Killerfest (10 page)

CHAPTER 16 - SEX AND POODLES

The advance
team from Safeguard Security wasn’t due at the Bascombe until late afternoon on
Friday, but Scarne, who wanted to become a familiar face, decided to attend the
Killerfest’s morning sessions. He arrived at the hotel at 7 A.M. and, as
expected, his room was ready for him. After checking in and dropping off his
bag, he grabbed a coffee and a bagel from one of the tables set up outside the
Grand Salon, where late arrivals were registering. He then spent the rest of
the morning bouncing around among various panels in the breakout rooms: “How to
Craft a Good Spy,” “The Advantages of Writing a Series,” “The Bare Bones of a
Thriller,” “Making the Most of Social Networking,” “How to Go From Mid-List to
Magnificent,” “Insiders View of Betrayal,” “Applying NASA Technology to
Forensics” and a half dozen other topics.

Each panel
presentation was attended by scores of aspiring writers, with a heavy
preponderance of women. Arrayed above each audience on a stage were agents,
editors and a sprinkling of published authors. A “Panel Master” ran each
session, which typically consisted of a 30-minute presentation from the people
on the dais, followed by a Q&A. Many of the breakout sessions ran
concurrently and attendees had to preselect the ones they wanted. Since he hadn’t
selected any, Scarne’s V.I.P. credentials, which gave him access to everything,
came in handy.

He tried to
look interested in the presentations he attended, but it was hard. Most, he
soon decided, were pure boilerplate, designed to convince would-be authors they
had a chance to succeed in an industry that was harder to crack than a hooker’s
heart. Chandra Khan apparently had not cornered the market in snake oil. But
judging from the rapt faces in the audience with him, Scarne knew his opinion
was in the minority. Dozens of men and women bent to their notebooks, writing
down the gems of wisdom being cast their way from the dais. The Q&A’s were
particularly intolerable, dominated by a few people who used their long-winded
“questions” to establish their alleged knowledge of whatever subject they
pretended to ask about.

The morning
group of panels was split in two, with a 50-minute “Spotlight Guest” session in
the Grand Salon featuring Lee Child in between. Child was actually an author
Scarne read and wanted to hear. A tall, handsome man and a facile speaker,
Child described how he came to write the wildly popular Jack Reacher series.
Scarne was dying to ask him how Reacher managed to travel around the country
solving crimes and killing bad guys while only possessing a toothbrush and one
set of underwear. It seemed to him that bad breath and a nasty fungal infection
might crimp his effectiveness. But Scarne kept his mouth shut and listened to
other audience questions, which invariably included one about Reacher, who in
the books is six-foot-five, being portrayed in films by Tom Cruise, who may be
five-foot-six standing on a L. Ron Hubbard book.

In addition to
the Spotlight session, the two-hour midday break allowed time for a lunch and
book signings (and sales) in rooms specifically set up to hawk the books of the
authors who had been on the panels. Scarne grabbed a quick burger and two cups
of black coffee in a hotel coffee shop and then plunged back into afternoon
sessions.

This time he
chose only two and sat through both. “Does Sex Really Sell?” was hosted by a
female author who (Scarne learned from promotional material he was given) had
sold more than two million copies of her books, mostly on line. Her name was
Penelope Swelbuns and, from what Scarne could tell from reading some excerpts
of her novels in the brochures, her characters were almost constantly engaged
in activities involving “pulsating,” “throbbing,” “biting,” “clenching” and
“groaning.” The women were often described as “panting” and “melting,” which
was fortunate, because the male character’s “manhood” was always “fully
engorged.”

As it turned
out, Swelbuns, a zaftig blond who would have been right at home on one of the
bodice-ripping covers that adorned her books, turned out to be a wonderful,
humorous speaker.

“I’ll make no
bones about it,” she said, “and no puns intended, I’m not a writer, I’m an
author. The sooner you realize that’s what you are, too, the better. My books
sell and that’s all I care about. Now, let’s talk sex, semen and semantics.”

Which she did,
for an entertaining half hour.

