Boo Hiss (6 page)

“Thanks.” Wolfe took the folder, then went to his bookshelf and pulled down a book. He carried it to Alfred. “And you might want to take a look at this.”

Alfred took it. “The Bible?”

“It might help you fit in.”

C
HAPTER
7

“A
LL RIGHT, FOLKS
, lets form the line this way. That’s right. Queue up right over there. Thank you, yes, thank you.” Alfred smiled at an elderly lady who looked like she should be knitting, not standing in line for a horror writer’s autograph. Wolfe hadn’t been at the conference for an hour when he was recognized, and chaos ensued. Alfred had expected to be stoned, but instead, a mob had rushed Wolfe, and now five dozen people stood in line for his autograph. Thankfully, Alfred had thought to throw a box of Wolfe’s books in the trunk. He’d really done it so that on the way back from what he was sure was going to be a disaster, he could show Wolfe this dusty old box of books as a motivation to return to the genre that had made them both famous. So far, everything was backfiring.

“I can’t believe it’s him!” the little old lady said to Alfred. “What a treat!”

Alfred stepped closer to her and whispered, “You really read his books?”

“Every one of them!”

“You wouldn’t know it by looking at you. Glad to see there’s a heathen or two here.” He grinned and winked at her.

She was frowning. “Did you just call me a heathen?”

“I’m sorry. Do you prefer to be called a liberal?”

“What are you talking about? I’ve been going to a conservative church my whole life! My husband’s been a pastor for fifty years!”

“Step on up, don’t lose your place in line,” he said, nudging her forward and out of his hair. What was going on here? He looked down the line of faces. Innocent enough. Maybe there wasn’t a religious authority around to control their reading habits.

Beside him suddenly was a pleasant-looking, plump woman with scholarly glasses perched on her rotund cheeks. “You’re his editor, right?” the woman asked. “I’m Ellie Sherman. I’m an agent.” She wore an outfit that suggested a stay-at-home mom rather than an agent, but then again he was on foreign soil. He was used to a lot of black turtlenecks, tortoiseshell glasses, and at least one useless accessory, like a silk handkerchief too expensive to use.

“Ex-editor. Alfred Tennison. I’m an agent now.”

“You are?” She smiled. “You’re really well known in the publishing world.”

The humble shrug Alfred offered couldn’t hide the humongous grin that was escaping across his face.

“Until last year,” she added.

“It’s part of the business.”

“Of course. But I can’t imagine what you’re doing here.”

“Just being an agent.”

“You’re Mr. Boone’s agent?”

“More or less.”

“Looking to pick up a few new clients at the conference?”

“Of course.” Not.

Alfred glanced at Wolfe, who was doing just fine signing autographs and talking to all these oddly adoring fans. He took Ellie by the elbow and moved her away from the crowd.

“I could use a few tips,” Alfred whispered.

“You?” she asked. “Tips on what?”

“On this.” He gestured around the room, but what he really wanted
to do was point at her. In any case, he was definitely the one not fitting in. “I’m fairly new to all this.”

Ohhhh,” Ellie said, her eyes twinkling. “I see. You’re nervous about being an agent.”

Alfred closed his eyes.
An agent to these people.
But he would take what he could get, since he was never one to be too obvious.

“You’ve been an editor so long, this is probably completely new territory to you.”

“Well, in a place other than a cocktail party, yes.” Alfred added, “Where I would always drink ginger ale.”

“What kind of client would you want?” Ellie asked.

“Well,” Alfred began, “obviously I’d want a nonsinner.” He pitched a thumb in the direction of the crowded line and chuckled, “Like none of those people.”

She wasn’t following. Ellie could have used a good pair of tortoise-shell glasses and at least a business suit to help Alfred feel a little more confident with any suggestion she was about to make.

“Someone who has the Bible memorized,” Alfred continued, after she didn’t offer any advice. “And certainly no women in short skirts. That’s a definite no-no.” Ellie still looked confused, so he added, “Or at least if they do wear short skirts, they should also be wearing tights. Don’t you agree?”

Ellie paused and then said, “What kind of writing, I mean.”

“Oh. Writing. Right.”

“Is there a particular genre that you’re keen to?”

Keen to.
Huh. “Well,” Alfred said slowly, carefully pondering his answer, “I’m keen to any kind of writer who has the promise of a two-hundred-fifty-thousand first print run.”

Ellie laughed. “Good one.”

Alfred smiled, but he wasn’t sure what was so funny. He leaned over
to Ellie and said, “Listen, as you can probably guess, I’m a little new to this kind of … setting. Is there anything that I absolutely, under any circumstance, should not do?”

Ellie looked completely amused by his question. She said, quite wryly, Alfred thought, “Just follow the Ten Commandments and you should be fine.”

Alfred nodded. “Are those, by chance, posted anywhere?”

As Wolfe approached the editor, he tried to rub the slick sweat off his hands against the fabric of his plaid shirt. He was realizing just how much he’d taken the familiarity of his relationship with Alfred for granted. This was like starting from scratch, and it had been quite a long time since he’d actually had to pitch a book idea face to face with an editor. He’d attempted to sell a coming-of-age book under a pen name over the summer, but it resulted in a harsh rejection letter that suggested he might try to add something interesting, like a plot, to the book.

In his experience, there were two kinds of editors: social climbers and bookworms. Social climbers attended all the literary events they could get their prestigious name on and were regulars at any parties that served up caviar and intellect on silver platters of self-absorbing conversation. That had been Alfred Tennison, who thankfully had done a good job of representing Wolfe at places he should’ve been but never wanted to go.

