Quintin Jardine - For The Death Of Me

He gazed at me thoughtfully, as the waiter finally served each of us a beer with a wedge of lime jammed into the neck. ‘And that’s all I’d get?’ he asked, as he pressed it down into the bottle.

I did the same with mine, took a swig, then nodded. ‘That’s the norm. We might cut you in on a percentage of the DVD profits, though, as an added incentive. If you’d been sensible enough to get yourself an agent, he’d have asked for that.’

‘How much?’

‘Same percentage, two and a half.’

‘What would the likely take be from that?’

‘That’s impossible to predict.’

Dylan killed most of his beer on one gulp and waved for two more. ‘So out with it, what are you going to offer me?’

I glanced at my watch. ‘Until about two hours ago, I was going to offer you a hundred thousand US. Now. . nothing.’

He almost fell out of his chair. ‘Nothing? Come on, I’m Benny Luker, author, and I’m letting you in on a book that’s doing very nicely in the US. Forget the past, this is a commercial proposition I’ve got here.’

I sighed and opened the bomb-bay doors, ready to release. ‘Benny, I can’t forget the past, and you can’t wish it away either. I wasn’t going into this deal on my own. I’m not a producer, that’s not my thing. I’ve got a partner, who was going to do all the development work, and direct.’

‘Who?’

‘Miles Grayson.’

He looked at me blankly. ‘So?’

‘So? So!. . Like Susie said, are you sure that Dutchman didn’t shoot you in the fucking head, Dylan? Remember that scam you and your mate pulled? It involved kidnapping Dawn, Miles’s pregnant wife, Prim’s sister, and you went along with it. If he had caught up with you, he’d have shot you himself, as often as it took to get the job done. I fancy he still might.’

Comprehension spread across my undead friend’s face. ‘Shit! I’d forgotten about him.’

‘Miles isn’t someone you can forget.’

‘What if I wrote to him, and to Dawn, apologising for my part in that and saying I’d no idea it was going to get that serious?’

‘He’d probably do one of two things: come after you himself, or tell your publisher who you really are, and have your book taken out of print and remaindered. You better believe me, he’s got the clout to do that.’

‘Then I’m stuffed.’

He was too, or he would have been if I hadn’t been overcome by an unprecedented burst of sentimental generosity. ‘You’re right, though,’ I said. ‘There is money to be made. Tell you what, I’ll give you a fifty-thousand-dollar advance for a three-year option off my own bat. I’ll have Roscoe, my agent, draw up a contract and you’ll sign it, no questions asked, same terms I’ve just outlined. There are two people in the world with a chance of persuading Miles to let you live and to go along with this project. I’m one, but it would be a long shot even for me. No, I’ll have to get Dawn on-side.’

‘Do you think you can?’

‘Maybe, if her sister backs me up.’

‘Prim. Will she?’

‘I reckon. I still have some leverage there. I’d never use it, but she can’t be certain of that.’

‘Leverage?’

‘Our son, Tom. I control her access to him. I love the wee chap, and I’d never cut him off from his mother, but it gives me a hold over her. She’ll co-operate with me.’

‘If she knows what’s best for her?’

‘I’d never put it that way, but she needs to stay on my good side and she knows it.’

Dylan stared at me; I think he was a wee bit scared. ‘God,’ he murmured, ‘what a calculating bastard you’ve become.’

I grinned and gave him the old Jim Holton line. ‘Aye, and don’t you forget it.’

After another beer or two, Dylan agreed to the deal. I arranged to meet him at the Columbus at ten next morning with an agreement for signature, and a cheque for fifty thousand, drawn on my dollar account, then we walked back down the hill and went our separate ways. He set off to look at the boats in the marina, and maybe indulge in a few day-dreams; I grabbed a taxi and went home.

When I got there I went straight to my office and called Roscoe in Los Angeles. I was in luck: he was at his desk. He has all sorts of standard contracts in his files, and knew exactly where to find one to fit the purpose. I gave him the numbers, and asked him to fill them in, then send the finished article to Audrey by e-mail, for her to prepare. He must have been busy, for he didn’t bother to ask what the hell I was doing buying movie rights to anything. But if he was, some of that was my doing: Roscoe’s star has risen alongside mine in the film world.

That done, I changed into Speedo trunks and went out to the terrace. Prim and Susie were in the pool with the kids, Jonathan included. He can swim almost as well as the other two, but we still make him wear armbands.

I dived in and surfaced beside Tom and Janet. ‘Hi, you two. Had a good afternoon?’

‘You’ve been drinking beer,’ said my daughter, disapprovingly.

I nodded. ‘Yup, and you’re just jealous ’cos you’re not old enough.’

‘Mum took us out,’ Tom told me, as if no one else ever did. It’s funny: he calls both Prim and Susie ‘Mum’, but we’re never in any doubt which one he’s talking about. The wee chap looked as pleased as Punch. For various reasons. . all of them her own fault. . Primavera hadn’t seen much of him during the previous year, but clearly he didn’t hold that against her.

‘Let me guess where.’ I chuckled.

Prim swam across; like Susie, she did not see the need for a bikini top. Her nipples were different, bigger yet smaller, if you know what I mean. ‘The motor museum,’ she said. ‘I come all this way, and I wind up looking at cars.’

‘Those are the rules with our boy,’ I told her. ‘You can take him anywhere you like in Monaco, as long as it’s the motor museum.’

‘Can’t you wean him off it?’

‘Why should I? I like it too.’ I grinned at Tom. ‘What was your favourite car today, son?’

‘The bubble car.’

‘Again? That’s two days running. Usually he has a different favourite every visit,’ I explained.

‘Maybe he wants to associate that one with both of us.’

‘That’s very perceptive: you may well be right,’ I granted.

‘What’s your favourite, Mum?’ Tom asked.

‘The Cadillac, nineteen sixty-three model,’ Prim told him. I stared at her, surprised.

‘That’s Dad’s favourite too,’ our son explained. ‘Can you buy one, Dad?’

‘There would be no point. I’d never drive it; all we’d do is look at it, and we can do that at the museum.’

‘Can we get a bubble car, then?’

‘I doubt if there’s one to be found any more, Tom. Do you know, your Grandpa Blackstone used to have one of those, way back, before your Aunt Ellie and I were born. I’ve never been able to figure out how he got in and out of it.’

‘That’s a strange choice of car for a young man,’ said Susie, appearing beside us with a furiously paddling Jonathan in tow.

‘My mum’s parents approved of it,’ I said, ‘or so she told me, for a reason which probably occurs to you, but which we need not discuss in front of the children.’

‘I get the picture. How did your talk with Dylan go? Did you send him off empty-handed?’

‘No, tomorrow I’m going to send him off with fifty grand and an option agreement.’

‘You’re going ahead with it?’ Susie looked aghast.

‘I’m taking the first step. How many more will I take after that? Depends on one man’s attitude, and given things that have happened in the past, it’s not going to be easy bringing him on-side.’