Wonders Never Cease (9 page)

Wes looked at the cover page:
Shout It Out! Resolving
Disagreements the Quick & Easy Way
. “Is this as bad as I think it is?”

“Worse,” she said, turning for the door. “Enjoy.”

Wes slumped back in his chair and looked around the office. It was a truly great office—the office he had always dreamed of. The floor-to-ceiling windows with the glimpse of the homes dotting the Hollywood Hills; the Italian designer furniture; the fabulous Noguchi coffee table and the Eames leather chairs that were softer than a baby's bottom. It was the office he had always wanted—but maybe he had signed the lease just a little too soon. He felt terrible about having to let most of his employees go—but not terrible enough to downsize to a more affordable office. But why should he? He was a creative, after all, and creatives needed creative surroundings to create.

He stood up and looked at his office chair. Fifty-six hundred dollars for a chair—maybe that was a bit steep. But it was an Interstuhl Silver, after all—the chair Al Pacino used in
Ocean's 13
. All the metal parts were actually made of silver—how cool was that? He could never part with his Silver. How was he supposed to create without it? The chair was like a cosmic antenna—he could practically feel creative energy channeling into him through those silver arms . . .

He shook his head.
I don't need to downsize the office
, he thought.
I need to upsize the business—that's the positive
approach! Annie's right—we need another big book. But where
am I going to find it
?

He sat down on his cosmic antenna and began to think—but before the creative energy had time to reach him there was a knock at the door.

Annie leaned in. “Someone to see you.”

“Who?”

“An author—says he's got something that will make
Lattes
look like decaf.”

“I'm the publisher—I don't meet with authors.”

“You're also the acquisitions editor.”

“Tell him to send me a book proposal.”

“He's here now. I'm sending him in—or you can empty your own trash.” She pushed the door open and stepped aside.

A young man walked into the room and smiled confidently. “Hi there,” he said. “My name is Kemp McAvoy.”

Wes reluctantly extended his hand. “Wes Kalamar. I'm the publisher here at Vision Press.”

“Yes, I know,” Kemp said. “As seen on TV.” Without waiting to be invited he sat down in a leather armchair and swung a leg over one of the arms. He was dressed in khakis with a square-cut Malibu sport shirt and a pair of Teva sandals dangling from his feet.

“Nice chair you've got there,” Kemp said. “Is that an Interstuhl?”

“Not many people recognize that,” Wes said.

Kemp shrugged. “I have a taste for nice things.”

“I understand you're a writer, Mr. McAvoy.”

“Me? No. Actually, I'm a nurse. I work over at UCLA Medical Center.”

“You've got a story concept, then?”

“Not really. You could say I have a concept, but not for a story.”

“Then why are you here?”

Kemp reached into his back pocket and pulled out a mass-market paperback edition of
Lattes with God
. “I actually spent good money for this,” he said. “I can't believe I shelled out seven ninety-nine for this drivel, but I thought I should become familiar with it.” He flipped through a few pages. “Listen to this: ‘No one in the bustling Starbucks could see that the Creator himself was seated across from me, smiling with satisfaction as I delighted in one of his finest creations.' Tell me, does God like those little biscotti?”

Wes frowned. “Mr. McAvoy,
Lattes with God
was the best-selling book in the world last year—it outsold everything except the Bible.”

“How ironic,” Kemp said. “I wonder where
Lattes with God
will be a few millennia from now?”

“Mr. McAvoy, may I be blunt?”

“It's your office.”

“I'm a busy man. Any fool can find a few things wrong with a book—”

“Especially a book like this one.”

“—so I'm not interested in your critique of
Lattes
unless you've got something better. Do you? If not, get your legs off my Italian leather and let me get back to work.”

Kemp smiled. “As a matter of fact, I do have something better—a lot better.”

“Well?”

“The way I see it, there's one problem with this book that outweighs all the others.”

“And that is?”

“It's last year's book—and as I understand it, you're looking for next year's book. Does that pretty well summarize your present dilemma?”

