“But… that was how you were going to prove the Hammett book was a fake… that was your evidence….”
“Yeah, well, I was bluffing.”
She looked at me like a child at the zoo seeing a monkey for the first time.
“You were bluffing?” she said, incredulous.
“That’s right. I recognized signs of Roscoe in that book, sure. Plenty of ’em. But subtle ones. I could make a very convincing case for it being ghosted by Roscoe, yes, but there would be no dramatic, obvious revelations. It’d be almost a scholarly piece of work.”
“But, then… you don’t have anything… nothing you can go to the authorities or the media with….”
“Sure I do. Mae and Gorman admitted their scam in front of witnesses.”
“Who?”
“You and me. Us. Remember?”
“Oh.” She looked at her cheeseburger blankly. “Right.” She looked at me blankly. “Got any other surprises for me?”
“Sure. I’m going to accept Gorman’s ten-grand bribe.”
“What?”
“Once I have his check in my hands, I will have some solid evidence of a scam.”
She shook her head. “I didn’t really begin to see this coming. You fooled me completely. I really thought there was an unpublished book by Roscoe Kane.”
I grinned at her. “There’s a lot of that going around. Plenty of people are believing there’s an unpublished Hammett book, too.”
She shot a smirky grin back at me. “It’s nice of you to clear all this with me, before involving me. As a witness and all.”
I reached across and touched her hand; wiped the smug smile off my face. “Kathy, it couldn’t be helped. I had no idea Gorman was going to be in Mae’s room. It was all impromptu. I’m an old Second City fan, remember? And this is Chicago. Improv comedy and fiction-writing are the same animal; like they say, you come up with ‘something wonderful, right away.’ ”
Wry smile #732. “You’re a lunatic.”
“Yeah. But nice, as lunatics go.”
“So much for me editing Noir.”
“When I’m through with Gorman, the only publication he’ll be involved with is the prison newspaper.”
She managed to eat most of her cheeseburger and pretty soon we were walking back to the Americana-Congress, hand in hand. Another gloomy day, but I felt good. Then my stomach felclass="underline" just as we were approaching the front entrance of the hotel, G. Roger Donaldson came out, in his lime-color blazer and reddish blond beard.
His eyes narrowing in on me, he moved toward me like a small car.
“I had hoped to run into you, Mr. Mallory,” he said, parking in front of me, folding his thick arms, eyes hard and green and angry.
“That doesn’t surprise me,” I admitted.
Kathy moved away from me. Deserting the sinking ship.
“There’s something you should’ve known about me,” he said, unfolding his arms, smiling, not in a least bit friendly way. “I will abide no man’s insolence without a due and dispassionate revenge….”
“Does that mean you’re going to hit me now?”
“Fuckin’ A,” he said, and decked me.
I picked myself up, Kathy looked on wide-eyed and open-mouthed, and he was just about to haul off again when I held out two hands in a conciliatory gesture.
“Truce,” I said, licking blood out of the corner of my mouth. “Give me a minute!”
He stopped in midswing and appraised the situation.
Kathy looked at me, wondering what I was going to do.
The hotel doorman, observing all this from a few yards away, was wondering whether or not to summon a cop.
I was wondering how to express what I felt. Donaldson doing a macho number on me made me realize how ridiculous I had been behaving lately: defending myself and Kathy in that alley had been one thing; the rest of my behavior was another-verbally attacking Gorman in the dealers’ room, then punching him in the stomach in the bar, finally humiliating Donaldson on that panel and stalking off.
“I deserved that,” I said. “I was a jerk this morning. And you deserve an apology. I want to give you one, now, privately-and I plan to give you one publicly. That’s a promise.”
He eyed me suspiciously; Kathy had a disapproving expression, as if I’d suddenly turned coward.
Which wasn’t true, but what would’ve been so bad if I had? I’m not Gat Garson; nobody is. I couldn’t go around behaving like a macho jerk and not have it catch up with me. Maybe it was going to catch up with me now, in the form of a severe beating from this apparently very fit-and fit to be tied-would-be Hemingway.
“You’re just trying to weasel out of it,” Donaldson said.
“No,” I said. “I’m a little afraid of you, sure, but I really don’t like you, so the jackass in me would relish trading some punches with you. I’m just trying to get the jackass in me in harness, okay?”
He smiled, just a little. And suddenly seemed sort of embarrassed himself. “Okay,” he said. “I think I get your point. Maybe I ought to keep my own jackass in harness. But I’m going to hold you to that public apology.”
“You deserve that much. Mind you, I stand behind what I said on that panel. You ought to apologize to the ghosts of Hammett and Chandler, in public, but that’s up to you and your conscience. My conscience says I was rude to one of my fellow writers, and in public, and shame on me.”
I held out my hand and Donaldson first shook his head and then the hand.
“Can two men who don’t like each other be friends?” he asked, smiling.
“I doubt it,” I said. “I’m not into male bonding. But I’m going to do you a favor. At least I will, if you’ll do me one.”
Donaldson tilted his head, looked at me suspiciously again. “Oh? What favor are you going to do me?”
“I’m going to save you from some heavy duty embarrassment….”
And Kathy, Donaldson and I went into the hotel and up to my room for a little talk.
18
By one-thirty the Gold Room was full; most everyone at the convention was there. So were various representatives of the press, including TV news teams, minicams and all, here from channels 7 and 9, the rival groups at either side of the stage. The table where I’d sat earlier today, on the panel, was still strewn with microphones and water glasses, but there was also a podium at the center now, behind which a smiling and a little bit nervous Tom Sardini was assembling some note cards and the award plaques and other material. As the current president of the Private Eye Writers of America, Tom was to be master of ceremonies.
The room was buzzing, but people were keeping their voices down-perhaps out of respect for the late Roscoe Kane. It was no secret Roscoe was this year’s recipient of the Life Achievement Award; though technically under wraps, it had been leaked by Tom to the media, and naturally the word had then traveled around the convention as well. The five hundred or more people in the room all whispering created a cloud of noise that hung over the room, as if threatening a storm.
I was sitting with Kathy in the front row; Donaldson was seated next to her. Just behind Donaldson was Gregg Gorman, looking as spiffy as he could manage, in a tweedy sports coat with patched elbows, a brown knit tie and a more or less clean tan shirt. Sardini had asked him to “say a few words” about the Hammett book, at the close of the ceremony. Next to him was Mae Kane. She still wore the clingy black dress with black gloves and a pearl necklace; she looked a little like a blonde Morticia Addams.
Donaldson leaned back and whispered to Gorman; Gorman listened, eyes wide, then glanced at me, eyes slitted, and I nodded at him. Gorman smiled broadly and nodded and reached in his coat pocket and took out a checkbook. He made out a check, handed it to Donaldson and Donaldson, with a sage little nod, handed it over to me.
The check, on the Mystery House account, was for ten thousand dollars. At lower left a notation: editorial services, Secret Emperor.