Brambleman (44 page)

“So how do you know Jean?”

“She’s one of my new artists. I’m putting
together an exhibition of her vork.”

Charlie did a double-take. He’d seen some of
Jean’s paintings on the coffeehouse wall but had no idea she’d
advanced to the gallery stage. “Wow. That’s great. … So, you live
here, too?”

She pointed up, toward the building’s corner.
“Overlooking Castlegate.” She sighed. “Vell, I’m off to a party.
Futbol
, you bet.” She rolled her eyes. “I was going to see
if Eddie vanted to come along, but he’s gone to Burgundy for his
Burgundy. Vot are
you
doing—” she raised her eyebrows “—for
this holiday?”

“Hiding out.”

She laughed. “Ve all do that. Vot
besides?”

“Writing.”

“Vell, I von’t disturb you any longer.”

“It’s quite all right. I’m disturbed by
nature.”

She gave him a wonderful laugh, rich and
throaty.

“Come back any time,” he added, hoping she
wouldn’t go.

She left, closing the door behind her. He
banged his head against it in frustration. Who was he kidding? He
had no money, no car, and no chance. And when she talked to Jean,
well … that would be the end of whatever dream he had of getting
something started with her.

“Shit,” he said as he threw the deadbolt.
“You homeless motherfucker.”

Enough of that. He put on another jazz CD,
Miles Davis’s
Kind of Blue
, and went back to work, bending
over the keyboard as the light in the eastern windows faded. By the
time he’d finished his session, he’d written a 2,000-word update to
Monster
. A good day’s work on the best day he’d had in a
long time. On the psychological and social front, he hadn’t ranted
to himself—well, maybe once—and he’d chatted with a real woman who
had not run screaming from the encounter. Who knew? Maybe he did
have a chance with Dana, after all. They
had
hit it off
well, hadn’t they? Now, if he could just get on the bestseller list
… and get some decent threads. Just erase everything and start
over. That would be cool.

Seeking a diversion, he clicked on the DVD
player. Something was already in the machine, so he played it,
figuring Satalin’s taste in movies would be as erudite as it was in
books and music. Not quite. Before Charlie knew it, he was watching
Anus and Andy—No Holes Barred
from
The Bros and Hos
Collection
. He was about to stop the porn video, but his hand
became …
confused
. He found it difficult to tear his eyes
away from the TV as the strangely attractive woman entertained a
basketball team in a locker room. Ah, the agony of ecstasy, the
method of acting, the pain of unnatural acts. Her face did its own
stunts, that was for sure.

Hold it. Charlie knew that face. He shuddered
and every hair on his body stood up. Meanwhile, something else of
his collapsed. A chill ran up his spine. The picture that had been
on his computer, the one that got him kicked out of Thornbriar—was
a still from this movie. Not only that. This was the woman with the
kids he’d helped on Thanksgiving Day at Redeemer’s soup kitchen.
The one Trouble ranted about. Shaved, thrusting, and threatening to
become 3-D and pop out from the plasma screen.

In the interest of research he played on, but
the movie grew more foul. Amid shouts of “Eat it, bitch,” the guy
who would have been the team’s center grabbed … what was her name?
Tammy? Terry? … by the hair and roughly forced her to go down on
him. It was abusive. They weren’t using protection. He wondered if
she’d gotten pregnant from this shoot.

Enough
. He felt weak, overwhelmed.
Exhaling loudly, he ejected the disc and picked it up like he was
handling a used condom. Even though it wasn’t his to destroy, he
couldn’t let it sit on the shelf, a reminder of his failure,
mocking him. He couldn’t allow it to sap his soul and rot his
brain. He took the DVD out on the balcony. Grasping the disc
between thumb and forefinger, he whirled it away and watched it
sail over the razor wire, flashing in a patch of fading sunlight as
it flew toward a southbound MARTA train in the distance. He went
back inside and switched the TV to football.

That night, he dreamed of the soup-kitchen
whore, waking at 4:00 a.m. in ecstasy and relief.

In the morning, he stepped out on the balcony
with a cup of coffee. As he scanned the train tracks, the DVD
flashed in the sunlight, winking as if to say
I know what you
want
—just as it would for the next six months, whenever he
dared to look its way.