“That's every publisher's dilemma. So?”

Kemp swung his legs around and leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs. “What if I told you that Liv Hayden is about to have a near-death experience—a series of conversations with an angelic being. Would you be interested in publishing a story like that?”

“Liv Hayden the movie star?”

“That's right.”

“I heard about her on the news. Wasn't she in some kind of accident? Isn't she in a coma right now over at UCLA?”

“Right again.”

“And you say she's had a near-death experience?”

“Not yet—but she's about to.”

Wes just stared.

Kemp leaned back and smiled. “I work in the Neuro Trauma Intensive Care Unit at UCLA. I'm a nurse—Liv Hayden is my patient. As a precautionary measure, Ms. Hayden will be kept in a medically induced coma for the next several days. Her injuries are minor; this is only a precaution. Her coma is being induced by a drug called propofol, injected into her veins at a constant rate. It would be a very simple matter to reduce the amount of propofol she's receiving and bring her to a semiconscious state—a suggestive state, you might say, where she could see and hear and would remember very clearly everything told to her during that period of time.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I'm talking about the next
Lattes with God
, Mr. Kalamar. Liv Hayden is a world-famous celebrity. Her face, her name, they're everywhere—she's got her own line of cosmetics with Estée Lauder. Imagine it—one week from today she awakens from her coma and suddenly remembers something: While she was at death's door an angel appeared to her and gave her a series of messages from God that must be shared with the entire world. She wants to write a book about her experience; she needs a publisher, so she signs an exclusive agreement with none other than Vision Press. Think of the publicity—Liv Hayden's famous name plastered across the cover, Liv Hayden's perfect face gracing the back of the book, Liv Hayden herself on
Regis & Kelly
and
The View
. It would be like
Lattes with
God
on steroids.”

“Wait a minute,” Wes said. “Am I understanding you correctly? Are we talking about
manufacturing
a near-death experience?”

“It would be technically simple to do. Propofol is a short-acting drug—it's rapidly distributed into peripheral tissues. I could bring her from a deep coma to a semiconscious state in less than an hour, and return her there just as quickly. No one would ever know.”

“This is insane.”

“Is it? I work nights at UCLA; there are fewer doctors on duty, fewer procedures, fewer interruptions. Ms. Hayden is a famous celebrity, so she has a private room—a room with a solid door so no one can see in. Ms. Hayden is my patient—my only patient—and I spend hours alone with her every night. I could easily adjust her medication without anyone ever knowing.”

“But—what about the near-death experience itself? The message from God? Where would that come from?”

“I told you—from an angel.”

“What angel?”

Kemp grinned. “Ta daa!”

“You?
You're
the angel?”

“I hate typecasting, don't you? It's simple—when Ms. Hayden reaches her semiconscious state, I simply slip on a white lab coat and set up a bright examination light behind me. Instant halo! Her vision should be a little blurry, so the effect will be perfect.”

Wes began to slowly walk around the room. “Is this really possible?”

“It's not only possible, it's doable. Trust me—I have considerable technical expertise in this area.”

“But what if something went wrong? What if we injured her?”

“She's injured now. She's only in a coma to keep her from moving and to give her time to rest. She's wearing a device that allows us to monitor her precise level of consciousness; I'll simply bring her to a level where she can see and hear but still not move. What's the danger?”

Now Wes was pacing back and forth like a duck in a shooting gallery.

“What do you think, Mr. Kalamar?”

“I don't know. I need time to think about this.”

“Unfortunately, time is the one thing we don't have. Ms. Hayden will only be kept in a coma for the next few days. Once they bring her out of it, the opportunity will be gone forever. If you want in, you have to decide now. If you don't want in, believe me—I'll find a publisher who does.”

Wes stopped and looked at him. “This ‘message from God'—what would it be?”

“Who cares?” Kemp said, tossing his copy of
Lattes with
God
on the desk. “How hard can it be to come up with nonsense like this?”

Wes just stood there, blinking.

