“Say ‘Hold on,’ ” Harry Wagner said. His voice was low, as if,out of politeness, he didn’t want the person on the other end of the phone to know he was interrupting. When Carl didn’t respond immediately, Harry squeezed harder. Tears came into Carl’s eyes.
“Hold on,” he managed to say into the mouthpiece.
“For Christ’s sake, what’s going on?” he heard Maggie squawk.
“Now put the phone down,” Harry instructed.
This time Carl didn’t hesitate. The phone was immediately down on the table.
“And now let me explain something to you, ” Harry continued. His words had no emotion behind them. He sounded like a high-school teacher giving instructions for a pop quiz to a group of not overly bright students. “I’m every sensitive about my clothes,” he said. “I know you thought you were probably being a smartass, and usually I don’t mind. I appreciate wit, in its proper place.”
“That’s good to know,” Carl said, but when he felt Harry’s hand squeeze even tighter, he decided it was probably better to keep quiet.
“I don’t like people making fun of what I wear. I take great pride in my outfits. They’re quite expensive, and many of them are made to order. I realize that you’re an artistic type; that’s why you’ve been hired. And I will give extra leeway for your artistic temperament. However, and I meant this with all due respect for your talent and abilities, if you ever again make fun of anything I’m wearing, I’ll hurt you. And not like I’m hurting you now. I’ll hurt you very badly. Permanently. Now pick up the phone and finish your conversation.”
Harry released Carl from his grip. Carl felt no need to say anything in response. Harry Wagner had made his point most effectively.
Trying not to rub his red wrist, Carl picked up the phone.
“What are you two assholes doing over there?” Maggie Peterson asked.
“Nothing,” Carl answered.
“Then what’s the problem? I
said
you’d be receiving material.”
“I’ve received it.”
“Then everything is satisfactory.”
“More than satisfactory,” Carl said. “My compliments on your messenger service.”
“Don’t call me again unless it’s important,” she said. And then she hung up on him.”
“Thank you for the kind word. I appreciate it,” Wagner said, swirling a puff of cigar smoke in the air.
“May I say something?”
“You may now and always say anything you’d like. Well, almost anything.”
“We’ve established that you can hurt me. And you can probably shoot me if you want.” Carl was suddenly very angry. And suddenly, no matter what this asshole could do to him, he didn’t care if that anger showed. “But this is still my home and I don’t like people smoking big fat smelly cigars in it. So put that goddamn thing out.
Now
.”
Wagner sighed, thought about the request, and nodded. “Fair enough,” he said. He took a final, wistful puff, rolling the cigar around in his fingers. Then he put it out in the kitchen sink. Moving to Carl’s closet, he opened the door and rooted around until he found a wooden hanger. “Wire hangers,” he said, “are your wardrobe’s worst enemy.” He took off his jacket and carefully placed it on the wooden hanger, then hung the coat on the hat rack by the front door. Next, Harrison Wagner undid his belt, unzipped his trousers, and dropped them.
A nine-by-twelve manila envelope was wrapped around his bulging left thigh.
Surgical tape held it tightly in place. Wagner bent down and roughly yanked the tape off, wincing as the hairs on his leg came off with it. “I hate this part,” he said. Then he zipped himself back up and opened the envelope.
Inside were what seemed to be photocopied pages of an old diary, along with copies of old newspaper clippings and more photocopies of stamped documents that looked like birth and marriage records. There were a half-dozen hand-written letters, also photocopied.
“Here’s the drill, Carl. You are going to study this material until you have fully and completely absorbed every single detail. Don’t even
try
to find out the real names. That will be far worse than insulting my tie. Don’t think about who these people really are, don’t think about where these events really took place.”
“If I can’t know the real people and places, how do I—”
“Be creative. Make them up. That’s why you’re being paid the medium-to-fairly-large bucks, isn’t it? You’ll have more than enough description to help you out. Believe me, you’ll not be wanting for material.”
“What’s to stop me from showing this stuff to somebody else? Letting
them
try to find out the real story?”
“For one thing, Carl, I’m here to stop you. And I think you’ll already agree I’m a fairly effective stopper. For another, I’m not allowed to leave any of this material here with you, and you’re not allowed to make a copy.”
