The Fan Letter (13 page)

“Mom? I…I heard from the agent finally.… Do I sound happy?…. Yeah, I know. I tried. I thought I did pretty well, but I guess it wasn't good enough…. What am I going to do with my manuscripts? I don't know. Probably bore my friends with them for the rest of my life…. Or, I could hand them the printed version that will come out in four or five months!…. Really! They will publish my books. I just heard today. Now they want my Western. Is dad home?…. Oh. Does he even remember all this?…. Well, tell him when he gets home…. Yeah, thanks. I'm pleased, too. I have some more calls to make. I'll talk to you later.”

Wayne looked up again. “Boy, you're mean! I didn't realize you had such a cruel streak. Let's celebrate,” he offered. “Call Janice, whoever. It's on me.”
And Sarah
, he silently added with a hidden smile.

“Great! You're on! If I know Janice, she'll be here in ten minutes. Is that all right?” she asked, indicating the contract still in his hands.

“Sure. Call away. Oh, you mean the contract. Yeah, it's fine, from what I can tell. I didn't see anything that could indicate a hidden clause. It seems pretty straight-forward. Sign it, lady!”

“Yes, sir!” after which she got out her personal phone book, forgetting, in her excitement, that she had the needed number memorized. “Boy, I wish I had Phillip's number,” she stated, revealing the reason for her preoccupation. “I'd like to tell him personally. But, I'll have to settle on a letter again,” she decided as she began dialing Janice's number, the unneeded phone book still in her hands. She failed to see the strange look that passed over Wayne's eyes at the mention of Phillip Beck.

Leslie hadn't mentioned Phillip much in the past few months. Janice regularly referred to “her actor,” but Leslie herself had seemed to have dropped the idea. Wayne knew she would now be more grateful than ever for Phillip's first advice so long ago. Hoping she would forget the actor, he would finally be able to report to Sarah that the “threat” no longer existed. His now-unsavory employment would then end. No, his
bondage
would end. Wayne knew he was being used—mostly now by Marty to further his own selfish plans.

Wayne looked at Leslie as she excitedly babbled the news to her friends. Compared to Sarah, Leslie was transparent. She didn't exist. But, that comparison was unfair, he knew. They were two different types of women. Sarah contained all the outer beauty a woman could possess. But, inside, she was a cold business woman. Shrewd, sure of herself almost to the point of arrogance in most matters, but neurotic and troubled when something she felt she owned was threatened.

Leslie…. Well, Leslie had changed his viewpoint of her. As he had gotten to know her, he found her more attractive. She didn't consider herself alluring or charming, but that only added to her appeal. She had compassion and empathy. She didn't reach for the highest goal, but chose one that she felt was sufficient and attainable. Dangerous? He had seen her verbally slaughter someone who had attacked someone she loved, but that was different.

Now she had attained a goal higher than she ever expected. He wondered how it would affect her. Smiling to himself, he already knew the airs Janice would put on in public. But, what about Leslie? Her third book was almost ready to be typed. What then? He knew she wanted to try and turn her books into scripts. He hoped Phillip would ignore this next letter she would send just as he had ignored her last few. Beck would probably recommend the script angle now where he hadn't before, he thought sourly.

Wayne was jealous of Phillip Beck. He just didn't realize it.

“
H
ello, again, Phillip,

From now on I would appreciate it if you would refer to me a ‘Madame Author’.

Yes, it finally happened. I heard from the publisher and they will print my book! You know I was always thankful for your encouragement and now it has paid off!

By the way, I don't care if you are overwhelmed. I am still going to send you a copy.

A group of us celebrated last night. It became pretty silly, I'm afraid.

I saw “Mutiny of Love at Sea” last week. You should have gotten higher billing.

Keep busy and take care,

Leslie Nelson

Author”

A
few nights later, the light on Leslie's answering machine was flashing on and off. She and Wayne had just come back from dinner and he had followed her inside.

“Hi, Les. This is Pa. We're real proud of ya. Bye,” was the message.

“What was that?” Wayne asked with an amused grin.

“Just Dad giving me support and encouragement,” Leslie shrugged, a warm smile crinkling her eyes. “That's his way.”

“Do you think they'll read your books?”

Leslie gave a light laugh. “No! They hate the television show. But I do know they will want a copy.”

Wayne helped himself to a drink from her refrigerator. “Well, I guess I'll have to buy a copy. But,” he stressed with an upraised finger, “only if the author will autograph it.”

“Hmph. Peasant,” she sniffed, her nose in the air. “You'll buy two copies. One for yourself that you will treasure forever. And one to send to Majestic. Of course you will rave about how wonderful an addition to the show Jane Barrett-Newby will be.”

“Of course,” he bowed his head briefly. “What else could I say or do?”

Leslie looked away and giggled. “It will be interesting at work tomorrow when I tell them about this.”

“What are you going to do?” he asked with narrowed eyes.

Leslie looked thoughtful. “I'm not sure, but I do know I'll have a whole different attitude!”

“Uh-oh,” he muttered as he took a sip of his drink.

