"We'll come to that in a moment. But before we do, let me make sure you understand what we have to offer. I mean, if you were successful—and I mean no offense by this—then you wouldn't be talking to me now. You need help. We can offer help. You're in your mid-thirties, correct? Yes, I thought so. Not really old, but a bit late to start a new career plan. People do it, but it's certainly no piece of cake, now, is it?"
Larry found that he was nodding in agreement.
"So," James continued, "what we want to do is give you success. We're talking money in the millions of dollars, Mr. Melford. Fame. Respect. Most anything you'd want would be at your command. Exotic foods and wines? A snap of the fingers. Books? Cars? Women? A snap of the fingers. Anything your heart desires and it's yours."
"But I have to make a small, initial investment, right?"
"Ah, suspicious by nature, are you?"
"Wouldn't you be? My God, you're offering me the world."
"So I am. But no . . . no investment. Picture this, Mr. Melford. You might get lucky and sell the work, might even have a bestseller. But the slots are getting smaller and smaller for new writers. And one reason for that is that our writers, our clients, are filling those slots, Mr. Melford. If it's between your book and one of our clients', and yours is ten times better written, our client will still win out. Every time."
"What you're saying is, the fix is in?"
"A crude way of putting it, but rather accurate. Yes."
"What about talent, craftsmanship?"
"I wouldn't know about any of that. I sell success, not books."
"But it's the public that puts out its money for these books. They make or break an author. How can you know what they'll buy?"
"Our advertising system is the best in the world. We know how to reach the public and how to convince. We also use subliminals, Mr. Melford. We flash images on television programs, theater films; we hide them in the art of wine and cigarette ads. Little things below conscious perception, but images that lock tight to the subconscious mind. People who would not normally pick up a book will buy our bestsellers!"
"Isn't that dishonest?"
"Who's to tell in this day and age what's right and wrong? It's relative, don't you think, Mr. Melford?"
Larry didn't say anything.
"Look. The public pictures writers as rich, all of them. They don't realize that the average full-time writer barely makes a living. Most of them are out there starving, and for what? Get on the winning side for a change, Mr. Melford. Otherwise, spend the rest of your life living in roach motels and living off the crumbs tossed you by the publishing world. And believe me, Mr. Melford, if you fail to join up with us, crumbs are all you'll get. If you're lucky."
The limousine had returned to the 7-Eleven parking lot. They were parked next to Larry's car.
"I suppose," James said, "we've come to that point that the bullfighters call 'the moment of truth.' You sign on with us and you'll be on Easy Street for the rest of your life."
"But we haven't talked terms."
"No, we haven't. It's at this point that I must ask you to either accept or turn down our offer, Mr. Melford. Once I've outlined the terms, you must be in full agreement with us."
"Accept before I hear what this favor you've talked about is?"
"That's correct. Bestseller or Bohemian, Mr. Melford. Which is it? Tell me right now. My time is valuable."
Larry paused only a moment. "Very well. Count me in. In for a penny, in for a pound. What's the favor?"
"Each year, you assassinate someone for us."
Larry dove for the door handle, but it wouldn't open. It had been locked electronically. James grabbed him by the wrist and held him tightly, so tightly Larry thought his bones would shatter.
"I wouldn't," James said. "After what I've told you, you step out of this car and they'll find you in a ditch this afternoon, obviously the victim of some hit-and-run driver."
"That's . . . that's murder."
"Yes, it is," James said. "Listen to me. You assassinate whomever we choose. We're not discriminating as far as sex, color, religion, or politics goes. Anyone who gets in our way dies. Simple as that. You see, Mr. Melford, we are a big organization. Our goal is world domination. You, and all our clients, are little helpers toward that goal. Who is more respected than a bestselling author? Who is allowed in places where others would not be allowed? Who is revered by public figures and the general public alike? An author—a bestselling author."
"But . . . it's murder."
