Still no recognition.
“So how’ve you been?” Paula asked.
Now Laura looked at her, the first prolonged eye contact. She was squinting, trying to get it to click.
“You know, Paula Segal. We met at Left Coast Crime in El Paso a few years ago?”
Still nothing.
Trying to jar her memory, Paula said, “You know, Paula Segal. I was a Barry Award finalist. I write the McKenna Ford mysteries?”
After a few seconds Laura’s face suddenly brightened and she said, “Oh, right. It’s great seeing you again. How are you?”
“I’m fine, thank you.”
Paula was trying to hold Laura’s gaze, to let her know she was interested in a lot more than just getting a stupid book signed.
Then Laura said, “Should I make it out to you, McKenna?”
“No, my name’s Paula.”
“Oh, that’s right, I’m sorry, Paula,” Laura said. “It’s been a crazy day. How do you spell your last name?”
“S-E-G-A-L.”
Was it possible that Laura actually didn’t remember her?
Nah, Laura had to remember.
“Yeah, so, I’m writing the Max Fisher story,” Paula said. Then she couldn’t help adding, “For Knopf.”
Paula was proud of the way she’d just casually dropped that little lie, and prouder of how she’d been so modest about it. Like, Yeah, I’ve written the biggest true crime story of the new millennium, but it was no biggie, just another day in the life of a future Pulitzer winner.
Laura finished writing, handed her back the book, said, “I’m sorry, Fishman?”
“Fisher,” Paula said. “You know, Max Fisher? The infamous businessman-slash-drug dealer who escaped from Attica last month?”
Laura looked lost then smiled and said, “I’m sorry, I’ve been touring for three weeks straight and I’m a little behind on the news lately. But that’s great, congratulations. I wish you lots of luck with it.”
The next guy in line was holding a stack of books and was inching closer. Laura was already smiling in his direction, making eye contact with him. But there was no way Paula was moving along – not yet anyway.
She didn’t want to blow her one opportunity. After all, when would she get a chance like this again?
“I was thinking,” Paula said, “maybe we could go out for a drink after you finish up here. You know, just to catch up.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Laura said. “I’d love to, really, but I have plans.”
“Just one drink,” Paula said.
Shit, was she being too insistent? No, just eager, that’s all, and there was nothing wrong with eagerness. Eagerness was the way she’d made it as far as she had. If she weren’t an eager beaver she never would’ve landed the Fisher project in the first place.
But did Laura just say “I can’t”?
Nah, must’ve heard her wrong.
“So what time’s good?” Paula asked. “Maybe around eight o’clock, eight thirty?”
“I said I can’t make it.”
Paula was stunned, went, “Please, it’ll be so great. We have so much in common we can probably go on and on, talking all night long.”
“I’m sorry, but I’m actually having dinner with Dennis Lehane tonight.”
Den, it figured. Paula knew Lehane from the convention circuit. Nice guy, he’d bought her a couple of beers at Bouchercon in Chicago. For an hour she’d gushed to him about how much she loved Mystic River – the book, not the film – but did he ask for her room key or even her phone number? Um, no. God, Paula was so glad she was through with men. But there was no way Paula was going to let fucking Dennis Lehane or anyone else get in the way of her and Laura. She decided to take a chance.
“But I love you,” she nearly shouted.
Paula knew she’d rushed it, that she should’ve at least waited till they’d had a chance to talk a little. But desperate times and all that.
Laura seemed totally confused and maybe a little shocked. She said, “I’m sorry?”
“I’ve known it since we met in El Paso, Laura. We’re soul mates, we have everything in common, we should be spending the rest of our lives together.”
A bookstore employee came over and said, “You’re going to have to step away, ma’am. Other people want to get their books signed too.”
How had this happened? How had it all gone to shit so quickly?
“We have to be together,” Paula pleaded. “I’ve read Charm City twelve times. I nominate you for the Anthony every year. I even read your fucking short story in Bloodlines. ”
“Ma’am,” the bookstore employee said.
“Shut up, you skinny little bitch,” Paula said.
Shit, did she really just say that? Why was Laura getting up, backing away? Why was someone yelling for security?
“Laura, wait, come back here!”
Paula tried to go after her but a security guard grabbed her and hauled her toward the escalator. Laura was receding into the distance and Paula found herself screaming, “We were meant to be together! You were going to give me a fucking blurb!”
But Paula couldn’t even see Laura anymore.
“You’re off my top friends on My Space, bitch!” she yelled, her voice carrying as she was led out to the shameful street.
Twenty-Three
“We would all end up in an explosion of colliding bodies, clogging the cosmos with flying shit.”
Somewhere in North Dakota, Max and Sean crossed the border into Canada. Max didn’t mind getting into the trunk, his only worry was that the dumb mick would forget to let him out.
Turned out his concerns were justified.
Over an hour after the border crossing Max was still screaming, banging, trying to get the fucker’s attention. Good thing he had his piece with him and could shoot a couple of holes in the trunk or he would’ve suffocated. Still, for a while he thought he might die back there, trapped in a trunk. What a way to go. The gunfire had set up a whole range of odd sounds in his head and it was almost like music. He laughed out loud, thinking, Now there’s a title for a book, Trunk Music.
See, The… A.X. was always working the angles, never stopped with his sheer genius. You put some other bollix – and using the word, he shed yet again another tear for his beloved Angela – in the trunk of a car, he’d be screaming in panic. But The… A.X., he was thinking up book titles.
Finally the idiot pulled over, opened the trunk, babbling, “S-s-s-s-s-s-sorry… M-M-M-Max. I fuh-fuh-fuh-fuh… gah-gah-gah…”
Max slapped him around a little, nothing too heavy. After all, he needed the kid, he was stupid but a good driver, another fucking Rain Man, and a big-time prison escapee like Max Fisher couldn’t be driving himself around, now, could he? Yeah, the guy had been some kind of legendary paramilitary, but all the fight had gone out of him ever since Angela died.
It was starting to sink in for Max, just what he’d accomplished. He turned on the radio, listened to reports of the Attica riots on NPR as they drove. Forty-two people had been killed, including six guards and, of course, there was also Angela and Rufus and the crazy Greek, though the authorities hadn’t put it all together yet. But who was left standing? That’s right, the only legend in these here parts was The… A.X.
And get this – the reports were calling him “armed and dangerous.” Man, did that sound good! Meanwhile, he was a free man, in fucking Canada. It made Max want to weep. Maybe there was justice in the world after all.
Later, they stopped off at a shopping mall and Sean went to feed his face. There was a small bookstore and Max went in, looked at the bestsellers to see if The Max was number one yet. Nope. Zilch. Nada. The fuck was up with that? Some guy named Richard Aleas was selling well but no Paula Segal.
The clerk was eying him and Max, afraid he’d get recognized, figured he’d better buy something. He spotted the Will and Ian Ferguson book, How To Be a Canadian.
Bought that, the clerk asking, “On vacation?”