The other
session Scarne attended was entitled “Has the Day of the Private Eye Novel
Passed?”

The panel on
the dais consisted mostly of young agents, who generally agreed that the
private investigator genre was now dominated by fanciful characters whose
adventures were too wild to be believable. Scarne listened to the agents, none
of whom appeared to be out of their 20’s, pontificate on the “real world” and
urge those in the audience to avoid fantastic plots and “larger-than-life
protagonists.”

Scarne thought
he might have a little fun. When the Q&A began he jumped up.

“I’m writing a
series about a private eye who on one case is almost eaten by a crocodile and
in another survives a car crash at 200 miles an hour. Are you saying I should
probably tone it back a notch?”

There were
condescending looks all around the dais, and some titters from the audience.

“I think
that’s a perfect example of what we mean,” one of the agents said. “Those
things just don’t happen in real life. You might want to change those scenes to
something believable.”

“Do you think
if I substituted a poodle for the crocodile and had my detective ride a bike
I’d sell more books.”

“Definitely,”
the agent said, seriously. “The most important thing is a strong, realistic
narrative. Next question.”

I should show
this smart-ass kid the bite marks from the damn croc and the burn marks from
the car wreck, Scarne thought as he sat down. And they weren’t even the worst
things that happened on his last two cases. 

***           

“Have you
found out anything useful?”

“Well,
creating my unique writing voice is very important, the third-person point of
view allows for more character development and, despite what Sister Mary
Margaret told us back in the fifth grade, a sentence is something I can safely
end a sentence with a with.”

Karen Porcelli
rolled her eyes.

“I mean, can
you tell me anything helpful about the security situation?”

Scarne smiled
at her. They were sitting at a table in the far corner of the lounge of the bar
where many of the people from the Killerfest were congregating after the final
session of the afternoon. A waitress had just taken their order. A Diet Coke
for her and a beer for him.

“I don’t drink
on duty,” she had said pointedly.

“After what I
sat through today,” Scarne said, “you’re lucky I’m not on heroin. But to answer
your question, you have your work cut out for you.”

He then spent
10 minutes explaining the layout of the conference and the obvious areas of
vulnerability.

“What a nightmare,”
she said when he finished.

“Look, Karen,
it might not be that bad. Arhaut’s killer had the advantage of almost total
surprise. That’s not the case now. You can’t cover all eventualities but you
can narrow the window of opportunity. Any potential assassin will have to know
that Quimper will have plenty of security, much of it unseen. He’d have to
realize that his chances of escape would be minimal.”

“What about
more than one attacker?”

“Don’t get
paranoid. We’re talking Sebastian Quimper here, not the President of the United
States.”

“Arhaut’s
killer had a getaway driver. Who you think is a woman. This place is crawling
with women.”

“I think she
was more than a driver. She was a facilitator. She probably eliminated the hit
man. Probably too high up the food chain to risk her own neck. I don’t think
we’re dealing with fanatics, which we couldn’t do much about anyway.”

“Then, who are
we dealing with?”

“See. You
ended a sentence with a preposition. As for the real threat, I don’t know. But
I’m working on it.”  

A man
approached their table.

“We’re all set
upstairs, Karen,” he said.

Porcelli
introduced him.

“This is Nick
Dennen, Jake. He flew up with me. Used to be with the Bureau.”

The two men
shook hands and Dennen sat.

“I see they
let you keep the blue suit,” Scarne said.

“And my J.
Edgar Hoover coffee mug.”

“You can fill
Jake in,” Porcelli said.

“Quimper’s
suite is on one end of the floor and ours is on the other, with a private
elevator in between. We’ll always have a man posted by the elevator on our
floor. You need a special plastic key to access the floor. The one you have for
the Concierge Level won’t work for the penthouses. We’ll get you one for that.
Once Quimper is in his room for the night we should be OK.”

“What if he
wants to bring someone home with him,” Scarne asked.

“Yeah. I heard
he’s a hound dog. We’ll check out anyone he scores.”

“Do you have
enough troops?”

