A Pagan's Nightmare (10 page)

Ned pulled his headset back over his ear and checked his altitude. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

They didn’t see me but I saw them. On a Midtown Atlanta sidewalk—Larry and a younger woman.

They walked side by side, not holding hands but nevertheless very together, each tuned to the other and striding with purpose,
as if they were either late for a lunch reservation or out walking for their health. Complementing strides, you might say.
I used to walk like that with Angie.

On this hot clear Thursday, the young woman with the long auburn hair wore a beige skirt just above her knees, and it swayed
as she strode and it swayed when she paused and it swayed when she pointed skyward. Something had caught her eye, and Larry
stopped beside her and gazed skyward too, as over-interested as any guy trying to impress a girl.

I was seated across the street at a meat ‘n three, a diner that was the antithesis of hip cafés and coffeehouses, yet had
become a gathering spot for artsy types, simply because the food was good. Baked chicken instead of fried. Tenderloin instead
of meatloaf. Nine vegetables from which to choose, and mason jars filled with exquisite sweet tea.

Across the booth from me sat a client. Alec was a mystery writer whose mysteries weren’t mysterious enough. At least not for
me to be able to sell one. Though I wanted to end our meeting quickly, I tried to offer appropriate consolation as we discussed
the rejections from the seven publishers to whom I had submitted his work.

“Perhaps it needs just one more thorough rewrite,” I explained. “But keep working. My wife thinks you have talent.” Angie,
for reasons unknown to me, believed the guy was gifted.

Alec left frustrated and downcast, as so many wannabe authors are apt to do, and my parting words were of little consolation.
Honesty was my strong suit. No way could I support my family by selling non-mysterious mysteries.

Alone in the booth now, I craned my neck to see Larry and the young woman in front of an office tower, both in date mode,
both peering over the edge of a bricked fountain while trying to avoid the spray. One could not help but wonder how Larry
managed the social life he did—if she was indeed his Miranda, he must have talked a good game.

I failed to see how a guy could take a girl riding on MARTA for a second date and then manage to arrange a third. But there
he went, beside her in his pinstripe slacks and loud pink shirt, the two of them striding like an A-list couple en route to
a Broadway premiere.

We had no appointment for today, but I did have Larry’s cell number. And with Angie giving me the cold shoulder over my representing
Larry’s work, I needed to convince myself that I was doing the right thing. With no hesitation at all I dialed Larry’s number
and looked out the window. He stopped at the corner of 10th and Juniper, and took the woman by the hand. This time her skirt
swayed more violently as she tried to tug him across the intersection. But Larry remained planted on the curb and pressed
his phone to his ear.

“Larry?”

“That you, Ned?”

“Yeah. I got some news. You sitting down?”

“No, Ned. I’m with, you know… the girl.” Larry turned and looked at the sign above the intersection. “We’re, lemme see, we’re
at the corner of 10th and Juniper, on our way to dance lessons.”

“Waltz or Samba?”

“Swing dance. It’s the greatest. I get to wear 1940s gangster garb. Pinstripe slacks and my pink shirt. You should see me.”

“Yeah,” I said, peering at him from behind a napkin holder, “wish I could see you.”

The young woman tried a gentler tug, but Larry remained planted, as if walking and talking were too difficult for him. “So,
why ya calling? Hollywood sending numbers? Is that it? I’ll cancel swing if I need to.”

“No, don’t cancel your dance lessons. I just heard from a studio guy in L.A. And while he hasn’t committed to anything yet,
he hinted at my coming out there to talk.”

“No kiddin’?”

“No kidding.” I watched him pump his fist in the air, then reach out and hug the young woman. I decided now was a good time
to press Larry for answers. “So, Larry, when do I get to meet this girl? You told me she was a brunette and was kinda slender.
Sounds like she’d look good in beige.”

A short pause. Larry turned in a circle. “Ned, you’re freaking me out here. She’s wearing a beige skirt.”

