Линкольн Чайлд - Crooked River

Smithback indicated the manuscript. “You... did this? By yourself?”

“ Sí. ”

“Really? Sorry, I’m not calling you a liar, it’s just...” He flipped the pages. “Really good.”

Actually, it was not very good. The drawings were fair — their style seemed to have been heavily influenced by tattoo art, which was probably the case. Ironically, it was the brief little pencil sketches Flaco had done here and there, apparently placeholders for later ink drawings, that seemed to show the most skill. It was possible the youth had latent artistic talent.

The story itself sucked ass. Part of this, of course, was due to the mixture of Spanish and English that Smithback found hard at times to decipher. But translations were easy enough to arrange, and poor spelling or run-on sentences could be fixed. The major issue was the stupid and improbable storyline. It purported to be the autobiography of a macho gangbanger, embellished with bizarre and fantastical violence, implausible sex scenes, and a ludicrous hero with popping pecs out to defeat the forces of evil in a fantasy universe. Pure crap.

“It’s brilliant, in fact,” Smithback went on, “and the illustrations are so vivid and powerful!” He slathered on the praise, raving about the authenticity of the story and how fresh El Acero, the protagonist, seemed as a character — two critical elements, he explained, required for a great story.

“Who have you shown it to?” he asked in summation.

Flaco frowned. “ ¿Qué? ”

Smithback then launched into the prerequisites of getting a graphic novel published. He explained the arduous process: preparing a sample, looking for an agent, hoping a publisher would show interest. Sending it out cold, week after week, getting rejection after rejection. All because in order to get published, you had to have connections . Just like in the drug business. Connections were everything.

This stroke of genius was something Flaco could understand.

Where they might catch a break, Smithback went on, interjecting our and we into his advice, was that a good number of graphic novel publishers still accepted direct submissions. And unlike commercial book publishers, they weren’t all centered in New York — Drawn & Quarterly was in Canada, and Dark Horse was in Oregon, just to name two. And, of course, his friend’s small publishing house right here in Florida. Steering the conversation in this direction, he played up his relationship to the publisher he’d started calling Bill Johnson, picking a name that couldn’t be successfully googled. He was careful to be vague about the name of the company, because that was something Flaco could easily check. He emphasized again how publishing, like so many industries, was all about relationships. Getting in the door was half the battle.

And that, Smithback ended, was something he could easily do.

“He’s on Kellogg Street,” Smithback said, pulling the name of a well-tended, innocuous downtown street from his meager knowledge of Fort Myers. “We have lunch from time to time. I could get in to see him like that .” And he snapped his fingers.

“And he read it? My book?” Flaco asked this as if he’d just been offered a skeleton key to Fort Knox.

“If I took it to him, mi amigo , he would read it right there. While I waited.”

Flaco, who’d been looking increasingly excited during this exchange, now suddenly frowned, grew remote. After a moment, he held out his hand. “Give me book.”

Smithback gave him the book back. Flaco stuffed it in his pocket, turned, and left.

Son of a bitch , thought Smithback. He almost had him.

Ten minutes later Flaco was back. “You lie. You want escape.”

Smithback shook his head. “Where would I go? You know my name. You have my license — you know where I live, where I work. Look, if you don’t trust me, come with me.”

But Flaco shook his head. “Bighead back tomorrow afternoon. If he find out we go...”

While Smithback had been reviewing the comic, he’d also been assembling a game theory decision tree. Now he played the best of his limited options. “So I go in the morning. We go in the morning,” he said hastily as the expression on Flaco’s face changed. “You wait outside, at the corner. Better Bill not see you first, because of... you know...” And with more gestures than words, he explained how Flaco’s fearsome demeanor might initially put the publisher off — though ultimately Johnson would appreciate the realism Flaco could bring to his work.

Flaco seemed to be on the fence while Smithback made his case. Then he shook his head. “No. Demasiado peligroso . Too dangerous.”

“Look, we can make it fast. I’ll go in, shake his hand, get him excited about your manuscript — give it to him and then leave. Let him read it. All it takes is a read and then he’ll see the genius in your story. Then you can follow up with him yourself. You won’t need me after that.”

“Why not talk to him now? You call.”

“Flaco, it doesn’t work that way! It’s all done in person! Just like in the drug business. Would you do business with someone only over the phone, that you’d never met in person? Of course not!”

Flaco seemed unconvinced; his creative ambitions were clearly at war with his cautious instincts. “ Peligroso ,” he repeated.

Smithback played his last card. “You’re the boss,” he said. “But you’ll never get another chance. This is it. He knows all the important people in Hollywood. And for a character as exciting as your El Acero, the movie tie-ins, series licenses...” He shook his head. “Bill’s made a lot of artists rich.”

They fell silent as someone passed by in the corridor. Flaco pursed his lips. “We see. If Carlos go out in the morning...” He shrugged with feigned nonchalance, but Smithback could tell that he could barely contain his excitement.

“I’ll need to clean myself up.” Smithback indicated his wrinkled clothes, the dried vomit that was still caked to one side of his head.

“We see,” Flaco said. “Meanwhile, you remember. Say anything to Carlos, and — better keep mouth shut.” He took out his switchblade and pointed it at Smithback’s mouth, for emphasis. Then he slipped it back into his shorts. “I get your dinner now.”

And with that he turned and left the makeshift cell. The door closed and locked behind him.

Constance and Pendergast sat in deck chairs on the wide veranda, looking westward over the gulf, watching the sun slide toward the western horizon. Pelicans, seagulls, and sandpipers cruised across their line of vision, black spots against the pink and blue and gold. On a table next to the door sat Coldmoon’s police scanner, which he’d left behind when he went to Central America. It was on constantly, volume turned low, its background squawk like law enforcement Muzak. They had been relaxing for over an hour, and their conversation, despite its unhurried back-and-forth and occasional lapses into silence, had been of absorbing interest to them both. They had spoken of how Piranesi’s Carceri had managed to influence at least three disciplines — fine art, literature, and rectilinear geometry. The topic of geometry led them, indirectly, to a debate on the house they were currently inhabiting, and whether its symmetrical façade and numerous formal touches — transoms, coffered ceilings, rococo molding — truly qualified it as an example of shingle-style Victorian architecture. Once or twice, in the subtlest of ways, Pendergast had inquired how, exactly, Constance was spending her days; each time, the question was put off with equal delicacy.

“Peculiar, isn’t it,” Constance said, rather abruptly.