"There will be nothing personal in it. It'll just be your part of the contract. One assassination a year that we'll arrange."
"But if you're so connected . . . why do it this way? Why not just hire a hit man?"
"In a sense, I have."
"I'm not an assassin. I've never even fired a gun."
"The amateur is in many ways better than the professional. He doesn't fall into a pattern. When the time comes, we will show you what you have to do. If you decide to be with us, that is."
"And if not?"
"I told you a moment ago. The ditch. The hit-and-run driver." Suddenly, Herman was standing at the door, his hand poised to open it.
"Which is it, Mr. Melford? I'm becoming impatient. A ditch or a bestseller? And if you have any ideas about going to the police, don't. We have friends there, and you might accidentally meet one. Now, your decision."
"I'm in," Larry said, softly. "I'm in."
"Good," James said, taking Larry's hand. "Welcome aboard. You get one of those books of yours out, pick out a publisher, and mail it in. And don't bother with return postage. We'll take care of the rest. Congratulations."
James motioned to Herman. The door opened. Larry got out. And just before the door closed, James said, "If you should have trouble coming up with something, getting something finished, just let me know and we'll see that it gets written for you."
Larry stood on the sidewalk, nodding dumbly. Herman returned to the driver's seat, and a moment later the tan limo from Bestsellers Guaranteed whispered away.
James was as good as his word. Larry mailed off one of his shopworn novels, a thriller entitled Texas Backlash, and a contract for a half million dollars came back, almost by return mail.
Six months later, the book hit the bestseller list and rode there for a comfortable three months. It picked up a two-million-dollar paperback sale and a big shot movie producer purchased it for twice that amount.
Larry now had a big mansion outside of Nacogdoches, Texas, with a maid, a cook, two secretaries and a professional yard man. Any type of food he wanted was his for the asking. Once he had special seafood flown in from the East Coast to Houston and hauled from there to his door by refrigerated truck.
Any first edition book he wanted was now within his price range. He owned four cars, two motorcycles, a private airplane, and a yacht.
He could own anything—even people. They hopped at his every word, his most casual suggestion. He had money, and people wanted to satisfy those with money. Who knows, maybe it would rub off on them.
And there were women. Beautiful women. There was even one he had grown to care for, and believed cared for him instead of his money and position. Lovely Luna Malone.
But in the midst of all this finery, there was the favor. The thought of it rested on the back of his mind like a waiting vulture. And when a year had gone by, the vulture swooped in.
On a hot August day, the tan limo from Bestsellers Guaranteed pulled up the long, scenic drive to Larry's mansion. A moment later, Larry and James were in Larry's study and Herman stood outside the closed door with his arms akimbo, doing what he did best. Waiting silently.
James was dressed in black again. He still wore the thick-framed sun shades. "You know what I've come for, don't you?"
Larry nodded. "The favor."
"On March fifteenth, Bestsellers Guaranteed will arrange for an autograph party in Austin for your new bestseller, whatever that may be. At eleven-fifteen, you will excuse
yourself to go upstairs to the men's room. Next door to it is a janitor's lounge. It hasn't been used in years. It's locked but we will provide you with the key.
"At the rear of the lounge is a restroom. Lift off the back of the commode and you will discover eight small packages taped to the inside. Open these and fit them together and you'll have a very sophisticated air rifle. One of the packages will contain a canister of ice, and in the middle, dyed red, you will find a bullet-shaped projectile of ice. The air gun can send that projectile through three inches of steel without the ice shattering.
"You will load the gun, go to the window, and at exactly eleven twenty-five, the Governor will drive by in an open car in the midst of the parade. A small hole has been cut in the restroom window. It will exactly accommodate the barrel of the rifle and the scope will fit snugly against the glass. You will take aim, and in a manner of seconds, your favor for this year will be done."
"Why the Governor?"
"That is our concern."
"I've never shot a rifle."
"We'll train you. You have until March. You won't need to know much more than how to put the rifle together and look through the scope. The weapon will do the rest."