I leaned into the diner’s window to get a better view of them. “Will ya tell me her name?”

“You already know her name.”

I ducked back behind the napkin holder. “Have you told her yet that she’s the love interest in your—”

“Ned?”

“What?”

“Don’t mention that when I put her on the line.”

“Why would you put her on the line?”

“She wants to ask you something.”

I paused and slid down in the booth, afraid of being spotted. “What could she possibly—”

“Just talk to her, Ned.”

“All right, put her on.”

Traffic hummed in the phone as I peered over the window sill and watched Larry hand her his cell. Then a female voice came
on the line. “Is this Agent Orange?”

“Hi, Miranda. This is Ned, er, Agent Orange.”

“Pleased to meet you. Larry has told me about how the two heroes are running from some mean people, but he won’t tell me if
there’s a romance in his story. So… is there some kind of romance?”

“I’m still reading it myself, but it looks like there is a male character who cares deeply about a female character.”

“Yes!” she exclaimed. “Then I’m sure I’ll like the movie. Will you need any extras during filming? I took an acting class
once—”

“Actually, there’s no deal yet. And hiring extras is not my job. My job is to sell the rights to the production company and
its producers.”

“Oh.” A silent confusion took over. “Well, I hope you sell it. Do you swing dance, Agent Orange?”

“Nope. I used to slow dance in the kitchen with my wife, but that’s stopped for now due to—”

“That’s so sweet. Here’s Larry again.” Traffic noise whined in the phone. Then Larry’s baritone voice. “Talk to me, boss.”

“I won’t know anything else for a few days, Larry, but I gotta ask you something.”

“Ask away, Ned. Just hurry. Our dance lessons start in three minutes and we don’t wanna be late.”

“How did you come up with a volleyball game with Dunkers versus Sprinklers?”

“I googled it.”

“Thought so.”

“Call me when you have numbers. I gotta go jitterbug now; then I meet with my therapist again tonight. He’s bringing out some
heavy stuff, Ned.”

And just as I was about to ask for more details that I had no right to know, Larry hung up.

I remained in the booth and rejected six more manuscripts. When I looked up from the last one, I noticed that the lunch crowd
had dwindled to just me and my waiter, a strapping youngster who could not have been over twenty-one. He came over with a
dish towel in one hand and a fresh mason jar of sweet tea in the other, which I accepted with a thumbs up.

“You a professor?” he asked, noticing the papers stacked as high as the salt and pepper shakers.

“Literary agent. Those are manuscripts.”

He nodded and wiped off the other side of my booth, casting interested glances at the papers as he wiped. “Any of ‘em a good
read?”

I drank from my mason jar and nodded in the affirmative. “One has potential.”

The kid kept staring at the papers and wiping invisible crumbs. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. The one in the blue folder.” I pushed the folder toward him.

The kid wiped the same spot three more times. “Yeah?”

I figured a youthful opinion could be valuable. “You like to read?”

“Yeah. Plus I’m a theatre major at Georgia College.”

He smelled of dish detergent and sweat, just like I did when I waited tables at Pizza Hut in Duluth in ‘82. Perhaps it was
this reminiscence, this flashback to Angie walking into that Pizza Hut on a slow Tuesday night, and my refilling her glass
after every sip just so I could talk to her, that summoned my pushiness. Or perhaps I was just feeling insecure. Truth was,
I craved some younger feedback. Plus I had calls to make, so I handed him Larry’s first nine chapters. “Enjoy yourself, kid.”

“You really don’t mind? You’re my last table and—”

“Enjoy yourself.”

He hurried over to the bar and began reading. I sat there computing fifteen percent of various sums, going against my usual
professionalism and letting my imagination once again run ahead of reality. Then I thought of the relational variables that
could accompany a deal—or no deal, if I allowed Baptist ethics to stunt the opportunity.

I thought of four possibilities:

Good money but unhappy wife.

Good money but no wife.