* * *

Another great thing about Satalin’s place was
its proximity to Le Patisserie, a cinnamon-scented bakery on the
loft building’s ground floor. It quickly became Charlie’s favorite
hangout, and he developed a bit of a crush on its owner, Amy
Weller, who wore her brown ponytail sticking out the back of an
Atlanta Braves cap. That’s where he was one morning less than a
week after moving into his apartment, sitting at a small table near
the door, drinking Mocha Java, eating a pastry, and comparing Dana
Colescu to the bright-eyed woman behind the counter. A hard rain
during the night had left the street slick, and a MARTA bus sloshed
by as a customer entered, leaving a whiff of diesel to mingle with
the spices. Charlie’s cellphone buzzed. He pulled it out of his
duster pocket and regarded the New York area code suspiciously.
“Hello.”

“Charles Sherman?”

“That’s me.”

“Barbara Asher. I got your manuscript, and
I’ve got to tell you I
love American Monster
!” she gushed.
“Mother of God, it’s Bob Woodward, Hunter Thompson, and Erskine
Caldwell rolled into one. And, as you put it, ‘a healthy measure of
I am a Fugitive from the Georgia Chain Gang
!’ But is it
true?”

The agent! He launched into his spiel: “All
that and more! Backed up by photographs, recorded eyewitness
accounts, primary sources, genealogical research, and the kicker:
DNA test results. I’ve got documents and recordings to back the
footnotes.”
On this book, anyway
. He left out the part about
nearly being killed—but he was still working on that section,
anyway.

“Excellent. Fortress is publishing your other
book, right?”

“Yes ma’am. It should be out soon.”

“This is great! And you don’t have an
agent?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Does Fortress have rights on this book?”

“They passed. New publisher.”

“I heard. Did you have trouble getting
paid?”

“I got the money eventually. Right when I
absolutely had to have it.” Thinking about that day made him
shudder. His knee rocked the table, almost spilling his coffee.

“I’ve dealt with them,” she said. “They’re
problematic. Best to move on to another publisher with your next
work. This … has potential. I’d love to represent it. I’ve got a
good feeling. I think it’s going to be a great success. So, are you
still interested in having me as an agent?”

“Definitely. And there’ll be an update.
Things keep happening. Arrests, hopefully.”

“Arrests would be good publicity. A happy
ending. Closure, anyway. Uh … you’re talking about them, not you,
right?”

“Actually, it’s a donnybrook. We may all be
in jail before this is over.”

“Even better!
Devil Went Down to
Georgia
and all that.”

“You’re getting warmer, actually.”

“Are you doing a publicity tour for the
Forsyth book?”

“They haven’t set up anything.”

“They won’t. Bear in mind, you’ll have to do
all the marketing yourself. Call the media. Get something started.
It will help sell the next book, too.”

“I’m working on a couple of articles right
now.”

“Excellent! Charles, your book is going to be
great. I just know it. But we’ve both got work to do. I’ll send you
a contract. We’ll send everything by e-mail now and be modern about
it.”

He gave her his e-mail address and said
goodbye. In wide-eyed disbelief, he stared out the bakery window at
traffic on Castlegate. He’d just done a deal! With an agent! For
the next few minutes, he imagined his coming prosperity: new loft,
new clothes, new car, and Dana, the new woman for his new life. Or
maybe Amy. Who could say these things?

While he was daydreaming, his coffee grew
cold.

* * *

Since the police linked him to a meth lab,
Charlie would remain most unhelpful to authorities, who reported
little progress in the Store-All bombing investigation. However,
there were news leaks—or, as Charlie called them, tidings of
comfort and joy. The mini-warehouse’s office had burned to the
ground, company records had not been properly backed up, and the
bombing victim’s identity remained unknown.

Charlie was sure police had found
something
to identify him—either a vehicle ID number or his
name on at least one of the unburned papers that littered the lot
after the bombing. If not, something else was at work, something
strange—although weirdness had become normal, from his point of
view. Perhaps the
No Cops
rule was not only divinely
inspired, but also had a corollary, since the police didn’t have
him, either.

