“Mr. Fremont—” she began.
“It’s Oliver,” he said.
“I wouldn’t have met you without an introduction from Kermit,” she said. “Unlike many people who come to your agency, I made only a partial submission. I’m flattered by your comments about my work, but I think I’m getting special treatment. I think I’ll feel more comfortable about my submission if you can look at the finished manuscript and then tell me if you think it’s publishable.”
Fremont leaned back in his chair, a bead of light in one eye. He massaged his temple with two fingers. “Not too many writers tell me that,” he said.
“It seems like a reasonable point of view,” she said.
“Not in my world.”
Weingart had been snapping his fingers at the waitress for more tartar sauce. “Sorry, I didn’t catch that. Telling the in-house secrets, are we?”
“You’re a special kind of fellow, Robert,” Oliver Fremont said.
“Care to
elaborate on that?”
“Not really. Some writers become the stuff of legends for different reasons. Harold Robbins’s agent used to lock him in a cottage at the Beverly Hills Hotel and not feed him until he shoved four pages of finished manuscript under the door. Supposedly Louis Mayer had Hemingway kicked off the MGM lot. Hart Crane threw his typewriter through a glass window into Dorothy Parker’s yard. But I think you might become one of those guys for whom the rest of us are only a footnote.”
“One of which guys?”
“Special guys. Legends. Guys people talk about at cocktail parties for many years. Their legends take on a life of their own and grow over the years. Eventually the legends become far more interesting than their work. Finally nobody remembers anything except the legend. The writer becomes something like a scarecrow in an empty field.”
Weingart had stopped eating. “Let me explain what ‘special’ is and why I’m not ‘special.’ Special people need special handling. I’m not an aberration or a curiosity. I’ve read more books than most university Ph.D.’ s. I’m more intelligent than they are, more knowledgeable of the real world, more erudite in front of their students than they are. In short, I’m a civilized man and not ‘special,’ my friend. See, ‘special’ is for the guys who stay in twenty-three-hour lockdown and get two showers a week if they’re lucky. ‘Special’ is for the guys who have to brush their teeth with their finger because they melt the handles of their toothbrushes over a Bic lighter and mold them into shanks. I’m on a first-name basis with a few cell-house acquaintances that are in the ‘special’ category. If you like, I can introduce you to them. Then you’ll be in possession of some hands-on knowledge about ‘special’ guys, and you can impress your friends with it. Want me to arrange a meeting or two before you leave for New York? These guys will love your accent.”
Alafair got up from the table and used the telephone at the bar to call a cab. Then she went outside and waited by the curb without returning to the table. It was dark now, and the lights on the iron drawbridge over the Teche were iridescent with humidity. She looked back over her shoulder. She had thought Kermit Abelard might follow her out of the restaurant. Instead, he was arguing with Weingart at the table. No, “arguing” was the wrong term, she thought. When people argued, they spoke in heat, leaning forward with wrinkled brows, their throats corded, the flesh around their mouths bloodless. But Kermit kept pausing to allow Weingart to speak, lowering his long eyelashes, his face colored by embarrassment rather than passion. Oliver Fremont rose from his chair, his gaze fixed on Alafair, and walked between the tables and out the French doors, speaking to neither Kermit nor Weingart.
“Just a thought or two for you to keep in mind, Ms. Robicheaux,” he said. “When I said I loved your work in progress, I meant it. I think your talent is enormous. Do whatever you wish about submission. Finish the manuscript or send it along in chunks. But send it to me, understand? No one else. I want to be your agent, and it’s not because you’re friends with Kermit. I think you’re going to be hugely successful.”
“Thank you.”
“What I’ve told you is not a compliment, it’s a fact. Second, that guy Weingart is a world-class jerk nobody in the industry takes seriously. He’s an embarrassment to his publisher and a self-important moron who will probably crash and burn on a live TV show when he’s drunk or insulting a woman or making racist remarks. But it’s going to happen, and when it does, his phone calls won’t be answered and his publishing contracts will disappear. Because he’s a megalomaniac, he’ll never figure out what brought about his downfall, and he’ll spend the rest of his life blaming everyone else. You got all that?”
“I think so,” she replied.
“You want me to escort you home?”
“No, I’m fine. You’re a nice man.”
“That looks like your cab,” he said. After the cab pulled to the curb, he opened the back door for her and closed it after she was inside. The window was open. He leaned down toward it. “You’re going to have a great career. Weingart couldn’t shine your shoes, and frankly, neither could Kermit.”
But it wasn’t over. Kermit Abelard virtually plunged out onto the sidewalk, both hands held up to stop the cabdriver. He grabbed the back door, leaning inside. “Don’t leave like this,” he said.
“Like what?” she asked.
“Mad, hurt, upset, whatever you want to call it.”
“I’m none of those things, Kermit. I made a mistake. It’s on me, not you. It’s not even on Robert in there. So now I’m going home.”
“What mistake?”
“About who you are. You’re somebody else. Or maybe you have two or three people living inside you.”
“If I’m not the person you thought I was, then I’d appreciate your telling me who I am.”
“I’m not sure. But I won’t be there to find out, either. You were the only one, and I want you to remember that as long as you live.”