Jack of Spades (2 page)

It is annoying to me, but only just mildly—my Andrew J. Rush novels are not regularly reviewed in the
New York Times Book Review,
and then invariably in a roundup of mystery thrillers; and my “Jack of Spades” novels have not been reviewed once in the
Review
, no doubt because they are issued as paperback originals and, with their crude subject matter, and less than fussy writing, are perceived as beneath the radar of the
Times.
Yet, “Jack of Spades” sells surprisingly well for a virtually unknown and unadvertised writer: his first novel eventually sold about 35,000 copies, and continues to sell; his fourth, somewhere in the area of 50,000 to 60,000 copies, with the possibility of a film sale pending at the present time. (It will be all right with me if this sale doesn’t go through, for publicity shone upon “Jack of Spades” might spill over onto Andrew J. Rush, which would be unfortunate. And I certainly don’t need the money!) But just the other day an odd, unexpected item appeared in the “Arts”
column of the
Times,
which I discovered purely by chance since no one who knows me would have drawn it to my attention:

Gryphon Books announces a new, fifth “Jack of Spades” title for their fall list,
Scourge.
It seems that “Jack of Spades” is not only a writer of decidedly
noir
mysteries but a Mystery Writer as well for no
one seems to know who he, or she, is—including publisher,
editor, and publicist at Gryphon. It is not even
known where “Jack of Spades” lives—or if he/she is actually alive and not (as a rumor has suggested) the leftover
manuscripts of a famous American misanthropic writer who allegedly died in 2006 of “suspicious causes.”

I was stunned to read this—what nonsense! What irresponsible journalism! As groundless as even the rumors about “Jack of Spades” circulating online. Yet, for a panicked moment, I almost felt that there was in fact an individual known as “Jack of Spades” who was an independent, autonomous, quite unknown individual who was a stranger to
me.

It had been relayed to the editorial staff at Gryphon Books that “Jack of Spades” was the pseudonym of a retired professional man living in the New York City area whose wish was to keep his writing career a secret even from his family; these minimal facts everyone at Gryphon had sworn to keep secret. And so when, via an e-mail account that could not easily be traced to me, in the guise of the agent who represented “Jack of Spades,” I asked of the director of publicity at Gryphon Books who was saying the things about my client that had found their way into the
New York Times,
the young woman claimed that she had no idea. All she knew, she insisted, was what she’d been told—that is, told by the agent of “Jack of Spades.”
He is a retired professional man living in the New York City area who insists on keeping his identity secret, and we will honor that wish.

The thought came to me that I might have to terminate “Jack of Spades” after his fifth novel. For I would not want his connection to me—my connection to him—revealed. Such an erasure might be easily accomplished by simply ceasing to write under the pseudonym, without explanation to any agent or editor. Soon then, the
noir
writer would be forgotten, and his books out of print.

“Dad, what’s this?”

My youngest child, Julia, visiting her mother and me for a weekend, happened to see a stack of paperbacks by “Jack of Spades” on a table in my study; the books with their
noir
-covers had been carelessly left in view, having been sent to me, from Gryphon, to a P.O. box in nearby Hadrian, New Jersey (which I rented for such clandestine “Jack of Spades” purposes). Usually when I bring “Jack of Spades” into this household it’s to immediately hide the books away in a secure space in the basement adjacent to floor-to-ceiling shelves of translations of books by Andrew J. Rush at which no one ever glances. (After twenty-eight books, each of which has spawned numerous translations, you can imagine what an archive has collected in the shadowy basement!) My first-edition US and UK books are in built-in mahogany shelves in the living room, proudly displayed; it’s against a background of such handsome, proper, hardcover books that “Andrew J. Rush” is customarily photographed.

“‘Jack of Spades’—kind of a weird name! Of course, it’s a pseudonym, I suppose.”

To my horror there was my sweet-faced Julia leafing through
A Kiss Before Killing
with its lurid
noir
cover at which I could barely bring myself to glance. My heart was beating erratically, and a terrible heat (shame, guilt) suffused my face. What a blunder, to have left these paperbacks where anyone in the family could find them! My only solace was that there are always new books and galleys arriving in my study, as my family knows; and so these “Jack of Spades” paperbacks could easily be explained away as having been sent to me by a publisher requesting a blurb.