“Who wrote
Lattes with God
, anyway?” Kemp asked. “I don't know and I don't care. But imagine this on the cover:
by
Liv Hayden
.”

Wes gazed at his Interstuhl Silver . . . it was starting to look like a bargain.

“Twelve million copies would just be the first printing,” Kemp said. “With Hayden on the cover you'd sell twenty million for sure.”

Twenty million copies
, Wes thought.
Now that's what I call
a big book
.

“Well, Mr. Kalamar? Are you in or not?”

Wes suddenly stopped. “Wait a minute—what's in this for you? What's your fee for manufacturing this near-death experience?”

“I'm not interested in a fee,” Kemp said. “What exactly is the publisher's cut, anyway—about eighty percent of the net profit? Let's see . . . a twenty-five-dollar hardcover, twenty million copies, eighty percent after discounts and expenses . . . That's a lot of money, Mr. Kalamar—plenty for all three of us.”

“Three?”

“There's one small problem with my plan,” Kemp said.
“When Ms. Hayden wakes up from her coma, who will make sure that she writes a book about her experience? And how can we guarantee that she'll choose Vision Press as her publisher?”

Wes had no answer.

“I happen to know Ms. Hayden's agent,” Kemp said. “Morton Biederman—he's just the man for the job.”

“Is he in on this?”

“Not yet, but he soon will be. I want a three-way split, Mr. Kalamar—you, me, and Biederman—one-third each of Vision Press's profits.”

“Thirds! That's unheard of.”

“It's only fair. If you think about it, I'm bearing all the risk here. No one but me even has to know that you and Biederman are involved. Let's not get greedy here, Kalamar—like I said, there's plenty for all three of us.”

Wes barely heard him—he was too busy doing the math.

Kemp smiled. “So what's it going to be, Mr. Kalamar?
Lattes
Part Two
,
Three
, and
Four
—or
by Liv Hayden
? A cold cup of coffee with God, or a movie star's date with an angel? Just how much vision does Vision Press have, anyway? Take your time; think it over; and while you're thinking, I'll be looking up the phone number for Random House.”

10

N
atalie sat in the counselor's office with Leah seated in the chair beside her. She wriggled a little, trying to find a more comfortable position, but it was no use; the institutional chairs were wooden with rigid backs, the kind that force you to sit with correct posture—the kind you can sit in for an hour and never feel relaxed. Leah's legs didn't quite reach the floor, and she swung them back and forth like a silent metronome. Natalie reached over without a word and laid one hand on her thigh.

For fifteen minutes they had waited in silence while St. Stephen's counselor studied a manila file folder containing Leah's school records. With every passing minute Natalie became more frustrated.
She's only six
, she thought.
How long
can her record be? Maybe he's just a slow reader
. She glanced over at Leah and saw a familiar dark scowl on her face. Natalie flashed a quick smile at her daughter, hoping she might take the hint and brighten her demeanor. It didn't work.

By now Natalie had studied every inch of the tiny office's walls; they were covered with neatly framed diplomas and certificates, all testifying to the knowledge and expertise of one Charles Armantrout. Only one of the documents represented any true accomplishment—a diploma from Chico State conveying a BS in psychology. The rest seemed to be mostly certificates of attendance for different seminars and workshops; Natalie couldn't imagine why anyone would think they were worth framing.

Armantrout finally closed the folder and looked up. He was a thin man with a long and angular face that seemed perfectly suited for looks of boredom and disdain. He was completely bald on top, though the hair on the sides of his head bushed out in tight curls of gray. The shape of his skull was almost conical, and Natalie couldn't help thinking that his head looked like a rocket lifting off through clouds of smoke. A pair of black half-frames rested on the tip of his nose and accentuated a pair of tedious eyes.

Armantrout suddenly flashed a smile at Leah, causing Natalie to blink. The smile didn't seem to fit his face; it looked practiced and artificial, like the smiles politicians wear when they're tired of posing for pictures. “So you're Leah,” he said.