Potboiler

Despite the speed and force of the changes being wrought in his life, he tried to keep a level head. His luxuries were few. He found a new apartment, bigger than his old one but far less than what he could have afforded. At his daughter’s behest he acquired a cell phone, and he would occasionally take a taxi rather than the bus—although never to work. That he did not quit his job was a fact he made a point of mentioning in interviews. Teaching, he said, had always been his first love. He said this not out of guile. It was a lie he had come to embrace, as it helped him convince himself that his values remained unchanged. He was still Pfefferkorn, adjunct professor of creative writing. Waiting on the corner for the number forty-four, he would note his position on the best-seller list, then deliberately deflate his sense of satisfaction by turning to the front page. One glance at the headlines was all it took. Everything was right with the world, which was to say: everything was appalling. A babysitter had murdered her charges by supergluing them to the blades of a ceiling fan and running it on high. A senator had been indicted for hiring a prostitute, then refusing to pay with anything other than bulk-sized bags of nougats. The president of East Zlabia had survived an assassination attempt for which the West Zlabians were denying responsibility. Members of the international community were calling on both sides to exercise restraint. It was business as usual. Violence, poverty, and corruption still reigned. So he had made a little money. So what?

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.