It was disconcerting, however, that Julia continued to glance through the book even as her face crinkled in distaste. Julia is the intellectual of our three children, having majored in linguistics and literary theory at Brown; a fascinating if useless major which hadn’t seemed to help her find gainful employment, and so Julia had returned to school—to pursue a more useful graduate degree in sociology and social work at Rutgers-Newark. (Of course, Irina and I were underwriting this new academic adventure of Julia’s, uncomplainingly. We had the money, after all!) Having been trained to “deconstruct” literature, rather than simply enjoy it, or react to it emotionally, Julia had honed her analytic and argumentative skills at Brown and had become, as a consequence, a sharp and relentless interrogator of her poor father “Andrew J. Rush” whose mystery-suspense novels, by the standards of literary theory, were hopelessly old-fashioned in plot, structure, language, and “vision”—the equivalent of, for instance, Dad’s Brooks Brothers clothes, tame neckties, and Birkenstocks.

“Looks lurid but interesting. Obviously ‘sexist’—old-style. Is ‘Jack of Spades’ anyone you know, Dad?”

No. Certainly he is not.

“Not one of your mystery-writer friends?”

No. Certainly he is not.

“What’s his writing like?”

No idea. Haven’t read.

“If you don’t mind, Dad, maybe I’ll borrow this ‘Jack of Spades’—it’s good for a feminist to know what the enemy is up to”—casually Julia set the paperbacks aside on the table.

By this time I’d broken into a sweat inside my clothes.

No no no no no. You will not
.

Fortunately, Julia is an easily distracted young woman. I knew that, by the time she left us, mid-Sunday afternoon, she would have forgotten Jack of Spades entirely; and of course, clever Dad did not remind her.

By this time, in any case, I’d hidden the offensive paperbacks away in the secure space allotted to my alter ego, a storage room with a lock that had once been a fruit cellar in the farthest corner of the basement of our “historic” renovated house. If you happened to glance in that direction, which there is no reason for you to do, your gaze would be deflected by floor-to-ceiling metal shelves of Andrew J. Rush mysteries in translation, the more impressive for being indecipherable and impenetrable.

3 The Summons. June 2014.

“God
damn
.”

If your name is
Rush,
to receive mail addressed to
Rash
is not flattering. Under other circumstances I would have tossed the envelope irritably aside.

But the address on the envelope was my own—Mill Brook House, 111 Mill Brook Road, Harbourton, New Jersey, and the return address was Hecate County Municipal Court, Harbourton, New Jersey—which prompted me to open it, with a pang of apprehension—(could this be a notice of a parking ticket? incurred in town unwittingly by me, or by Irina, using my car?). I saw that it wasn’t a ticket, but it did seem to be a “summons”—rapidly skimming the thin green-tinted official document in which my name, doggedly misspelled as
Andwer J. Rash,
had been typed inexpertly.

Upon closer examination I saw that the summons was in fact a photocopy of an original court document complete with the seal of the State of New Jersey, but blurred and grainy as a partially remembered dream. I read the document through twice, with mounting impatience, and the second time my eye snagged on these startling words at the bottom of the page:

If
Andwer J. Rash
fails to appear in Hecate County Municipal Court on the date and at the time stated, a warrant will be issued for his arrest.

What was this?
Arrest?

Several times I read these words without fully comprehending.

Standing very still, scarcely daring to breathe, the poorly photocopied document clutched in my fingers.

For here was a summons issued by the State of New Jersey, Hecate County Municipal Court on June 11, 2014, just three days previous, in compliance with a complaint issued against
Andwer J. Rash
by one
C. W. Haider
that the aforementioned had
committed an act of theft.

“‘Committed an act of—theft’?”

This was so preposterous, I laughed aloud.

Not an angry laugh, and not an amused laugh—a laugh of incredulity.

So far as I could determine from a close rereading of the smudged document an individual named “C. W. Haider” (of whom I had never heard) was accusing “Andwer J. Rash” of some sort of theft, the nature of which was undisclosed. The document was just a single-page form stating that “Owen S. Carson,” a Harbourton Municipal Court judge, had signed the summons. On the next line, “Albert L. Steadman,” Municipal Court prosecutor, had signed his scrawling signature, and on the next, “Iris Flaherty,” chief municipal clerk, had signed hers. The remainder of the document contained information about the Municipal Court with a particular focus on Traffic Court; there was no further reference to “Andwer J. Rash” and what he had been accused of doing in violation of any law.

To my horror I saw that the date for the hearing was just a few days from now: Monday morning at 9:00
A
.
M
. in the courthouse on Chapel Street, Harbourton—the quaint limestone building, dating from 1741, a New Jersey State Landmark which Irina and I had helped to refurbish in a fund-raising campaign a few years ago.

The summons was tantamount to a subpoena, or an arrest warrant, it seemed—if “Andwer J. Rash” failed to appear in the quaint local court, he was subject to arrest.

The air about my head was gusty, though hot, and blindingly sunny—an unsettling combination.

In my emotional state, I scarcely knew where I was. A small child-voice protested—
But I have not stolen anything! I am innocent.