Bookworms, on the other hand, were socially inferior and seldom left their offices. They had no desire to be known or acknowledged. They had a pure, uninhibited love for literature. They were typically not known for their bathing habits, either. They would spend hours fighting for the exact right word in a sentence, while the Alfred Tennisons of the world
were calculating for the fifth time an escalating royalty rate. But oftentimes the bookworms would find themselves far below their entitled place on the corporate ladder, simply because they weren’t social enough for the business.

“How do you do?” the man said, extending his hand toward Wolfe. He wore a sweater vest that didn’t contain a single color from the striped shirt beneath it, and walked with a slight limp that drew attention to the arthritis in his hands. “I’m Harry Rector.”

“Wolfe Boone,” Wolfe said, shaking his hand. “Thanks for meeting with me.” They sat in two leather chairs next to a fireplace.

“My pleasure,” he said, his blue, grandfatherly eyes sparkling with wisdom. “I can’t help but tell you how surprised I am to see you at one of our conferences. I guess it’s old news about your departure from the horror world, but still …”

“According to the Star I’ve had three nervous breakdowns after being abducted by aliens.”

Harry chuckled. “I suspect,” he said softly, “that you were kidnapped by a different kind of adversary altogether.”

“Former adversary,” Wolfe smiled.

“Indeed,” said Harry. “And now you’re here.”

“Yes sir. My agent assured me I would never fit in.”

“Your agent?”

“Yes.”

“Is he the fellow in the fancy trench coat who earlier insisted on praying over everyone’s coffee?”

Wolfe laughed. “It makes him feel good about himself.”

“Hmm,” Harry said. “Sounds like he’s having a harder time of it. Fitting in, I mean.”

“I give him credit. He’s the one that believed this might be the place for me.”

“What do you think?”

“I know that I still have a lot of stories in my heart to tell.”

Harry leaned forward. “What kinds of stories, Wolfe?”

Before Wolfe could answer, all of Alfred’s suggestions and pages of notes flooded his mind, blocking a single, coherent word from escaping. Impressively, Alfred had been very detailed about what constituted a religious novel. And he’d also lectured him all the way to Chicago about the required and effective formula for these kinds of books, including an actual spreadsheet.

“I’ve studied the three top-selling religious novels of all time,” Alfred had said. “Trust me. I have the pulse of the industry.”

Harry was patiently waiting, and Wolfe was trying to remember the exact story line Alfred had suggested for him, being a newbie and all.

“Listen, Wolfe,” Alfred had said, “you’re not going to get to go in there and just publish any kind of book you want. You’re going to have to present them with an idea that shows them you’re on board with this kind of thing.”

But right now Wolfe was drawing a blank as to what kind of thing he was supposed to be pitching. Harry looked concerned. “Well,” Wolfe began, “it’s set on a prairie.” “Really.”

“Yes. And in fact, there is a prairie woman in the book.” “The protagonist?”

“Exactly.” Things were starting to click. “Life is hard. She is widowed and raising two children. The land is desolate, and they’re trying to make their way west before the harsh winter.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And without warning, catastrophe strikes.”

“A snowstorm?”

“The Rapture.”

Harry looked stunned. That was a good sign. Maybe Alfred had come up with a pretty original idea, which was shocking, since Alfred was hardly ever original.

Wolfe tried not to skip a beat. “So half the earths population is gone. There are a slew of covered wagons completely empty, the attached horses running wild without anybody to guide them.”

“Sounds dangerous.”

“But not violent,” Wolfe said with a wink. Alfred had warned him that violence was strictly forbidden. “So there’s this prairie woman trying to deal with the fact that most everyone she knows is gone, when she suddenly encounters something so scary it brings her to her knees.”

“A false prophet?”

“A love interest.”

“Oh. A cowboy?”

“A eunuch.”

Harry looked completely lost. Wolfe was afraid he wasn’t explaining himself very well. But Alfred had thought the eunuch would work well, since the book had to be heavy on romance but light on love scenes. At least this way there would be plenty of room for clever conversation without any temptation.

Harry asked, “Is there an antagonist?”

This was the tricky part. In many previous books that Wolfe had written, the antagonist was a heavy smoker or drinker, fond of cussing and more times than not already dead. But again, Wolfe was willing to make a few adjustments to try his hand at this.

“Remember,” Alfred had said cautiously, “the bad guy is always one prayer away from total conversion.”

“Yes, there is definitely an antagonist. He’s sort of a well-dressed, mild-mannered kind of guy, who is often seen giving to the poor and has a soft spot for injured animals.”

Harry’s head had tilted to the side, like he was trying to examine something from another angle.

Wolfe quickly added, “He has a terrible temper.”

Harry scratched his nose and said, “Let me see if I’ve got this right. You’ve got a story about a woman who is left behind on the prairie after the Rapture takes place, who then falls in love with a humble eunuch, who is little help against the frightful temper of the good Samaritan?”

Wolfe frowned. Oddly, it didn’t sound that good when summed up in a single sentence.

Harry asked, “She wouldn’t happen to be hiding dark family secrets, would she?” He chuckled and glanced at his watch. “Wolfe, what are you doing right now?”

“Bombing?”

Harry laughed. “Maybe it’s time I familiarize you with this strange new world you’ve entered.”

“Okay. And how will you do that?”

“Let’s go find your agent and see what happens when I suggest we meditate’ over some new ideas.”