She nodded happily and smiled. Glancing at the clock, she added, “It is getting late, Wayne. I need to get to bed. Mondays are our busiest days.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. You just want to plot what you're going to do.” After throwing away the soda can, he came out of the kitchenette and walked up to her. “Are you going to send me out into the cold to go all the way home to my dark, cold, lonely, depressing apartment?” he asked gently, refraining from touching her.

She averted her eyes briefly and then quietly nodded. “Yeah. And if you turn your stereo up too loud again I'll stomp on the floor. Besides,” she finished with a small grin, “you snore.”

“How the heck would you know?” he scoffed.

“I can hear you through the floor.”

“Maybe it's because I'm all alone,” he offered, raising his eyebrows.

“Maybe you should sleep on your stomach.”

“Maybe that's not the solution I had in mind.”

Leslie shook her head.

“How about a good-night kiss, then?” Wayne resignedly asked, knowing when to back off.

She offered her cheek.

“No, thanks. I'll wait for a better offer.” As she opened the door for him to leave, he gave a parting, “Night, author.”

“Night, peasant.”

W
ayne made a show of stomping downstairs to his apartment and slamming his door. In return, he heard Leslie stomping into her bedroom with such a force that it made the windows rattle.

He yelled up at the ceiling, “All right, already! You win!”

The stomping ceased.

Grabbing a beer out of his fridge, Wayne thought back on their evening. He had interrupted her writing to take her out to dinner again. She had protested that he was spoiling her and trying to make her fat. He agreed to the spoiling part as he had taken her arm in his and they walked to his car.

She had still been pretty excited about the book being accepted and talked a lot about the next two novels. She expected to be done with CHATEAU REX within the week and then she would begin typing it and having copies made. Then she would wait for word on the Western she was mailing in the morning. She mentioned starting to do research on scriptwriting and….

Wayne stopped his recital of their evening and tried to picture Leslie in with the Los Angeles crowd that he knew. All he could picture was a lamb amongst the lions. She would need someone to advise her on what the double-tongued terminology meant. She would need someone besides her New York agent.
A manager?
he thought, throwing the word back and forth. He thought of Marty and immediately grimaced and shook his head to clear the image. That would be one of the head lions! Then he laughed. Wouldn't Sarah be fit to be tied if Marty represented Leslie?

Thinking about all the contacts he knew, Wayne couldn't come up with anyone suitable for Leslie in his eyes. He knew quite a few agents and managers and like most of them, but still had an unfocused distrust for them. She needed someone in Los Angeles whom she could trust since she would probably stay there in Amherst. He didn't want anyone else around her like that. He wanted to be there. He should….

Wayne stopped short.
He wanted to
? He sat down heavily on his bed.
Like he was trustworthy?
He had been spying on her for months now and making money—good money—at it. He reported her every move and intention and made her look like a demented loon. Even though he had long since stopped listening in and taping her calls and searching her apartment, he still was misrepresenting her for pay. He was a traitor, a hypocritical traitor. And he had just elevated himself into a position of trust by implying that no one else was worthy of that position.

Four, five months ago he would have thought nothing of spying, reporting and betraying his best friend in the name of his job as a private investigator—as long as the pay was good, that is. That was what he had been doing for twelve years. And he was good at it. Very good.

His eyes narrowed as his self-examination continued. What did he have to show for his expertise in this new decade of 1990? Friends: Marty, Leslie, Janice. Reputation: Cold, hard, no conscience, no scruples, one of the best in his field. Money: Considerable savings built up from his work as a spy. Possessions: New unremarkable car, state-of-the-art surveillance equipment, few pieces of furniture in a rented Los Angeles apartment. Family: Parents disapprove of work, lifestyle and outlook. Older brother a successful realtor who won't speak to him. Relationships: Girlfriend through high school and one in college. No one special in twelve years.

Wayne now knew what had happened to him. In these months in Amherst he had lived on the “other side,” as he called it, for the first time since leaving home. He was far away from the flash and glitter and also the corrupt and murky sides of Los Angeles in which he had orbited and snuck around. Leslie and Janice led simple, honest lives. They worked hard for sustenance and covering and now Leslie was working harder for a little extra. If it happened. If not, that would be all right as well. A phone call from someone they considered famous had turned up some excitement in their lives and their friends were envious. That same phone call—had it been made to someone in the business in L.A.—probably wouldn't have been answered.

Wayne had dreaded coming to Amherst. Now de dreaded returning to Los Angeles and his previous existence.

Because of his constant, steady, friendly efforts since he moved in, Leslie now viewed him as a friend and a confidant, but not anything more intimate, much to his chagrin. He was welcomed into her circle of friends and accepted by those within. No one had asked him anything beyond the usual. No one expected anything. That is, except honesty, trust and friendship. This was nothing beyond what they themselves gave.

He could come and go at Le Petite Boutique and was let in on all the private jokes and inside stories that went on there. Her parents liked his firm handshake and the fact that he had steadily met their eyes when they talked. They were glad Leslie had someone near at hand to watch out for her. When he had first heard them say that months ago, he had laughed and laughed to himself. It wasn't funny any longer.

His honest contemplation halted when he heard her walk back into her living room and then heard the creak of the springs in her sofa. He glanced at the clock. It was eleven. He wondered what she was doing. Glancing at the black bag in his closet that now held every piece of surveillance equipment he had brought with him, he knew that wasn't an option any longer.