Then came another leak that wasn’t so
comforting. According to an article Charlie read while sitting by
the front window in La Patisserie one Tuesday morning, someone had
left the scene of the bombing on a yellow mountain bike and changed
out of bloody clothes under a bridge a mile from the crime scene.
While reading this, Charlie experienced a cold, hard feeling
surging from his groin to his throat. When he finished the article,
he rose slowly from his chair and backed out the rear door into the
building’s garage, whistling drily as he went.

* * *

This seemed like an ugly thing to do, but
Charlie did it: He bought a can of black enamel, took his bike out
on the balcony/fire escape, and spray painted it against a plastic
dropcloth. Even before it dried, he knew he’d have to do more.
People in the neighborhood had seen him riding a yellow bike, and a
scratch would reveal its true color. Also, police would have tread
prints. He needed to get rid of it.

Thursday afternoon was bright and chilly.
Charlie rode his bike to Garnett Station and wheeled it onto a
northbound train. He got off at Tenth Street and left the bike
outside, unlocked, after wiping off his prints. Then he slipped on
his backpack and jogged over to a bike shop on Monroe Drive. He
bought a new blue hybrid with slightly knobby tires and twenty-four
speeds. It was
so
not yellow.

Charlie surprised himself by pedaling toward
his old haunts in Virginia Highlands rather than back downtown.
Despite an urge to see Jean, he pedaled onward, waving as he passed
Bay Street Coffeehouse just in case his favorite barista was
looking out the window. He pumped up Bayard Terrace and stopped at
Kathleen’s house. He carried the bike up the porch steps and leaned
it gingerly against the wobbly railing. (He’d always meant to fix
that.) Floorboards creaked as he stepped to the door and knocked. A
pudgy, middle-aged white woman peered out suspiciously from the
window. “I’m Charlie Sherman,” he announced.

She shook her head.

“Yes, I am!” he insisted. “A friend of
Kathleen’s. I used to live here. I edited a book for her. Is she
home?” He tried to speak with gentle confidence, but he was afraid
he came across as desperate, loud, and strange.

The woman disappeared, leaving him to think
that Angela had placed her mother in a rest home and rented out the
house. As he turned to go, the door swung open and Kathleen stood
with open arms, her blue eyes sparkling. “They came this morning!”
she said, advancing on him and hugging him fiercely.

“Who came?” he asked, his arms pinned to his
sides.

“The books!”

“The books?” His eyes grew wide and his face
lit up. “So soon?”

“Seemed like forever to me.”

The woman appeared behind her. “Now Mrs.
Talton, you can’t just—”

“Shush, Betty.” Kathleen pulled Charlie in
the door. “Where have you been? Betty, make some tea, please. This
is my writer! The one I told you about! My, what a wonderful
day!”

Instead of making tea, Betty made a phone
call. Meanwhile, Kathleen bent over a box on the living room floor
and pulled out a hardcover of
Flight from Forsyth: Ethnic
Cleansing in America
. Beaming, she handed it to Charlie, her
eyes filling with tears of joy. He admired the glossy
black-and-white jacket’s stark line art: silhouetted nightriders
outside a cabin. The title’s bold letters had ghostly trails of
ink, suggesting motion. Charlie’s name was on the cover, below
Talton’s, as coauthor. A beautiful book, albeit one covering an
ugly subject. Charlie read the dedication aloud: “To Kathleen, who
made everything possible.”

He flipped through the book and glanced at
the index, checking an entry on Governor Brown to see that it
matched the page. It did. He sighed in relief. He had worried about
the index, since he couldn’t remember anything about the damned
thing except that he’d compiled it in anger.

“We did a great thing, didn’t we?” Kathleen
said.

“We did indeed.” He flipped the book over and
glanced inside the back flap at his picture below Thurwood’s. Ouch.
He wished he had that one back. He rather liked being incognito
these days. Would his newfound fame be his downfall? He suspected
that he’d be navigating some treacherous waters soon.

In the kitchen, Betty talked to Angela on the
phone. Meanwhile, Kathleen stared lovingly at Thurwood’s photo.
“Did they say anything about how handsome he was?”

Charlie was touched by her love for the man.
“I’m sure they were jealous.”

“I’ll bet they were,” she said, nodding
emphatically.