I wasn’t in my study but outdoors by the road in front of our house (though you could barely see our stone farmhouse from the road). As I often did at this hour of mid-afternoon I’d taken a break from work to hike out to the mailbox on our unpaved driveway; sometimes I jogged to the mailbox and back, and sometimes I rode my old English bike with its unfashionably narrow tires. Our driveway, which was nearly a quarter-mile long, led through the remains of an old pasture overgrown with meadow grasses and wildflowers and small trees. It was one of the beautiful walks of my life, that filled my eyes with tears, that somehow it had come to be
mine
.

Distractedly, I made my way back to the house. The other articles of mail—bills, magazines, flyers, a packet of fan mail forwarded by my publisher, even an envelope from my literary agency which probably contained a sizable check—meant so little to me, I would drop them in a heap on a table in the kitchen for Irina to discover later.

Inside the house, where the light wasn’t so bright, and the air wasn’t so agitated with the likelihood of a summer storm, I felt slightly calmer. Quickly I ascended the steps to my work-studio, shut the door and called the courthouse where after several rings the phone was answered as if reluctantly by the chief clerk Ms. Flaherty, in a voice as faint and begrudging as the poorly photocopied document. Trying to speak in an even tone I introduced myself and asked Ms. Flaherty to explain the summons; it took some time to identify it so that she could check her records; in so doing, Ms. Flaherty sighed often. Then, like a practiced bureaucrat, in a voice both chilly and defensive, she could tell me only that the summons issued by the court had to be “complied with”—I would have to appear in court on Monday morning, with or without “legal representation.” At the hearing the charges would be explained and “evidence”—if there were any—would be introduced.

“‘Evidence’—of what?”

The very term—
evidence
—was a sort of shock to me. For I must have been hoping that the chief clerk would tell me the summons had been a mistake, not meant for me at all.

Even now, I waited for the woman to laugh, and to apologize. For Ms. Flaherty seemed to be taking an undue amount of time to read the document which she herself had signed.

Stubbornly then she merely repeated what she’d already told me, that was of little help.

“‘Evidence of theft’—but what am I accused of having stolen?”

My voice was raised in exasperation. Primly Ms. Flaherty said that such information would be given at the hearing, and that she had no idea what it might be.

“It’s a serious charge—‘theft.’ I’m thinking that such a charge could be libelous.”

When Ms. Flaherty did not reply I said that it was strange, if I’d been accused of theft, that a police officer had not come to my house to arrest me, with a warrant; and Ms. Flaherty said, “Mr. Rash, this is not criminal court—this is civil court. You would not be
arrested
.”

Civil court! Of course. In my agitation I hadn’t quite realized.

“But the warning is on the document—I am subject to arrest.”

“Sir, that would be for ‘contempt of court.’ Not for a crime.”

“But—if I am not guilty of a ‘crime . . .’”

“Sir, that will be adjudicated. That is what the hearing is for.”

With the fluency of a well-trained parrot Ms. Flaherty uttered the multi-syllabic
adjudicated
. As if expecting me to be daunted by this feat.

“Ms. Flaherty! Maybe you can’t grasp the ludicrousness of this situation, but I can. At least tell me, please—who is ‘C. W. Haiden’?”

“We don’t give out such information, sir.”

“But—this person, a stranger to me, is charging me with theft. What does this ‘theft’ entail?”

“I’ve told you, sir. That information isn’t available. There’s no one here in the office except me at the present time, and even if I wished to comply with your request, I could not.”

Ms. Flaherty’s voice was quavering with indignation. She seemed about to end our conversation. Urgently I asked if there was some way that I could find out what the charge was, to prepare for Monday, but she said, “Sir, I do not know. You may wish to retain counsel. That is what is usually done, in lawsuits.”

“‘
Lawsuits
’?
I’m being sued?”

“I don’t know, sir. That is what you will learn at the hearing.”

“But you advise me to ‘retain counsel’—even if I am wholly innocent, and have no idea what the hell is going on.”

Audibly Ms. Flaherty drew in her breath. Was using the word
hell
tantamount to some sort of verbal harassment? Would I be charged with
sexual harassment
?

“Mr. Rash, there—”

“‘Rush.’ My name is ‘Rush.’”

“Mr. Rush, there is—”

“You’ve consistently misspelled my name on this document. My name is ‘Andrew J. Rush’—”

How pathetic it seemed to me, that I’d ever imagined that
Andrew J. Rush
was a “famous” name in Harbourton. The chief clerk of the Municipal Court had never heard of me, clearly.

“—and I can barely read this copy of the summons you sent me, the printing is so faint! This has got to be a mistake, and I don’t want to be dragged to court on Monday for a mistake that isn’t mine.”