Content wife but no money.

Wife living with me in a cardboard box under 1-85, next to Victor, who eats all our chicken wings.

Thirty minutes later the kid was back beside me. “This is pretty wacked, man,” he said, handing me the stack of paper and
shaking his head. “But it’s interesting.”

“In some circles it’s also controversial. So much so that my wife is upset with me.”

“Too bad.” He stood there awkwardly for a moment before flipping the dish towel over his shoulder. He went back behind the
bar about the time I left my sixth phone message of the day on Angie’s cell phone.

Alone in the booth with my conscience, I was convinced that whenever Angie and I next spoke, I would persuade her to see things
my way.

Out of nowhere my young waiter returned, this time in street clothes. And this time he leaned down to within a foot of me
and lowered his voice. “Sir, do ya mind if I read some more? I start school next week, so I won’t be serving you in here again.”

I handed the kid chapters ten and eleven, and he went and sat at the bar to read.

D
J NED SAW LAND
over the propellors. The coastline appeared washed and rinsed, though neither man could see enough detail to determine whether
Hurricane Gretchen had air-kissed Cocoa Beach, or pummeled it.

In a steady descent toward the Florida coast, Ned grabbed his radio and morphed into a poser. “Request permission to land
with Reverend Hoocher from the Caribbean. He’s exhausted from pursuing those two rebels and leading all-night revivals.”

An awkward pause lingered from Air Traffic Control. “Urn, okay. Permission granted. But tell the Reverend that he owes Marvin
half of any monies collected from passing the plate.”

Lanny pulled out his wallet, thumbed the four twenties inside, and shook his head no.
Not this week, Marvin.

Ned parked his plane at the far end of the airport. In the nearly empty Melbourne terminal he and Lanny ran past three more
WANTED posters of themselves, dodging two flight attendants in the process and hurrying out to Ned’s Mercedes.

“That one attendant stared at us like we’re some kind of exhibit,” Lanny said as he strapped on his seatbelt.

“That’s because we’re not great posers yet,” Ned replied. “Maybe we should smile more… or shave our heads.”

He dropped his keys as he tried to insert one into the ignition. His next attempt was successful, and he started the car and
drove them along the coastal highway, swerving around debris and downed limbs.

Lanny lowered his window and allowed the wind to buffet his face. “I’d like to revisit the marina in Cocoa Beach,” he said
to his driver. “I have a feeling that Miranda is close by, looking for me.”

Ned raised his voice above the engine noise. “I have a feeling that there is a giant purgatory with three billion people in
line to use the restrooms. And your Miranda is one of them, and so are my golf buddies.”

“Please?”

Ned thought about this request for the next mile. “You’re not afraid of getting captured?”

Lanny shut his eyes and stuck his head out the window like a dog craving relief. “I am no longer afraid of anyone!” he shouted
to the wind.

Ned wondered if his friend was losing his mind, but he agreed to his request. Five minutes later Ned parked among the oyster
shells at Bluewater Marina. Both he and Lanny opened their doors and sniffed foul air. The receding waters had left a stench
upon the coast—a mix of diesel fuel and tidal marsh.

Lanny got out, shut his door, and hurried across the parking lot to the edge of the marsh. What he saw from ground level was
much worse than from the air.

As if all vessels had tried to crowd into the same spot at once, eight boats—including both versions of the
I’m So Worthy
—had pulled from their slips and plowed nose-to-nose into one another. Smoke eased from the engine compartment of the
Formal on Sundays.

The main dock was still standing, but just barely. Twisted in some sections and folded like an accordion in others, it proved
a challenge to negotiate. Lanny stepped carefully from board to board, and he winced each time one groaned louder than expected.
Ahead of him, with no such worries, a crab crawled up between the boards.

“Checkin’ out the damage, eh?” Lanny said to the critter. “Or are you missing someone, too?” He watched it for a moment before
nudging it into the water with his shoe.