Lisa Atkinson - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 131, No. 5. Whole No. 801, May 2008

Jay took his family to Spago for a victory celebration. Wolfgang himself dropped by the table and Jay proclaimed that his boy Hunter was a genius, the newest hot TV writer while he was still in high school, no less. Later a mountain of desserts covered every inch of the tablecloth, gratis.

On the way home, Jay asked his son if he was thinking at all of what he eventually wanted to do for a living. Writing, maybe?

“Nah,” Jeffrey said. “I’d like to be a doctor someday. Do something of value with my life. I hear there’s going to be a real shortage of doctors.”

Boy, did I misjudge this kid, Jay thought. Serves me right for being some kind of shadow father, wrapping him in long-arm-proffered gifts instead of real paternal love.

“That’s going to take a lot of hard study,” Jay said. “Are you prepared?”

“I know it’s hard, but I’m up for it.”

Jay was working on a new script for the show when the phone rang. The voice was scratchy like an old phonograph record. “Mr. Jordan. This is Richard Haviland, your son’s lit teacher?”

“Yes. Sure. Jeffrey’s told me about you.”

“I think it’s important we get together, Mr. Jordan. Are you free to come by the school tomorrow night at eight o’clock? I’ll be working late.”

“Ahh — I think so, yes. Could you tell me what it’s about?”

“That best be discussed when you see me.”

Ominous. “Awright. Fine. I’ll be there.”

Jeffrey was as puzzled as Jay. He had submitted his ghost-written essay, but Haviland hadn’t announced the grades yet or discussed them in class. “He’s the proto-nerd, Jay, halitosis, flatulence, the whole putrid package. Nobody wants to sit in the front row.”

The following night Jay was made even more uneasy by the deserted school building, lights still scowling out of empty offices. Haviland was sitting at a brightly lit desk in a crowd of shadows, a tall, monochrome figure as emaciated as a residual check. Jay felt like a schoolboy, called on the carpet for his unruly class behavior.

“Good evening,” Haviland said. He was no more than forty-five but already graying. He didn’t extend his hand. “We have a problem,” he said, eschewing any formalities.

“Oh? What’s that?”

“Your son Jeffrey submitted an essay paper. It was quite obvious he didn’t write it.”

He was going to have to tough this one out. “Hard to believe. My boy’s a very fine television writer. He has a three-script assignment on one of the best series.”

“I know all about that,” Haviland said in his scratchy, slightly condescending tones, “he told me. But I looked you up on the Net. I’m afraid you are the only writer in the family.”

“Afraid?”

Haviland pushed his papers away. “This is a serious offense. I will have to report it to the dean.”

Jay groaned inwardly. So now private schools had “deans.” “You’d have to prove Jeffrey didn’t write it.”

“Easily done. Trust me.”

Stalemate. Mexican standoff. Jay held his ground in silence, trying not to blink. Let your opponent speak first. If that wasn’t one of Machiavelli’s primary rules, it should be. And then he spied the suspicious stack of Hollywood trade papers on the desk.

“I think this problem is more serious than you believe, Mr. Jordan.” He saw that Jay’s eyes were fixated on the stack. “My fiancée’s brother is an associate producer on the series your son is writing for. A most unhappy coincidence, wouldn’t you say?”

It was possible Jay’s old, recurring ulcer was ready for its close-up. “So what?”

“I think you wrote Jeffrey’s essay and you also wrote the script he sold to this television show. I would hate to reveal that fact to my fiancée’s brother.”

Jay took his time smiling, letting it slowly uncoil like a snake. “I don’t like to disappoint you, Haviland, but they won’t give a damn. They need good scripts, they have air dates.”

“So I should go ahead and tell him?”

“That would be irresponsible and malicious. I don’t think you’d do that if you were compensated.” Money, always money. “Am I right?”

The teacher met his eyes. “I’m beginning to do a little script writing myself, but it means working mostly nights and weekends. I would like to take a sabbatical and really get the job done. But that would mean I’d have to be subsidized for a while. Are you following, Mr. Jordan?”

“Like a heat-seeking missile.” Thank God he had years of training keeping his anger in check, a necessity in the television snake pit. “What’s the price tag on this ‘sabbatical’?”

“That is open to negotiation.”

Jay already had a plan. “Let me think about it.”

He met the next day with Dave Kramer, the show-runner that his son had his deal with, a stocky young ex-New Yorker who wore the mandatory producer’s beard. “Your son’s doing a great job for us,” he said. “You should be proud.”

Jay said casually, “He’s not writing the scripts. I am.”

Just as casual: “We know.”

It was a brief but very pleasant meeting. As Jay had suspected, Kramer couldn’t give a damn about the masquerade. He had figured no sixteen-year-old, inexperienced kid could write scripts of that quality so it had to be his father, the old, dependable pro.

Jay phoned Haviland, said they should meet again. He had dinner with Jeffrey, this time without his mother.

“Dave Kramer knows about our subterfuge,” he said, “but he doesn’t give a damn.”

Jeffrey was unfazed. “He’s a pretty cool dude. So it’s just business as usual?”

“You got it.” He took a sip of his martini and scrutinized his only child. The boy actually had his hair combed tonight and was wearing a very presentable sports jacket with a crisp shirt. “Are you sure the writing bug hasn’t infected you?”

Jeffrey smiled. “I guess Mom’s genes cut it off at the pass. Nah, I’m still looking at med school.”

“Y’know, I’m starting to get impressed with you, Hunter. I thought you were turning out to be one of those Beverly Hills trust-fund brats. Maybe we’ll take a vacation this summer together. Just you and your ghost writer.”

Jeffrey smiled. “That’d be cool.”

Jay got a sudden lump in his throat when Jeffrey called him “Dad” instead of “Jay” when he dropped him off at his ex-house.

He took his time getting gas and then drove straight to his meeting with Haviland. He thought he wasn’t nervous but he kept checking the time on his dashboard display.

The school was almost deserted again except for a workman buffing the entranceway floor to a mirrorlike sheen. He went directly to Haviland’s classroom, his heels kicking up echoes like warning gunshots.

Tonight Haviland had the remains of a Chinese takeout on his desk. He was briskly napkining the grease off his hands when Jay came in. There were no amicable preliminaries.

Jay said, “I told the head honcho on Jeffrey’s show that I was the guy writing the scripts. He couldn’t care less. So I guess that robs you of any leverage you thought you had. I guess I didn’t know blackmailer was on your curriculum vitae.”

Haviland broke open a fortune cookie, read the slip, ate the cookie. “Why should people like you be granted the license of immoral behavior and deny it to people like me? Are you the liege in the castle who governs by feudal law?”

He smiled for the very first time, a shred of chop suey hanging off his lip.

“You call my old ranch house in the Valley a castle?” Jay went to the door. More gunshots. “I don’t think we’ll be seeing each other anymore, Haviland. Except maybe at a PTA meeting.”

“I still have leverage.”

“Is that what your fortune cookie said?”