“Sir, court is in session at nine o’clock, Monday. Until then I can’t give you any further information.”

“But please, this is very upsetting—”

“Mr. Rash, I am going to hang up now. I would advise you to retain legal counsel, if you are concerned.”

“‘If I’m concerned’—is that a joke? Of course I’m concerned—I’ve been accused of theft, threatened with arrest, coerced into retaining a lawyer—”

“That is up to you, sir. No one is ‘coercing’ you.”

“You must know, lawyers are God-damned expensive! Why should I pay a lawyer’s exorbitant fee, if I am wholly innocent—if I don’t even know what it is I’ve been accused of doing.”

A rush of anger seemed to leap from me. As if, with his money, Andrew J. Rush couldn’t afford a lawyer!

“Sir, good-bye.”

“Wait! Ms. Flaherty, I need to know—”

But the line had gone dead. By this time my voice was raw and aggrieved.

I was thinking—
I am the one who will sue. This is outrageous.

Thinking—
But I have never stolen anything. Have I?

Since the previous day, when my dear daughter Julia had innocently picked up a copy of Jack of Spades’s
A Kiss Before Killing
and begun leafing through it, I had been feeling that something further would happen, out of my control. If there is one thing that frightens me, and infuriates me, it is losing control.

As if Jack of Spades had come to crouch in a corner of my life, unbidden by me, dragging all the light to him, and into him, like a black hole.

I could envision Irina overhearing me on the phone in another part of the house, startled and concerned. Though of the two of us Irina was the more emotional, the more easily upset, it sometimes happened that she heard me speaking intensely when I was alone in my study on the second floor of the house, over the garage—“Pleading, it sounds like”—when I am sure that I am not speaking at all, even on the phone; several times a week Irina will wake me out of a deep, turbulent sleep in the middle of the night, claiming that I’d been talking in my sleep, grinding my back teeth—“Calling for help.”

At such times, so taken by surprise, it requires some seconds before I recognize Irina, my dear wife. More than once I’ve been concerned that, when Irina has shaken me to wake me from sleep, I’ve had an impulse to shove her away.

Already I was plotting how to keep this upsetting news from Irina, and from my family. I did not want to think that any “hearing” in the Harbourton Municipal Court must be publicly accessible, and might be reported in the
Harbourton Weekly
.

The phone rang. Eagerly I answered thinking it might be a repentant Ms. Flaherty, taking pity on me, calling back with helpful information, but instead it was Irina, on the downstairs extension, asking if something was wrong.

“Wrong? What could be wrong, darling? I’ve been having some difficulty with this new novel—that’s all.”

And it was so. I’d been having difficulty preventing my new mystery from continually metamorphosing into a more complicated, even imbricated structure than I’d planned, which I knew to be imprudent given the restrictions of the mystery genre. The title was
Criss-Cross
and its structure had been meant to be simple: a contrasting of “hero” and “villain” in alternating chapters until, in the final chapter, the “hero” prevails over the “villain.” Readers of this genre have every right to expect that a contract of some implicit sort exists between them and the mystery authors—that “evil” will be punished sufficiently, and the usual chaos of the world will be radically simplified, to allow for an ending that is both plausible and unexpected.

Those intellectual-literary snobs who mock the restrictions of our genre—(including even dear Julia, whom I adore)—would find it very difficult to replicate a successful mystery themselves: one in which evil is pursued until it has been captured, and dealt with; and in which there is a clear and unambiguous
ending
.

The endings of Jack of Spades’s mysteries were crueler, as they were more primitive. There was too much evil spilling over everything to be tidily mopped up and mostly, everybody died, or rather was killed. Often I had no idea how a novel by Jack of Spades would end until the last chapter which came rushing at me like a speeding vehicle; mysteries by Andrew J. Rush were models of clarity carefully outlined months in advance, and rarely surprised the author.

This was good. For the author, as for my readers. No one likes surprises, essentially.

Irina was asking if I wanted her to come up to my study, if I was feeling anxious, and I thanked her but told her no, that wasn’t necessary. There was only one cure for anxiety—work.

By dinnertime, I told her, I’d have worked myself out of the morass I was in. As I always did.

“If you’re sure, Andrew . . . You know, you had another bad night last night.”

I don’t think so.

“Well—I seem to remember . . .”

Not at all, Irina. But thanks! Love you.

And I hung up, before the murmured echo
Love you
.

It was like my dear wife, I thought, to exaggerate. Irina had thought she’d overheard my uplifted voice just now, and she’d misinterpreted my mood. She seemed to have misremembered the previous night, which had been featureless as a dark, placid sea in which the turbulence of waves is indecipherable.