“With me,”
Karen Porcelli said, “we’ll have six, once Quimper’s Connecticut crew arrives.
That means four-hour shifts at the elevator, even when Quimper is not on his
floor.”

“I assume
everyone will be packing.”

“Glocks,” she
said. “What will you be doing?”

“Roaming
around, trying to stay out of your line of fire and keeping literary groupies a
safe distance from my throbbing manhood.”

CHAPTER 17 - QUIMP THE CHIMP

With Sebastian
Quimper not due to arrive at the conference until late afternoon, Scarne
decided to attend as many presentations and functions as he could during
Saturday’s morning programs, to see if he could pick up any suspicious vibes or
spot someone who looked like he or she didn’t belong. Considering that there
was a fair number of eccentric-looking characters among the 700 or so attendees
he soon realized it was a long shot.

One of the
seminars was called
How Do You Knock Off Your Characters? Unique Ways to
Kill.
Scarne thought it unlikely that a potential assassin was still doing
research, but perhaps the intriguing title would be too hard for a killer to
resist. Not surprisingly, the room was packed. The panel was made up of
thriller and horror writers, who took turns describing how they came up with
the macabre ways they dispatched people in their books. The sheer inventiveness
of the mayhem described astounded Scarne, who had seen plenty of mayhem in his
day.

“This is like
listening to testimony at a war crimes trial,” an elderly man sitting next to
Scarne said.

But Scarne
found what came next even more chilling. During the question-and-answer period
that followed the official presentation, many of the aspiring authors in
attendance asked whether their descriptions of murders were credible.
Attendees, including some little old ladies who looked as if they were at a
church social, described eviscerations, impalings, scaldings, smotherings with
bread puddings, enemas laced with sea wasp poison, bidet electrocutions and
exploding dildoes. After a while, even the panel looked stunned.

“My God,” the
elderly man said, “people are actually taking notes.”

Scarne looked
around the room. Good choice, he thought. I just discovered about 200 suspects.
He went to get lunch. He found another small coffee shop off the main lobby and
took one of the last tables available. He ordered a cheeseburger and a coke. As
the waitress walked away he spotted the old man who had sat next to him at the
murder seminar. The woman who handled the seating was obviously telling the old
gent that he would have to wait for a table. He got up and went over to them.

“If you’re
alone and don’t mind sharing a table, I just ordered,” Scarne said.

“That’s very
kind of you. I think I will.”

Introductions
were made. His name was John Vincent and he had made the trip to the Killerfest
all the way from Kentucky. He also ordered a cheeseburger and a coke.

“I really
appreciate this, Jake.”

“Well, I feel
like we shared a foxhole together in that seminar.”

Vincent
laughed.

“I know what
you mean.”

“Are you a
writer, John?”

“Yes. I used
to be a newspaperman. Small paper in Lexington. Retired. Thought I’d try my
hand at thrillers. But I only shoot or stab people. Exploding dildoes, indeed.”

“It’s a relief
to meet someone with culture,” Scarne said, smiling.

It was an
enjoyable lunch. Vincent told Scarne that he was halfway through his book,
which dealt with a murder at the Kentucky Derby.

“Please tell
me it has nothing to do with a Taliban plot to infect Kentucky Derby entrants
with hoof-and-mouth disease.”

Vincent looked
at him quizzically.

“Good Lord,
no.”

Scarne laughed
and then told him about the “elevator pitch” Bart Cobb had related during their
lunch as Joe Allen’s.

“Someone
merely gets shot in my story,” Vincent said. “I’m no Dick Francis, but I
covered the Derby for many years and know my way around.”

 He then
proceeded to regale Scarne with tales from not only the Run for the Roses but
also from bluegrass country in general. Scarne, who loved horses and horse
racing, was fascinated. He also listened politely as Vincent sketched the plot
of his novel, which turned out to be intriguing.

“Can I ask you
something,” Scarne said when Vincent finished. “You’re a savvy guy. You were a
newspaperman in the South, so I know you can write. You have some wonderful
tales to draw from. Your plot line is terrific. What is someone like you doing
at a conference like this? You must know that this is all mostly for show.”

Vincent
laughed.

