
at ten this morning.”
He didn’t need this now, the reminder of Pete. While he
wrestled with the blank space in his head, his random
demons—particularly the godawful mess he’d made of things
with his brother—could only confuse matters. Now wasn’t the
time to think about Pete.
“He’s raising Ryan by himself, you know,” Ruth persisted.
His hand clenched on the door, Max fought the image that
sprung up in his head. The anger on Pete’s face, quickly
replaced by bitterness. It was still so fresh in his mind.
Damn his visual memory. It was his penance.
“It’s not like my brother wants my help in raising his son.
My guess is he doesn’t want my help with anything less than
a kidney. Let me know if he needs one.”
“I know you care about your brother.” Ruth was obviously
picking her words carefully. “You and Pete are all you’ve
got. With both your parents dead….”
Max glanced back over his shoulder, his smile feeling
crooked on his face. “Thanks, Ruth. You’re terrific. I’ll
try and pick a typist I can live with…,for your sake, if
nothing else.”
“I appreciate it. Remember! Dinner tomorrow night. Don’t
disappoint the boys by canceling again.”
“No…. I’ll be there.”
Max walked down the hall to the elevator.
Ruth and Cynthia were necessary to get his books out to the
public. He liked them both and they were surprisingly
tolerant of him. They were pivotal parts of his professional
life and, between the two of them and their families, they
constituted the only social circle he wanted.
For their sakes, as well as for his own, he had to get his
shit together and start writing again.
* * *
“I’m going to make Max Tucker drop his lawsuit. I’m here in
Manhattan until he sees me,” Nicole Miller said into the phone.
“That could be a long time,” her friend, Claire, warned.
“I don’t think so,” she disagreed, feeling confidant. “I’m
going to inform him about this situation, one way or the other.”
“If you carried a handgun, I’d be worried. Are you sure this
isn’t becoming a tad too personal?”
“Yes, I’m sure it’s not personal,” Nicole responded. “This
is about my dad not having to face financial devastation in
his declining years. Max Tucker just doesn’t have all the
facts.”
“How are you going to convince him of that? Tucker is one of
the biggest authors in this decade. I read an article on him
in People. He’s had bestseller after bestseller. He won a
Pulitzer when he was eighteen, for God’s sake. His latest
three books have held the New York Times list hostage for
months. The man has to be worth millions. People wait in
lines to get his books when they first come out. How are you
going to get him to ignore your father’s mistake?”
“Dad did plagiarize some of his work, even if we are only
talking about a few hundred copies of a ‘business manual’
Dad got my cousin to put on the internet. But we didn’t
really get any money out of it and a lawsuit is insane.”
“Your dad can get a lawyer to write him a letter explaining
Alton’s situation and promising he’ll desist—“
“I already wrote that letter,” Nicole told her, exasperated.
“Remember I showed you their reply? Just more crap about how
Dad ‘infringed on Maxwell Tucker’s rights’ and how there has
to be some kind of ‘recompense’.”
In the month since the first letter from Tucker’s lawyers,
she’d had no luck in making them see reason. Their threats
had only escalated.
“Right. Well, the only thing else I can say is--don't buy a
handgun. Sometimes you can get too determined.”
* * *
Nicole leaned against Maxwell Tucker’s building as the
morning sun rose over the tall, jagged skyline. Even now,
heat seemed to rise from the concrete as if the city were a
baking stone that held its warmth all night. On the other
side of the street, a scruffy-looking guy with cameras
festooning his body kept eyeing her.
Trying to look casual while projecting the jaded, confidant
attitude of a city dweller, she glanced idly at nothing.
With Claire’s stalker-warnings ringing in her ears, she was
acutely aware this was the third morning she’d waited
outside Tucker’s building. In this big city, however, no one
really looked at anyone else. Surely, she wasn’t so
conspicuous as to be remembered.
Basically, she was just hoping the doorman didn’t call the
cops. If he did, she’d have to use every ounce of her
feminine charm to avoid getting hauled away.
The scruffy photographer, still looking her way, crossed the
street.
Ignoring him, she hooked her fingers in the belt loops of
her pants. This was ridiculous. She was damned tired of
sitting out here waiting to pounce on Max Tucker.
Something had to give. She had to do something different.
One way or the other, she had to convince that man talk to
her. Her gut told her he had it in him to be decent when he
wanted. The books he wrote had a heart in them. A battered
heart, but emotion and pathos.
A small gathering of people outside the building attracted
Nicole’s attention. Three women stood waiting as the doorman
swept the rug in front of the door.
Without any active plan, Nicole drew closer, barely
conscious of the photographer who now stood only an arms
length away from her.
“Hey,” he said in a low voice. “I’ll give you a hundred
bucks if you get a picture of Max Tucker when you go in for
the job interview.”
“What?” Nicole moved away from him, nearly bumping into one
of the women who waited at the doorway.
“During the interview the agency sent you here for. A
hundred bucks,” the photographer hissed, holding a tiny
camera out for her. “Just snap a few frames when he’s
distracted.”
“No.” She turned away from him. The doorman was motioning
the women into the building.
It all happened in a blurred moment. Nicole pulling back
from the sleazy photographer, the cluster of women moving
toward the door.
Realization burst upon her.
The women waiting at the door were here to apply for a job
with Max Tucker!
This was it! She could join the group. The photographer had
already assumed she was with the others! Her chance to get
in again, to see Tucker again and reason with him. If she
could just talk to him face-to-face, she could convince him
to drop the lawsuit. Hadn’t she talked herself around way
worse situations.