Reed Coleman - Gun Church

“Wait here,” he said, disappearing into his apartment.

I stood on the landing, the floorboards creaking under my feet. The old place had charm, but it needed a lot of work. The appliances and fixtures in my flat were museum pieces and the paint on the walls so thick, it was thicker than the walls themselves. My house in Brixton was much the same. I wondered how Renee was doing there, alone, and if she was old enough to appreciate charm. Renee, it seemed, was much on my mind lately.

“Here we go,” Isaac said, handing me a yellow nine-by-twelve envelope. It was less than an inch thick and not very heavy. “I got to get back down there and finish clearing the path. I don’t want no one slipping and breaking their tuchus on my sidewalk. Lawsuits, I don’t need.”

As I trudged upstairs, I noticed that although it was a mailing envelope, it hadn’t, in fact, been mailed. My name was scrawled across the front of the envelope in black marker. I didn’t recognize the handwriting. Handwriting! Who handwrote anything anymore? It was no doubt several copies of some document-a foreign rights contract, I hoped-from Meg or Dudek that required my signature. I squeezed together the metal prongs of the clasp that held the flap closed, pulled the flap back, and slid the contents out.

My heart missed a beat for the second time that morning. Bound with a flimsy rubber band, it wasn’t a contract at all, but a photocopied copy of a chapter from a typewritten manuscript. Not only did I recognize the pages as having been typewritten, I knew the exact machine-a portable Smith Corona-on which they had been typed. I immediately recognized the editorial notes as Moira Blanco’s. Although the writer’s name appeared nowhere on the pages, I was intimately familiar with his work. His name was Kenneth James “Kip” Weiler and the chapter was from the original manuscript of Flashing Pandora . There was just one problem, a daunting one at that: the copy of the chapter I was holding couldn’t possibly exist.

I needed to sit down.

All previous indications I was losing it-the sound of Jim’s truck, the faint glow of a taillight, my building a vision of Renee out of a fleeting glimpse of a profile from three stories up through a driving snowstorm, seeing Stan Petrovic’s look-alike on the subway-had been ethereal at best, products of my wishes and worries. These pages were something else again. They were tangible proof I was skating along the razor’s edge, about to fall off. And this wasn’t just any chapter from any book. This was the chapter from Flashing Pandora that Moira had had me completely rewrite, the chapter in which Harper Marx had pulled a Colt Python on Kant Huxley and Pandora outside CBGB. I was freaked and ready to throw my recent Boy Scout behavior right the fuck out the window. Brooklyn didn’t lack for bars. I called Meg Donovan instead.

“Kip Weiler, how are you?”

“A long way away from good, Meg.”

“What’s wrong with your voice? You’re not high, are you?”

“Not yet.”

“Not yet! What do you mean, not yet? You promised me you-”

“Did you have a package messengered over to me?”

“Package? What package? No, I didn’t have-”

“How about your assistant? Did she-”

“No, Weiler, there was no package, at least not from us. What are you talking about?”

“Maybe from Dudek?”

“I can check, but he wouldn’t have anything to send you at this stage of things. You know the drill, you won’t get anything from him until you hand in the manuscript and they generate galley proofs. In any case, no one’s messengering anything to anyone in this weather. What’s this about?”

“I think I’m going nuts, Meg.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“This isn’t funny. I’m imagining things.”

“What kind of things?”

“It’s not important. This package is what’s important.”

“We’re back to that again. You want to play Twenty Questions or tell me what’s in the damned thing?”

“Something that can’t be in it.”

“Look, Kip, I’m a fucking agent, not a mind reader.”

“Did you keep a copy of my manuscript for Flashing Pandora ?”

“Of course not. You remember how crazy Moira was about loose copies of manuscripts. These days, it’s all done electronically. In those days, Jesus, Moira was always so paranoid about anyone seeing a book before it was ready. But you know all of this, Kip. What’s this got to do with anything?”

“Inside this package there’s a copy of a chapter from Flashing Pandora that Moira cut out of the book.”

“The chapter with the gun, when Harper Marx kills Pandora?”

“How could you possibly know that?”

“Because it pissed you off to no end. You said you knew Moira was right, but you were a kid genius then and didn’t like being overruled, not even by Moira. It took me two weeks to talk you down from the ledge and to get you to rewrite it.”

“That’s right. I forgot that part. Some kid genius, huh?”

“So what’s the big deal?” she asked.

“Because there’s only one copy of it and it was mine.”

“I still don’t see why the fuss. Someone must’ve gotten a hold of your papers and made a copy of that chapter.”

“They couldn’t have.”

“Why not?”

“Because when Ferris, Ledoux remaindered Flashing Pandora , I did a Tom Wolfe. I got totally fucked up and made a bonfire of my vanities. I burned the original manuscripts for all my old books and cooked hot dogs over the fire. I particularly enjoyed feeding this chapter to the fire one page at a time.”

For once, Meg didn’t have a snarky, sharp-tongued answer. “I don’t know, Kip,” was the best she could do. “Did anyone see who delivered it?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, maybe you better make sure before you get fitted for a straitjacket and reserve a padded room at Kings County.”

“Okay, Meg.”

“This probably isn’t a good time to ask, but how did things go with-”

“Not now, Donovan. I can’t talk about Amy now.”

I hung up before she could ignore me. I put the pages back into the envelope and walked down the backstairs to the first floor. Isaac’s daughter, Rachel, was in her mid-thirties and like her dad, she had a friendly demeanor. She was cute in a chubby, earth mama kind of way, but raising her kid on her own was taking its toll on her and she was fraying around the edges.

“Mr. Weiler,” Rachel said, pulling back the door, her daughter clutched tightly to her leg. Her daughter stared up at me with skepticism and disdain. Sharp kid. Rachel immediately started finger combing her dyed blond hair. “My goodness, I’m a mess. Sara, say hello to Mr. Weiler.” Sara shook her head no. “Sorry, she gets shy with people.”

“That’s okay.”

“What can I do for-” she cut herself off, noticing the yellow envelope in my hand. “I found it on the porch yesterday, but you were out.”

“Your dad told me. I wanted to thank you.”

“Not a problem. All I did was take it in off the porch.”

“I wanted to ask you, did you happen to see who delivered it?”

“I’m sorry, no. I was in the kitchen and heard something on the front steps, but by the time I got outside … ”

Sara started tugging furiously at her mother’s faded Brooklyn College sweatshirt.

“What is it, honey?”

Sara waved to her mother that she had a secret to tell and Rachel leaned over. When she did, Sara cupped her hands around her mouth and whispered into her mother’s ear.

“Thank you, honey. Is it okay if I tell Mr. Weiler? It might be important to him.”

Sara thought about it for a second and then nodded a reluctant yes.