Carl nodded. “Can I at least make notes?”
“You can,” Wagner replied.
“That’s good, because I flunked my Evelyn Wood course. Question: What are you going to be doing while I’m doing this?”
“Answer: I’m going to be watching you.”
Carl glanced at the stack of papers, frowning. “This could take hours.”
“I’m very patient. And I have nowhere else to go.” Wagner sat back down on the bed, crossed his arms, and diligently began watching Carl. He did not blink. He did not loosen his tie. “When you’re done,” he continued, “I will take the material and leave.”
“I’ll miss you,” Carl said.
“You will start writing immediately. I’ll return to pick up what you’ve written and to bring you more material.”
“When will that be?”
“You’ll know when you find me here.”
Carl thought about chucking the whole thing right then. But then he thought about his novel and the fifty thousand dollars he’d just deposited in the bank. He thought about Maggie Peterson saying this project was going to change the course of history.
“Harry, you seem to be a fairly intelligent guy.”
“Why, thank you, Carl. That’s kind of you.”
“Are you aware of just how fucking weird this whole thing is?”
“It’s a fucking weird world, Carl. And getting weirder as we speak.” Again Wagner smiled at him faintly. “You’d better get to work.”
* * *
Carl dug a blank notepad out of the bottom drawer of his desk and started in on the diary. It was not easy going. The handwriting was tortured and faint, the prose rambling and disjointed and semiliterate. He found the content hard to follow, let alone absorb. Especially with that very large man sitting not ten feet away, staring at him like an immaculately groomed bird of prey. It took some getting used to. It all took some getting used to.
But this was his job, he told himself. It was just like stroking a fifteen-foot jumper with three seconds left in a tie game. You get in the zone. you block out everything else. You do it.
Carl Granville read, he made notes, he concentrated. Soon he was barely conscious of Harris Wagner sitting there. Wagner, for his part, remained as motionless as a tree. And as silent. Not once did he so much as clear his throat or make any other effort to remind Carl he was there. He knew that Carl knew.
After a couple of hours Carl needed to splash some cold water on his face. Wagner allowed it, as long as Carl left the door ajar. Standing at the sink, his head spinning, Carl wondered just exactly what the hell he was reading. Clearly it was a woman’s diary. The handwriting and spelling showed that she was uneducated; the content indicated that she was dirt poor and of no apparent significance. But who was she? And who were all of the people that she was talking about? Had one of them become famous? Maggie had mentioned that her source, Gideon, was based in Washington—clearly, this diary in some way had political implications. But what were they? None of what he’d read seemed in any way controversial or damaging to anyone. It was about a time long ago and far away. Distant, obscure people in a distant, obscure place.
And just exactly who was Harry Wagner? A bodyguard? A detective? A spy?
Carl wondered. How could he not wonder?
Wagner was making a pot of coffee in the kitchen. Waiting for the water to boil—“Electric kettle, Carl, that’s the secret,” he said—he used the bathroom himself. He kept the door open the entire time and ordered Carl to remain in the kitchen, far from the top-secret material on the desk.
Suddenly hungry, Carl began fishing around in the refrigerator for something to eat. The likeliest candidate he could find was a half-eaten turkey hero from Mama Joy’s on Broadway, somewhere between seven and ten days old.
“Want part of a sandwich?” he asked Wagner when the big man emerged from the bathroom.
Wagner examined the food distastefully. “I would rather chew off my own foot.”
“Good. More for me.”
Carl finished making the coffee and poured them some. They both took theirs black. Wagner returned to the bed and sat there, sipping his coffee, waiting for Carl to get back to work. Carl ate his sandwich, as slowly as possible, over the kitchen sink. He drank his coffee. Poured himself another cup.
Then he went back to the diary.
Finally he could absorb no more. His eyes were glazing over, and his head was like a pinball machine, with descriptions of people and places, snatches of dialog, and an unknown woman’s memories and observations, both naive and harsh, careening around in there full tilt. He set the diary aside, puffing out his cheeks in exhaustion. He had been at this for more than six hours.
“Had enough?” Wagner asked pleasantly.
Carl nodded dumbly.
