George Chesbro - Dream of a Falling Eagle

"It's yours," I said, handing him back the magazine.

Moby Dickens nodded, then plucked out a half dozen other magazines and offered them to me. "There are a lot more-"

"I get the idea," I said, holding up my hand. "This Jefferson Kelly reads a poem of yours in some literary journal, then alters it slightly and submits it as his own work to some other magazine. It's plagiarism."

"Yes."

"And you want some kind of compensation."

The ex-convict with the tattooed face and doughboy nose replaced the magazines in his portfolio, then studied me with his bright, expressive dark eyes. He seemed surprised. "No, sir," he said at last. "It's not about money. I just want him to stop."

"Aha."

"A number of editors have been publishing my work for a few years, and so they're familiar with my name and work. It was one of them who noticed a plagiarized poem in one of the other journals, and she first brought it to my attention by sending me a copy. Then I went through the literature and found that this Kelly has plagiarized at least a dozen of my poems. There could be more-there are hundreds of literary and so-called 'little' magazines, some of which are just run off on mimeograph machines in somebody's basement, and it's impossible to check all of them. I can prove all the poems are mine, because mine were always published first. He may copy other people's poems as well, and then submit them as his own work. I don't know. I just want him to stop copying mine. My editors should be cooperative. I was hoping you could find out who this Jefferson Kelly is and where he lives, and you could go talk to him."

"Why wouldn't these editors who know your work and realize it's been plagiarized cooperate with you? One of them might be able to give you a return address for this Kelly, maybe even a phone number.

You could talk to him yourself." I paused, smiled. "Moby, trust me on this: Kelly finding you on his doorstep would be much more of an incentive for him to do the right thing than finding me. The sight of you will positively fire his imagination. I guarantee he'll stop copying your poems."

I thought it a perfectly sensible suggestion, and I even thought Moby Dickens might be amused by my dry wit. But he didn't smile. Shadows moved in his eyes, and he looked away. "I don't want to do that," he said softly.

"Uh, why not? He's been ripping off your work to pass himself off as a poet. You have every right to confront him. That's what you want me to do, and I'm telling you that you'd be a far more effective spokesman for your cause. One mild glower should do the trick. Even half a glance."

"I don't like to glower. I don't want to use my body to defend my poetry."

"What's the difference between using your body and hiring mine, aside from the fact that you'll save money? I hope it won't come as a shock to you to be told that your body is a lot more persuasive-looking than mine."

Not only did I fail to get an affirmation of my sound logic and prudent fiscal advice, I still couldn't get even a smile out of the man. "You don't understand," he said in the same soft tone, lowering his head. When he raised it again, I was thoroughly startled to see that his eyes were misted with tears.

"Moby," I said quickly, "I wasn't making fun of your physical appearance. I was just stating a fact. And I didn't mean to be insensitive. If that's how it sounded, I apologize."

He took a deep breath, shook his head, and said, "I killed a man in a bar fight down in Mississippi when I was seventeen years old. It was self-defense, but I got fifteen to twenty anyway. But the truth is that being sent to prison saved my life; the way I was heading, I'd have been dead by the time I was twenty. Being put in prison was a gift, because it was there that I found my gift. My muse came to me in prison. I discovered that I could take everyday words, change them around and polish them and make them into something beautiful. I discovered I had a beautiful soul, and it was made out of poems. Dr. Frederickson, before prison I thought I had to be a badass motherfucker because I looked like a badass motherfucker-fat, ugly, and mean. But that wasn't true. Through my poems, 1 could look at my soul and see it all naked, pure, and. . true. My poetry is all I ever want my editors and readers to see. I've never spoken to an editor on the phone, and I've turned down dozens of invitations to lunch, and even to visit colleges and speak to students. I know what I look like. I don't want anyone to see that, or to know that Thomas Dickens is an ex-convict garbageman in New York City. I'm not ashamed of who I am, or my job-I make a decent living. But it would be a distraction from what I've created if anyone were to find out more about me. Maybe that will change in time, but that's how I feel now. I'm afraid I couldn't write anymore if people found out about me. I especially don't want this thief, Jefferson Kelly, to know anything about me personally. That's why I need somebody to do this thing for me."

"Moby," I said, suppressing a sigh, "how much money are we talking about here? I mean, how much have you earned from your poetry?"

He stared at me for some time in silence, as if confused by the question. "I don't know," he said at last. "A few dollars, probably less than a hundred. Most of the magazines pay in copies or subscriptions."

"Let me be blunt with you, Moby. All of the money you've earned from your poetry over the years probably wouldn't pay for an hour of my time. I don't think-"

"I can pay!" he snapped, his voice suddenly booming in the small office. Now his eyes glinted with anger. "I told you this wasn't about money!"

I cleared my throat, stood up. "I didn't mean to offend you, Moby. I can see that you're upset about this, and under other circumstances I wouldn't hesitate to take on the assignment. But the fact of the matter is that Garth and I are up to our eyeballs in work right now, and I just don't have the time to take on anything else. We haven't accepted new cases for months now. My secretary will give you the names of some other-"

"Excuse me!" Garth said sharply.

I turned around in my chair, and was somewhat surprised to find my brother standing up behind my desk. His hands were on his hips, and he was glaring at me. "Garth?"

"I want to talk to you, Brother."

"Sure, Garth," I replied, puzzled by my brother's interruption and demeanor. "Just give me a couple of minutes to get Mr. Dickens squared away."

"Right now," Garth said curtly, walking briskly to the door and motioning with his hand for me to follow him. He looked at Moby Dickens, and his manner changed abruptly. He smiled easily, and his tone was positively sweet as he continued, "Just stay where you are, Mr. Dickens. The good doctor will be back in his office in a couple of minutes."

Even more puzzled, I followed Garth out of my office and into the larger office in front of it that served as our reception area. Garth nodded to Francisco, who quickly rose from where he sat before his computer terminal and walked out into the hallway, closing the door behind him.

"I should kick your ass," Garth said as he turned to me. His voice had become soft and even, the tone he used when he was seriously upset about something. "In fact, I think I'm going to. Definitely. I don't see how I can stop myself."

"Huh?"

"What have we got to do that's more important than putting a stop to the theft of a man's soul?"

"Uh. . helping to bury the CIA? You know how I hate these trick questions."

"You've been spending too much time taking fifteen hundred dollars a day of the taxpayers' money, Brother. It's made you arrogant and insensitive. You'd better run your own soul check. I remember a time not so long ago, when I was still a cop and you were a college professor your colleagues laughed at for trying to moonlight as a private investigator, when you'd have slobbered with gratitude over anybody who walked through that door to offer you some business."