Part 26 (1/2)

Tom's eyes widened. ”I didn't know you were a poet. You published? Not”-he held up a restraining palm-”that publication is any measure of a work.”

Jimmy edged closer to Tom's desk, picked up what looked like a fossil, and studied the ridges. ”But it is, Tom; it is a measure. Emily d.i.c.kinson thought so despite all that garbage about her not caring, not wanting to see her poems published, at least in her lifetime. When I got my book published it was as if I'd been released from solitary; now, at least, I could mix with the other prisoners.”

”The 'other prisoners' being us, I take it?”

Jimmy nodded. ”I could communicate.” Keeping his eyes on the fossil, still in the palm of his hand, he sat back.

”That's fossil bark, in case you're wondering.”

”Where's it from?”

Tom shrugged. ”No idea. I like to rub it around. That's why it's so smooth.”

Jimmy thought of the wood behind his house. (”The woods were golden then. There was a road-”) He loved the suspension of those four words, ”road” hanging at the end of the sentence as if it might go on forever. And that was the way he had felt; that was the way Lily had felt, he was sure, a long time ago. ”In another year, I'll probably quit.”

”Quit writing poetry?”

”No. Quit being an agent.”

”Oh, Christ, Jimmy! Don't tell me that! You're the only f.u.c.king agent around who has the least idea of what it's all about. You're the only one who can see the skull beneath the skin.”

(”Webster was much obsessed by death-”) ” 'And saw the skull beneath the skin.' ”

”Eliot, T.S.” said Tom. ”I know my quotations, if not my poets. When do I get to read some of yours?”

”Anytime you want. I'll bring you the book next time I come.”

”Good.” Tom scooted down in his chair, looked up at the ceiling, in the manner of one who expected to find cracks and loosening plaster. ”You know, being unselfish about it in one weak moment, I'd say maybe you should get out of this business. I'm happy in it because I do what I want.” He gave Jimmy an earnest look. ”I'm considered to be a fairly valuable commodity, see.” He said this earnestly, as if he'd only recently made the discovery.

”As if everyone didn't know that, Tom.”

”The thing is, if you're seen to be valuable, people-people here being Bobby-don't try to mess with you. Because if he did, I could just go elsewhere. And probably take a writer or two with me.”

”They'd all go with you, Tom. Some of the best writers in New York. Bobby would go nuts.” Jimmy rose. ”I'd better go.”

”Okay, okay, okay.” Looking as if he were about to be given lye to drink, Tom said, ”I'll dig up the Giverney book, but I'm only reading a little of it. That's all it'll take, probably.”

”You're a good sport, Tom.”

”No, I just think it would be insulting to you if I didn't at least try.”

Jimmy smiled. ”Oh, it would be.”

At the door he turned. ”Tom, is Bobby trying to screw up Ned Isaly?”

Tom got up, frowning. ”Why do you say that?”

”Pau-” Jimmy stopped short of naming him. ”Someone warned me I should be looking out for Ned's interests. That's all he said, no explanation.”

”What do you think he meant?”

Jimmy shrugged. ”I don't know. Ned has a ma.n.u.script due pretty soon, hasn't he?”

Tom levered up the top bunch of papers on his desk. ”I've got it here somewhere. Next week, I think.”

”Has Bobby ever invoked the clause about failure to deliver?”

”He better not start now.”

”You know Bobby enough to know he can do anything he wants. At times I wonder if he's even got a reason for what he does. Or if he simply does things because he can.” Jimmy nodded. ”See you, Tom. Thanks for recommending me as an agent.”

Tom shrugged. ”Who the h.e.l.l else would I trust?”

THIRTY-NINE.

Ned had spent the entire morning and some of the afternoon in bed. He couldn't understand what had made him so tired. He felt as if he were being watched. He felt hounded. Paranoid, that's what he was.

It had begun in Pittsburgh, but he was too busy observing things himself to pay much attention to it. It was like ignoring signs of a cold until the cold or flu hit you in earnest. He sat up and took two more Motrin and lay back down again.

Ghosts. That would explain the sensation, the air hovering around him.

He thought back; he pictured the places he had been-Schenley Park, watching the kids play kickball. The Isaly's Ice Cream stores. Shadyside. The stadium across the river. But his problem was that most of what he saw happened inside his mind. He was shamefully un.o.bservant. He didn't know how he managed. He wondered if the Jardin des Plantes and the Luxembourg Gardens were anything like the way he described them. Which took him back to Nathalie again and the very odd sensation she was gone. He should never have gone to Pittsburgh; it was like walking out on her. He should have stayed here and spent his time trying to right the miserable state he had left her in.

A knock at his door startled him, especially since it was a sound he rarely heard. Maybe a package, UPS or Fed Ex. As he was getting out of bed he imagined a man whose only contact with the world beyond his door was a courier service. He stood thinking about this and forgot to go the door. Knuckles rapped again, louder, and he went to the door.

It was Saul.

Ned was flabbergasted. They were friends of long standing, of more than a decade, but Saul hardly ever came here. ”Saul!”

”Ned. Will you do me a favor?”

”Sure. Of course. Come on in. What's wrong? You look like h.e.l.l. It's the first time I ever saw you look like h.e.l.l. What's this?”

Saul was reaching out a package wrapped in brown paper and tied with string, some three or even four inches thick. ”A ma.n.u.script. The one I've been working on.”

Ned's eyes widened. He was almost alarmed.

Saul went on. ”In Pittsburgh it came to me suddenly that maybe the reason I couldn't write the ending was because I'd already written it. Maybe what I had down was the ending.”

Ned was hefting the ma.n.u.script as if weighing it. ”I'll be more than glad to read it, Saul.” An understatement if there ever was one.

Now Saul looked genuinely pained. ”Well . . . I was thinking of Tom Kidd. Do you think he would? Since I don't have an editor.”

”Are you kidding? Of course he would. My G.o.d.” Ned started to laugh. ”G.o.d . . . a new book from Saul Prouil. I can guarantee he'd read it. I can take it over there right now.” Ned had never seen Saul in what one might call ”a state.” Saul was always the epitome of cool. He was disappointed that Saul was not giving the ma.n.u.script to him for a reading, but he himself would have done the same thing. Or would he? Probably he would have felt a ma.n.u.script was getting a far better reading if in Saul's hands than in the hands of an editor. Except, of course, Tom Kidd. ”I'll get dressed.”