Wagner promptly gathered everything up, returned it to the manila envelope, and taped it back around his bare leg with a roll of surgical tape he’d brought for just this purpose. He put on his jacket, went to the curtain, and looked outside, intently studying the street. Satisfied, he went to the door, opened it, and started to leave without so much as a goodbye.
“Will you do me a favor, Harry?”
“What’s that, Carl?”
“Will you fucking knock next time?”
Wagner let out a short laugh. “I’ll think about it.”
And then Harry Wagner was gone.
Carl needed a serious blow. He stripped to a pair of shorts and cross-trainers, put on his leather gloves, and pummeled the heavy bag with both hands for thirty minutes, staying up on the balls of his feet, dancing around it, punishing it, grunting from the exertion, until he was exhausted and his bare chest was drenched with sweat. He took a shower, first hot, then cold. He filled a tall glass with ice and poured in what was left in the coffeepot, adding a scoop of Häagen-Dazs chocolate chip. He returned to his desk and read over his notes while he drank. Then he flicked on his computer. He created a folder called “Gideon” and broke it into a dozen chapter files. He opened up Chapter 1. He closed his eyes and breathed in and out a few times, getting in the zone.
And then Carl Granville started writing.
Rayette ran off with Billy Taylor because he was the first boy she’d ever met who made her laugh. She had met boys who made her tingle all over the way they kissed her, lying out by Grinder’s Creek in the moonlight. She had met boys who made her want to punch them the way they lied to her, lying out by Grinder’s Creek in the moonlight. But she had never met a boy who made her laugh like Billy Taylor did.
Of course, in her fourteen years of life in Julienne, Alabama, Rayette had never had much to laugh about.
Rayette was born a year to the day after the great stock market crash of 1929. Her father, Enos Boudreau, was a salesman, and as snakebit as a man could be without actually dying of bad luck. The Depression didn’t really change Enos Boudreau’s life. All it did was prove to him that he was indeed ahead of his time: It had just taken the rest of the country some years to catch up with his failure.
Enos talked a lot about the good times, which seemed to be back when all you had to do was knock on a door, open your sample case, then tuck the money that people threw at you right into your front pocket. Rayette had heard much about those times, but she didn’t actually remember them. What she remembered was her father trying to sell encyclopedias to white folks who couldn’t read, vacuums to niggers who had dirt floors, and insurance to anyone for anything anytime. People in Julienne weren’t too interested in insurance. What was broke they could mostly fix, and when it came to dying, well, death didn’t seem to worry them much. Life seemed much more troublesome.
Enos still went out every morning looking to make his commission. He still returned every evening with dust on his shoes and whiskey on his breath but nothing in his pockets. Rayette didn’t pay much attention to her father’s daily routine. He had never been very affectionate. Nor, for that matter, was he particularly talkative. He would not at her in the morning over breakfast, and he would nod at her when he came back home. Sometimes, after he would flop down on the big, comfortable chair in the living room, his shoes off, his toes poking through the holes of socks that had been darned too many times, he would say to her, “Get the jar.” The jar was given an honored place in the kitchen—on the second shelf, to the right of the icebox, right next to all the homemade jams—and it was kept full of moonshine whiskey. Every evening, when Enos would sit in that chair, he would hold the jar up to his mouth and drink from it until he had no choice but to sit because he could not gather his legs up underneath him. Once, when Rayette was seven, Enos had passed out cold, sliding half out of the chair, his legs stretched out onto the floor, his head resting on the seat cushion. The jar had fallen with him, and Rayette had gone to see what all the fuss was about. She picked it up and took a drink, a deep, full gulp, and the force of the whiskey hit her as hard as if she’d run straight into a brick wall. She choked and gasped and made so much noise that Enos rose from his stupor. The first thing he saw when his eyes finally opened was his little daughter, holding his beloved jar, letting its even more beloved contents spill onto the floor. He reacted the way he reacted to most things when he’d been drinking—violently. Enos slapped Rayette across the face, hard enough to make her head snap back. Hard enough to leave the imprint of his hand visible on her cheek for most of the week. Hard enough so she never forgot the hurt of it. Never stopped being afraid of him. Hard enough so that she never stopped hating him.