"If I refuse?"
"The bestselling author of Texas Backlash will be found murdered in his home by a couple of burglars, and a couple of undesirables will be framed for the crime. Don't you think that has a nicer ring to it than the hit-and-run program I offered you before? Or perhaps, as a warning, we'll do something to your lady friend. What's her name, Luna?"
"You wouldn't!"
"If it would offer incentive or achieve our desired goals, Mr. Melford, we would do anything."
"You bastard!"
"That'll be quite enough, Mr. Melford. You've reaped the rewards of our services, and now we expect to be repaid.
"It seems a small thing to ask for your success—and certainly you wouldn't want to die at the hands of other bestselling authors, the ones who will ultimately be your assassins."
In spite of the air-conditioning, Larry had begun to sweat. "Just who are you guys, really?"
"I've told you. We're an organization with big plans. What we sponsor more than anything else, Mr. Melford, is moral corruption. We feed on those who thrive on greed and ego; put them in positions of power and influence. We belong to a group, to put it naively, who believe that once the silly concepts of morality and honor break down, then we, who really know how things work, can take control and make them work to our advantage. To put it even more simply, Mr. Melford, we will own it all."
"I . . . I can't just cold-bloodedly murder someone."
"Oh, I think you can. I've got faith in you. Look around you, Mr. Melford. Look at all you've got. Think of what you've got to lose, then tell me if you can murder from a distance someone you don't even know. I'll wait outside with Herman for your answer. You have two minutes."
From the March fifteenth edition of The Austin Statesman, a front-page headline:
"GOVERNOR ASSASSINATED, ASSASSIN SOUGHT."
From the same issue, page 4B:
"BESTSELLING AUTHOR, LARRY MELFORD, SIGNS BOOKS."
Six months later, in the master bedroom of Larry Melford's estate, Larry was sitting nude in front of the dresser mirror, clipping unruly nose hairs. On the bed behind him, nude, dark, luscious, lay Luna Malone. There was a healthy glow of sweat on her body as she lay with two pillows propped under her head; her raven hair was like an explosion of ink against their whiteness.
"Larry," she said, "you know, I've been thinking . . . I mean there's something I've been wanting to tell you, but haven't said anything about it because . . . well, I was afraid you might get the wrong idea. But now that we've known each other awhile, and things look solid . . . Larry, I'm a writer."
Larry quit clipping his nose hairs. He put the clipper on the dresser and turned very slowly. "You're what?"
"I mean, I want to be. And not just now, not just this minute. I've always wanted to be. I didn't tell you, because I was afraid you'd laugh, or worse, think I'd only got to know you so you could give me an in, but I've been writing for years and have sent book after book, story after story in, and just know I'm good, and well . . ."
"You want me to look at it?"
"Yeah, but more than that, Larry. I need an in. It's what I've always wanted. To write a bestseller. I'd kill for . . ."
"Get out! Get the hell out!"
"Larry, I didn't meet you for that reason . . ."
"Get the hell out or I'll throw you out."
"Larry . . ."
"Now!" He stood up from the chair, grabbed her dressing gown. "Just go. Leave everything. I'll have it sent to you. Get dressed and never let me see you again."
"Aren't you being a little silly about this? I mean . . ."
Larry moved as fast as an eagle swooping down on a field mouse. He grabbed her shoulder and jerked her off the bed onto the floor.
"All right, you bastard, all right." Luna stood. She grabbed the robe and slipped into it. "So I did meet you for an in; what's wrong with that? I bet you had some help along the way. It sure couldn't have been because you're a great writer. I can hardly force myself through that garbage you write."
He slapped her across the cheek so hard she fell back on the bed.
Holding her face, she got up, gathered her clothes and walked stiffly to the bathroom. Less than a minute later, she came out dressed, the robe over her shoulder.
"I'm sorry about hitting you," Larry said. "But I meant what I said about never wanting to see you again."
