Part 8 (1/2)
His phone rang.
”Miss DeBeck, I told you I didn't want to be bothered,”
he snarled into the receiver. ”I'm in the midst of an importa”ah? You've tracked the rotten little deadbeat to his sc.u.mmy lair, eh? Good, good, put him on.” Kellaway gave Harmon a wink. ”Giford?
What? You'll have to whine a little louder, I can't . . . That's better. Okay, Giffy, why haven't I been paid for the writing lesson in five long months? Leg braces for your . . . No, no, Giford. That won't wash.
Kellaway has to come first with you. Now listen to me, Giford, you're blind in one eye now, right?
Okay, schlep, you've got until Friday to get that two hundred and twenty dollars to me ora”” Kellaway took the phone away from his ear for a second, wincing. ”Giford, how many times have I told you not to do those agonized screams so close to the phone? Okay, I accept your apology. Send me the money or go blind. *Bye.” He hung up and chuckled. ”Who owes you money, Junior?”
Swallowing, Harmon said, ”Well, as a matter of face, I haven't been able to get some four hundred and eighty dollars that Hightower Magazines has owed me for some articles I did for their girlie magazines. One, in s.n.a.t.c.h two months ago, about foot fetishes around the world, is supposed to pay a hundred and seventy-five anda””
”Miss DeBeck, get that swine Mo Hightower on the horn,”
Kellaway said into the phone as he began to poke down in another desk drawer. ”We do a lot of business with that ganef, Junior, so I already have a doll for him.”
”Doll?”
”Voodoo doll.” Kellaway dropped a six-inch-high wax figure next to the crystal ball. The figure was chubby, bald, wearing a double-breasted gray suit. ”Mo, is that you? Fine, and yourself? Mo, I'm representing Junior Harmon. Yes, I agree he certainly is a gifted young writer. And you owe the schlep five hundred eighty dollars, you moneygrubbing toad.”
”Four hundred eighty,” corrected Harmon in a quiet voice.
”What, Mo? Your accountant's sick and your computer's down. Remember when you owed Mitch Jazzminski a hundred and sixty dollars?” Kellaway was poking around amid the piles of papers on his desk top. To Harmon he mouthed, ”Got a straight pin?”
”No, Ia””
”Never mind. I'll use this ballpoint pen . . . Mo, you still there? Okay, this is going into your tummy.” He jabbed at the wax figure with the tip of the silvery pen. ”Sure, it hurts. Remember the last time? This is going to be much worse, because there's a larger sum of money involved. After the stomachache we'll try your crotch, Mo, and then . . . What?
Okay, but a certified check. Sent over by messenger, Mo.
Thanks, *bye” Hanging up, he put the doll carefully away.
”How'd youa””
”Magic.” Kellaway rubbed the tip of the pen. ”Voodoo in this case. I have an eclectic approach to agenting, Junior.
You'll find me using voodoo, witchcraft, Satanism . . . what ever's best for my clients.”
”Hightower's really going to send the money right over?”
”Of course. He's no sap. After that coronary I gave him two years ago, he doesn't mess around. That was for fifteen hundred dollars he owed us on a serialization for Nipples.
”This is impressive, buta””
”Sure, the unorthodox takes a little getting used to.”
Kellaway leaned back, stroked his stubbly chins. ”How'd you like to sell Me and the Devil to 4Most Paperbacks for five thousand dollars?”
”They've already bounced it.”
”Leave me a copy of the proposal, one of the ones you have in that tacky briefcase.”
”How'd you know I hada””
”On the simpler sales and collection problems, I can go it alone,” the agent continued. ”With novels and bigger advances, you have to cooperate.”
”You mean lunch with the editor ora””
”No, no, stay away from that b.i.t.c.h at 4Most.” Kellaway closed his puffy eyelids for a few seconds.
”Yes, here's what you have to do. Sleep in a graveyard.”
”Beg pardon?”
”Graveyard,” repeated Kellaway, a shade impatient. ”Sleep in one. From midnight tonight to dawn tomorrow. Be sure your frapping head points north.”
”What's that got to do with sellinga””
”Trust me,” cut in Kellaway. ”For an agent-author relations.h.i.+p to work well, there must be mutual trust.
Right?”
”I suppose, sure, but where would I find a graveyard ina””
”There's one, a nice eighteenth-century relic, about six blocks from that hovel you live in in the Village, Junior.
Attached to the Church of St. Norbert the Divine.”
”Won't they chase me away ifa””
”Do you want to sell this d.a.m.n book or not?”
”Yes, since it's the best idea I've come up with in a long time. Still, thougha””
”Sleep. Graveyard. Midnight to dawn.” He rose. ”Do you want your eighty percent of that five hundred and eighty dollars today?”
”It would help with an alimony payment I'm behind on.”
”Sit out in the reception room with Miss DeBeck until it arrives,” said Kellaway. ”She'll write you a check for four hundred and sixty-four dollars soon as the messenger comes tottering in.” He held out his right hand. ”We're going to have a fruitful relations.h.i.+p, Junior.”
The night in the cemetery wasn't as bad as Harmon had antic.i.p.ated. He actually managed to sleep for nearly four hours, and when he awoke, although he discovered someone had swiped his shoes right off his feet, he didn't feel all that bad. Four days later Kellaway phoned to inform him that Me and the Devil had been sold to 4Most for seven thousand five hundred dollars.
Harmon was elated, and his reservations about the agenta”most of thema”vanished. It looked like Kellaway was going to be the most effective agent he'd ever had.
As he worked away on completing the occult novel, which had been sold on the basis of three lackl.u.s.ter chapters and a muddled outline, Harmon's social life began to change. At the annual banquet of the Foot Writers of America, less than two months after joining up with Kellaway, he met an absolutely stunning fas.h.i.+on model named Pert Rainey. She was slim, blonde, twenty-seven, and she professed to be a great fan of his. Harmon's article on famous feet of yesteryear, which had run in a health-oriented girlie magazine called Vegetarian t.i.ts, was up for a Big Toe Award, and Pert had sought out Harmon to inform him she was rooting for him to win.
”I just dote on your work, Mr. Harmon, and this is a real thrill meeting you in person, especially as you don't look anywhere near as runty as you do in the author's photo on your last hardcover book.”
”You read that?” He's done only two hardcover books in his life; the last had come out six years ago.