Pfefferkorn met the parents of his future son-in-law. They all gathered for dinner at a restaurant Pfefferkorn’s daughter had picked out. This time his steak came in the shape of an Escher fork, which made it difficult to eat, as it kept disappearing each time he tried to cut into it.
An agreement was reached: Pfefferkorn was to assume half the cost of the wedding. As father of the bride, he was bound by tradition to pay more, but Paul’s parents refused to budge. Pfefferkorn, understanding that they did not want to look cheap or mercenary, did not press. Any arrangement was fine with him so long as he was not excluded. Throughout dinner he watched the clock, and at a predetermined moment he excused himself to the restroom. On the way back he gave the waiter his credit card, paying for the entire meal and leaving a generous tip.
25.
One worry remained, of course: Carlotta, with whom he had not spoken in close to a year. Pfefferkorn assumed that she had read his novel. For him to have suddenly produced a blockbuster thriller was an awfully convenient coincidence, and if he were her, he would be unable to resist a quick peek. When she did, the similarities to Shadowgame would be unmissable. True, she had claimed never to read Bill’s books before completion. But what husband didn’t talk about his work with his wife, if only casually? At minimum Bill must have described the basic premise to her. Pfefferkorn therefore had to conclude that she did know, and that her lack of response was deliberate. Every day that her call did not come reconfirmed that she was waiting for the right time to turn the tables on him—waiting until his fame reached its apex, so that his downfall would be all the more painful. He had never taken her for a cruel woman, and to imagine her scheming against him like this distressed him in the extreme.
He had but one way to protect himself. Bill’s original typewritten manuscript, wrapped in a plastic bag and stashed under Pfefferkorn’s new kitchen sink, was the only extant copy. Without it, there could be no proof of his misdeed, so he fed it, five pages at a time, into his new fireplace.
Seeing the paper blacken and shrink made him feel a trifle safer. Even so, he did not relish the idea of Carlotta knowing his secret. He feared her scorn far more than any public exposure. He wondered if he had blown his last shot at happiness. Several times he picked up the phone to call her, only to lose his nerve and hang up. Be a man, he told himself. Then he wondered what that meant.
26.
Soon after Blood Eyes began to make waves, calls started to come from Hollywood. Acting on the advice of his film agent, Pfefferkorn held out for more money, although he twice allowed himself to be flown to California to take meetings with loud men in turtlenecks. He enjoyed expensive lunches at no cost. He thought it comical and sad that the richer one was, the less often one had to pay for things.
“They want to meet you,” his film agent said. “This one looks like it might be legit.”
She had said as much the first two times, but Pfefferkorn packed his carry-on and flew to Los Angeles.
“A. S. Peppers,” the producer said, using the nom de plume Pfefferkorn had chosen after his surname was deemed too difficult to pronounce, “you’re a star.”
The assistant producers sitting along the wall nodded obsequiously.
“Thanks,” Pfefferkorn said.
The producer’s secretary poked her head in to announce that the head of the studio urgently needed to speak to the producer.
“Dang it all,” the producer said, standing up. “Well, you’re in good hands.”
Pfefferkorn sat while the assistant producers ignored him and gossiped for forty minutes.
“Sorry bout that,” the producer said, returning. “We’ll be in touch.”
Pfefferkorn’s cell phone rang as he was walking across the studio lot.
“How’d it go?” his film agent asked.
“Great.”
His hotel was located on a posh stretch of Wilshire Boulevard. He took a walk, passing a small group of people picketing a department store. Crossing the street to avoid them, he was then confronted by a woman who bade him to stop the atrocities in West Zlabia. He moved on.
Alone in his suite, he did the same thing he had done on his previous two trips to Los Angeles: he dialed Carlotta’s number on his cell phone, stopping short of pressing CALL. Be a man, he thought. He picked up his room phone and instructed the hotel valet to bring around his rental car.
27.
Pfefferkorn announced himself to the intercom. A moment later the gates parted. He inadvertently stomped the gas, spinning out on the gravel. He palmed his chest and told himself to keep it together. He checked himself in the rearview mirror, wiped the sweat from his brow, and drove slowly up the driveway.
Carlotta stood by the front door, the dog peering out from between her ankles. She wore black leggings and a man’s shirt and was without makeup or jewelry. Like him, she appeared to be perspiring. Like him, she seemed skittish and circumspect.
The butler held the car door for him.
“Jameson,” Carlotta said, “you’ll park Mr. Pfefferkorn’s car, please.”
“Madame.”
The rental car dipped down the path and out of sight.
They stood, looking at each other. Pfefferkorn came forward, holding out his gifts: a bouquet of flowers and a romance novel. Carlotta put up a hand.
“Don’t touch me,” she said.
Pfefferkorn stiffened. His stomach dropped. He wished he hadn’t given the butler his keys, so that he could leap back in the car and speed back to his hotel.
“I’ll be going, then,” he said.
“Oh, I don’t mean that,” Carlotta said. “I’m filthy right now.”
The dog yipped happily, rushed forward, and began humping Pfefferkorn’s leg.
“Botkin,” Carlotta said. “Botkin. Just give him a good kick, he’ll get the message.”
Pfefferkorn knelt and gently pried the dog away. It rolled over, and he rubbed its stomach. “I should have called.” He gave the dog a pat and stood up. “I’m sorry.”
They smiled at each other.
“Arthur,” Carlotta said. “Dear Arthur. Welcome back.”
28.
“Jesús, I’d like you to meet my dear friend, Arthur Pfefferkorn. Arthur, this is my tango partner, Jesús María de Lunchbox.”
The man’s silk shirt was unbuttoned to the navel, flashing open as he bowed to Pfefferkorn and revealing a tan, muscular torso.
“Nice to meet you,” Pfefferkorn said.
The man bowed again.
“Let’s call it a day,” Carlotta said. “Monday, then? The usual time?”
“Señora,” Jesús María said. He moved gracefully across the ballroom to collect his bag before bowing a third time and slipping away. Carlotta stood toweling off her neck and chugging from a bottle of vitamin-fortified water. She noticed Pfefferkorn frowning at the empty doorway. “What.”