Stuart Woods: Under the Lake

“Lurton.”

“Lurton. But I’m pretty wrapped up in my own work at the moment…” That was a bald-faced lie; half a dozen publishers had already rejected his attempt at a novel, and he didn’t have an idea in his head.

“Yes, Denham White told me that you were writing for yourself at the moment. Of course, you understand that I would expect to meet your usual fee for writing a book. Excuse me if I get personal for just a minute, John, but how much did the Pulitzer Prize pay you?”

“A thousand dollars.”

“And how much did you make on the book when that came out? Then I would expect to pay you sixty thousand dollars to write my book.”

Howell was speechless again, but not in danger of laughing. He was astonished at what the mention of that sum was doing to his insides.

Pitts rose, walked to a credenza and picked up a cheap, plastic briefcase. He set it down in front of Howell. “Tell you what,” he said. “This contains twelve reels of recording tape. I’ve spoken everything I can remember about my life onto those tapes. You take them home and listen to some of them, then call me back and tell me if you think you can make a book out of them.”

Howell got to his feet. “Well, I’ll be happy to give you my opinion, Lurton, but I don’t know…”

“Just listen to them, John. I think you’ll realize what a story my life has been. Call me in a few days.”

“All right.” Howell picked up the briefcase and held out his hand.

“There’s just two things I ask of you,” Pitts said. “First, nobody must ever know that I didn’t write the book myself. Wouldn’t look good.”

That suited Howell. He would never be able to hold up his head again if anybody he knew thought he had even considered ghostwriting a book for Lurton Pitts.

“Second, I’d ask you to do it in three months.”

“I’ll listen to the tapes first, Lurton, then we’ll talk.”

“We mustn’t meet again, John. Security, you know.”

That suited Howell, too. He walked the two blocks to his lunch, sweating in the August Atlanta heat, trying not to think about this. He wanted to hear what Denham White had to say, first.

He stepped gratefully into the air-conditioned lobby, took the elevator to the fourteenth floor, and stepped out into the foyer of the Commerce Club. As he entered the large dining room, he could see his brother-in-law across the room at his usual table. Howell picked his way through the elegant room full of Atlanta’s most important bankers, businessmen, and lawyers, exchanging a handshake or tossing a wave here and there. He had known these people from a distance as a journalist, and now he knew them closer up because of whom he had married. He reached the table, and a black waiter was there to hold his chair.

Denham White was dressed in a gray, three-piece suit that said “successful lawyer.” Howell knew that Denham was dressed by Ham Stockton, the city’s premier clothier, who each year chose for him a range of suits, shirts, and ties in basic hues of blue and gray that were entirely compatible. All Denham had to do was to choose any suit, any shirt, and any necktie, in the certain knowledge that they would complement each other beautifully. He could do it with his eyes closed, which he probably did. Denham had already started on the bread. “Well?” he asked, his mouth full.

“Well, what?”

Denham waved at a waiter and ordered them both a martini. “Are you going to do it?”

“You mean you knew what Pitts wanted? And you set me up for that?”

“I only had an inkling. Did he offer you sixty grand?”

“How did you know that?”

“It’s what you made on the book, isn’t it?”

“You sonofabitch. If you knew he was going to offer me what I made on the book, why didn’t you tell me? I would have told him I made a hundred thousand on the book.”

Denham spread his hands. “John, the man is my client, after all. He pays me a hundred and fifty bucks an hour to look after his interests.”

“I’m your client, too.”

“Yeah, but you’re family; you don’t pay. Anyway, where else are you going to make sixty grand in three months? Since this is on the quiet, I can probably get him to pay you in cash. He deals a lot in cash.”

“So now my lawyer is advising me to evade income tax?”

“I’m giving you no such advice, boy, I just thought you might find cash more… convenient.”

A waiter brought menus. “How come you’re being so nice to me, Denham?” Howell asked. “I’m not exactly your favorite brother-in-law.”

“Sure, you are. You’re my only brother-in-law. Oh, come on, John, you know I’ve always liked you. It’s made me sad to see you screwing up your life the way you have. You had such a flying start.”

“Screwing up my life, huh? I’m doing what I want to do, buddy. How many people you know do that?”

“Almost none, granted, but you’re making my sister unhappy, sport, and I can’t have that, not if I can help it.” Denham was looking serious, now.

“And you think my earning a few bucks might fix things up at home, huh?”

Denham looked away from him. “I think your earning a few bucks somewhere else might give you both a breathing spell to figure things out,” he said, uncomfortably.

Howell looked at him, surprised. “Somewhere else?”

“Well, you don’t seem to get a hell of a lot done over that garage, do you? What you need is some place quiet, out of the way, a place with no distractions.” Lunch came.

Howell swallowed an oyster. “I have a feeling you have some place in mind.”

Denham fished a key out of a vest pocket and slid it across the tablecloth. “How about a cabin in the mountains? Nice view over the lake, total privacy, a writer’s paradise.”

“I didn’t know you had a cabin in the mountains.”

“Well, ”cabin‘ may be stretching it a bit. “Shack’ might fit better.” Denham leaned back from his oysters and assumed a faraway expression. “It’s up on Lake Sutherland; you know it?”

“No.”

“Up in the very prettiest part of the north Georgia mountains. A local power company built it after World War II; they didn’t sell any of the lakefront lots. Instead, they leased them out to friends and other suitables, cheap, on long leases. Kept out the riffraff. I got a lot for a hundred years at ten bucks a year back when I was in law school. My old man knew Eric Sutherland, who built the dam and modestly named both the lake and the town next to it after himself.”

“Ten bucks a year? Not bad.”

“You know it. I’d go up there on weekends and buy a load of green lumber at a sawmill and have it delivered to a fishing camp at the opposite end. There wasn’t even a road around the lake in those days, so I’d nail it into a raft and tow it down the lake with a canoe, then pull it apart. I built a one-room shack, then, eventually, expanded it into a three-room shack. There’s power, plumbing, a fireplace, and a phone that sometimes works, and a little runabout with a big outboard. Terribly romantic.”

“Terribly primitive, from the sound of it.” Howell gazed out over the crowded dining room for a moment. “I’ll think about it.”

“I hope you’ll do more than think about it, boy. You need a change.”

Denham was pushing all the right buttons, Howell thought. God knew he needed a change. On the way out of the building, Howell stopped at a phone booth, rang Lurton Pitts and told him he would be his autobiographer, a wonderful word, Howell thought.

“That’s fine, fine,” Pitts said. Howell could hear him grinning. “I’ll see that you get an advance to meet your expenses, and, I’ll tell you what, I’ve got a piece of a company that makes those new word processors. I’ll send you one of those over, too. You let me know how you like it.”