"You're crazy, man. You know that? Crazy. All I asked you for was an in, just . . ."
Luna stopped talking. Larry had lifted his head to look at her. His eyes looked as dark and flat as the twin barrels of a shotgun.
"Don't bother having Francis drive me home. I'll call a cab from downstairs, Mr. Bigshot Writer."
She went out, slamming the bedroom door. Larry got up and turned off the light, went back to the dresser chair and sat in the darkness for a long time.
Nearly a year and a half later, not long after completing a favor for Bestsellers Guaranteed, and acquiring a somewhat rabid taste for alcoholic beverages, Larry was in the Houston airport waiting to catch a plane for Hawaii for a long vacation when he saw a woman in the distance who looked familiar. She turned and he recognized her immediately. It was Luna Malone. Still beautiful, a bit more worldly looking, and dressed to the hilt.
She saw him before he could dart away. She waved. He smiled. She came over and shook hands with him. "Larry, you aren't still mad, are you?"
"No, I'm not mad. Good to see you. You look great."
"Thanks."
"Where're you going?"
"Italy. Rome."
"Pope country," Larry said with a smile, but at his words, Luna jumped.
"Yes . . . Pope country."
The announcer called for the flight to Rome, Italy. Luna and Larry shook hands again and she went away.
To kill time, Larry went to the airport bookstores. He found he couldn't even look at the big cardboard display with his latest bestseller in it. He didn't like to look at bestsellers by anyone. But something did catch his eye. It was the cardboard display next to his. The book was called The Little Storm, and appeared to be one of those steamy romance novels. But what had caught his eye was the big, emblazoned name of the author—LUNA MALONE.
Larry felt like a python had uncoiled inside of him. He felt worse than he had ever felt in his life.
"Italy, Rome," she had said.
"Pope country," he had said, and she jumped.
Larry stumbled back against the rack of his book, and his clumsiness knocked it over. The books tumbled to the floor. One of them slid between his legs and when he looked down he saw that it had turned over to its back. There was his smiling face looking up at him. Larry Melford, big name author, bestseller, a man whose books found their way into the homes of millions of readers.
Suddenly, Hawaii was forgotte
n and Larry was running, running to the nearest pay phone. What had James said about moral corruption? "We feed on those who thrive on greed and ego . . . once silly concepts of morality and honor break down . . . we will own it all."
The nightmare had to end. Bestsellers Guaranteed had to be exposed. He would wash his hands with blood and moral corruption no more. He would turn himself in.
With trembling hand, he picked up the phone, put in his change, and dialed the police.
From today's Houston Chronicle, front page headline:
"POPE ASSASSINATED."
From the same edition, the last page before the Want Ads, the last paragraph:
BESTSELLING AUTHOR MURDERED IN HOME." The story follows: "Police suspect the brutal murder of author Larry Melford occurred when he surprised burglars in the act. Thus far, police have been unable to . . ."
Author's Note on Fire Dog
This is one of those Twilight Zone stories for the modem reader, of the kind I used to write for the magazine, but it is of recent vintage.
I have a martial arts student who was working for the forestry service, and we were joking him one day about his job being a replacement for the fire dog.
That night I dreamed about looking for a job, perhaps the insecurity of the writer's life picking at the scab of uncertainty, and this was there when I awoke.
Or most of it was. I wrote about two thirds of it, and it died.
I was asked by Golden Gryphon to do a story for an anthology, and turned it down, being overwhelmed with work. But the more I thought about it, the more I wanted to do it, and I remembered this one. I took it out, thought it over, and the rest of it came to me in a rush.
I sent it to Gary Turner at Golden Gryphon. He liked it.
And here it is.
Fire Dog
When Jim applied for the dispatcher job, the fire department turned him down, but the Fire Chief offered him something else.
"Our fire dog, Rex, is retiring. You might want that job. Pays good and the retirement is great."