Росс Томас - Twilight at Mac’s Place

“Unbroken.”

“It’s one of our enduring myths that to copyright something you’ve written you have to mail it to yourself” Mott said. “In fact, anything anyone writes is automatically copyrighted. If you want to announce it to the world, all you need to do is write the word ‘copyright’ on whatever you’ve written, followed by the year it was written and your name. Want to know anything else about copyrights?”

“That’ll do,” Haynes said,

“Then you might as well open it and take a look.”

Borrowing a pair of scissors from Mott, Haynes cut the twine, broke the wax seals and removed the brown paper that concealed a Keebord stationery box. He lifted off the box’s lid. Inside were what happened to be three or four hundred sheets of twenty-five percent cotton bond. Haynes read the first page, which was the title page, and noticed that its letters had been formed by an electric typewriter, probably an IBM Wheelwriter. He handed the first page to Mott, who read it silently:

At the bottom of the page was a line that read: “Copyright 1989 by Stead-fast Haynes.”

“You’re sure it’s valid — the copyright?” Haynes asked.

“Absolutely” Mott said.

Haynes read the second page and handed it to Mott. This page read:

While Mott was reading Housman, Haynes quickly leafed through the rest of the pages. Mott looked up from the lines of poetry to accept the manuscript’s third page. It read: “For my son, Granville Haynes, with faint hope that he will find it of great profit.”

When Haynes silently handed over the fourth page, Mott saw that it was numbered page one. Not quite halfway down the page and centered was: CHAPTER ONE. Below that was a sentence that read: “I have led an exceedingly interesting life and, looking back, have no regrets. Or almost none.”

Mott looked up from the page, his eyes puzzled, his mouth opened by surprise. “That’s it — the whole fucking thing?”

Haynes smiled and nodded. “Except for three hundred and eighty-odd blank pages, all carefully numbered. Of course, he might’ve written the rest in invisible ink. Maybe even lemon juice.” He held a page up to the light from a window. “But I don’t think so.” He put the page down and looked at Mott. “You’re sure about the copyright?”

“Of course I’m sure.”

“Then let’s see whether they still want to buy it.”

“You’re asking me to help perpetrate a fraud, right?”

“I didn’t say I’d sell it to them. I said let’s see whether they really want to buy it and, if so, how high they’re willing to go.”

After considering what he first thought of as the proposal, but redefined as the proposition, Mott said, “My curiosity is overwhelming my judgment.”

“Then ask for five hundred thousand and see whether their initial bid’s got any climb to it.”

Before Mott could agree or argue, his telephone rang. He picked it up and said, “Yes,” listened for a moment or two and said, “Put him through in fifteen seconds.” As he waited, he nodded at Haynes, switched on the phone’s speaker, glanced at his watch and let a tight confident smile spread across his face. When he spoke it was as if he were addressing someone sitting two feet to the left of Granville Haynes.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Senator, but I was just discussing your — offer with Mr. Haynes’s son.”

“And what does the boy say, Howie?” asked a voice that, although strained through the echoing speakerphone, was still full of pleasant southern ooze. Haynes thought the accent probably had originated somewhere between Natchez and Birmingham.

“He’s quite willing to sell the copyright to his father’s work, which, incidentally, is entitled Mercenary Calling , providing a more reasonable offer is made.”

“A hundred thousand’s awful reasonable down my way, Howie.”

“Down your way, I’m sure it is. But young Mr. Haynes is from Los Angeles and quite confident he can arrange offshore development money that would enable him to produce, write, direct and even star in a feature film based on his father’s work.”

“The kid’s an actor?”

“Not only that, but he bears a startling resemblance to Steady.”

There was a long weary sigh over the speaker. “How much, Howie?”

“Five hundred thousand.”

“Any wiggle room?”

“Maybe. But not much.”

“Then I’ll have to talk to my folks to see if they’re even interested in making a counteroffer. But I won’t be able to get back to you until Monday. Okay?”

“Monday’s fine. And by the way, would you like me to make a Xerox copy for your people so they can be sure they’re not buying a pig in a poke?”

The senator exploded over the speakerphone. “No copies, goddamnit! Not now. Not ever. You got that, Howie?”

“I merely assumed they’d want to read before buying.”

When he replied, soothing syrup again flowed from the senator’s mouth. “They don’t want to read it, Howie. They just want to buy themselves a fucking copyright. That clear?”

“Perfectly,” said Howard Mott.

After pleading executive stress, Padillo went for a swim in the Watergate pool and left McCorkle to interview a prospective waiter, whom he hired; anglicize the spelling of the menu’s three dinner specials; and lend an unwilling ear to Tinker Burns, who had moved from banquette to bar after his two lunch guests left.

Burns had nearly finished his third cognac and a long involved gun-running tale of how he and two American mercenaries had escaped from Enugu in eastern Nigeria in a hijacked DC-3 during the final days of the Biafran war. The names of the two mercenaries, Burns said, spelling them carefully, in case McCorkle wanted to write them down, were Guice and Spates.

“I never heard from old Spates again,” he said. “But about a year ago I got a letter — well, a postcard really — from Guice in Tijuana, where he said he’d finally found a doctor who could cure his AIDS. You think that’s possible?”

McCorkle was saved from answering when the restaurant’s door opened and Granville Haynes entered. He stood for several moments, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the interior gloom, his left hand clutching a brown paper grocery bag by its folded-over top.

“Hey, Granny,” Burns called.

Haynes crossed to the bar, nodded at McCorkle, took a stool, placed the grocery bag on his lap and examined Burns. “Are you recently returned or still here?”

“Where would I go?”

“The National Gallery’s nice.”

“Already been.”

“Today?”

“Nineteen—” Tinker Burns broke off to search his memory for the correct year, finally located it and said, “—seventy-nine, right before they junked Somoza, who I’d just done a little business with and never got paid for. But you’re right. The Mellon’s nice although I think the Louvre’s a lot nicer. What’re you drinking?”

“Beer. Where’s Isabelle?”

“She left.” Burns turned his head and called, “Hey, Karl.”

Karl Triller, the fiftyish head bartender, had distanced himself as far as possible from his only paying customer. He sighed, put away his Wall Street Journal , moved down the bar to Tinker Burns, picked up a bottle of Rémy-Martin, poured an exact one and a half ounces into Burns’s glass and said, “You just failed to make the cut, Tinker, so sip it.”