“Don’t judge
these things by that seminar we were just at. I know most of what goes on here
is fluff. Smoke and mirrors. Just a way to drum up some revenue. And most of
the people here, myself included, probably stand little chance of ever being
discovered. But there is something to be said for mixing with other people who
have the same dream you do. It’s reinforcing. I’d hate to think I’m the only
screwball aspiring author out there.”

The waitress
came over and they ordered coffee.

“You should
try the apple pie,” she said, “it’s made special for the Bascombe.”

“Can they put
a piece of cheddar cheese on it,” Vincent asked.

“They can put
a Volkswagen on it if you want.”

She looked at
Scarne, who held up two fingers.

“Coming right
up,” she said, “two, with cheddar.”

“I’ve met some
nice, educated people the last couple of days,” Vincent continued. “I’ve also
heard some successful authors speak who were in the same boat I am now,
including a couple who are older than I am. I met at least one writer that I’ve
long admired and got him to sign one of his books. We’re all insecure. Just
because I wrote for a living and have met some interesting characters doesn’t
make me a novelist. I was nominated for a Pulitzer once, for a crime series we
did. That’s worth about as much as a losing trifecta ticket at Churchill Downs.
But for a couple of days I get to feel like an author. In the Big Apple. A hell
of a lot cheaper than getting an M.F.A., Master of Fine Arts, degree, which a
lot of people think is how you learn to write. Either you know how to write or
you don’t. No reason to make some professors rich.”

The apple pie
came and both men decided it was everything an apple pie should be.

***

Karen Porcelli
called Scarne on his cell phone just after 4 P.M. to tell him Sebastian Quimper
had arrived at the hotel.

“We’re taking
him up to his suite. Why don’t you meet us at the elevator bank and I’ll give
you a key to his floor.”

When Scarne
walked up to the group by the elevator, Quimper gave him the once over.

“You’re the
guy Randolph sent to keep these other guys on their toes, right?”

It was a
statement not meant to endear anyone to the Safeguard agents, which, Scarne
knew, was its intent. Karen Porcelli shook her head and handed Scarne his key.
They all got on the elevator. It began its ascent. What the hell, Scarne
thought, I’m in an elevator. I might as well make a pitch for the old guy from
the coffee shop. After all, he likes cheddar on apple pie.

“Sebastian, I
just heard an interesting plot in the coffee shop,” Scarne said, looking at his
watch.

He then
related the Kentucky Derby idea that Vincent was working on. Maybe Quimper
would co-author the book. When he finished he again looked at his watch. Just
over 40 seconds. Not bad for the first time.

“Never sell,”
Quimper said dismissively. “Nobody gives a crap about horses.”

“What about
the play and movie,
Warhorse
,” one of the Safeguard agents said. “And
didn’t President Reagan say that the outside of a horse was good for the inside
of a man.”

“Reagan was a
horse’s ass,” Quimper said, snickering. “The only thing good for the inside of
a man is to be inside a woman.”

The rest of
the ride was spent in silence. It wasn’t only the sexist remark. Scarne knew
the high regard that most former Government security personnel held the former
President who, whatever his politics, was considered a gentleman. Scarne could
almost see the steam coming out of Karen Porcelli’s ex-Secret Service ears.

After they got
Quimper safely in his suite, where he said he was going to take a nap before he
had to “put up with the unwashed illiterates downstairs,” Porcelli introduced
Scarne to the rest of her team. In addition to Nick Dennen, who he already met,
there were four other men, two of whom Scarne recognized from his first meeting
with Quimper.

“Despite what
Shakespeare down the hall implied,” Scarne said, “I’m not here to keep you on
your toes, or step on them. I’m just an extra pair of eyes.”

“Don’t sweat
it, buddy,” one of the agents said. He was a tough-looking black guy named Mike
Kenyon. “Quimp the chimp likes to stir the pot. We’re used to his bullshit.”

Scarne excused
himself. The cocktail hour preceding the Killerfest awards banquet at which
Quimper was both the honoree and featured speaker was due to start at 6 P.M.
and he wanted to change.