Famous

by

Blake Crouch

SMASHWORDS EDITION

* * * * *

PUBLISHED BY:

Blake Crouch on Smashwords

Copyright 2010 by Blake Crouch

Cover art copyright 2010 by Jeroen ten
Berge

All rights reserved.

PRAISE FOR BLAKE CROUCH

Crouch quite simply is a marvel. Highest
possible recommendation.

BOOKREPORTER

Blake Crouch is the most exciting new
thriller writer I've read in years.

DAVID MORRELL

FAMOUS is a work of fiction. Names,
characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and
incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are
used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or
dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

For more information about the author, please
visit www.blakecrouch.com.

For more information about the artist, please
visit www.jeroentenberge.com.

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return
to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for
respecting the author's work.

* * * * *

I won’t be happy ’til I’m as famous as
God.

MADONNA

The highest form of vanity is love of
fame.

GEORGE SANTAYANA

The image is one thing and the human being is
another…It’s very hard to live up to an image, put it that way.

ELVIS PRESLEY

It stirs up envy, fame does.

MARILYN MONROE

He lives in fame that died in virtue’s
cause.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

PART I
-
NY

Chapter 1

fame and money * James Jansen * goes to work
* gets fired * a shopping spree * the day of tranquility * a $100
haircut * the movie premier * says goodbye to mom and dad

Let me tell you something about being famous.
First off, it doesn’t make you depressed or dissociated from
humankind. That’s all bullshit. Being famous…is like the very best
thing in the world. Everybody knows you, everybody loves you, and
it’s just because you’re you. And that’s supposed to make you want
to eat sleeping pills? Only reason celebrities say fame blows is so
we won’t hate them. Because if we really knew how happy they are,
how incredible it is just to be them, to own the world, we’d hate
them, and then they’d just be notorious.

And the money. Jesus. If I hear one more
multi-millionaire tell me that money won’t make me happy, I’m going
to hurt someone. Really.

My name is Lancelot Blue Dunkquist, and the
best thing about me is, when you doll me up right, I look like a
Movie Star.

I’ve been mistaken for James Jansen
twenty-eight times. Of course you know who James Jansen is.
Remember
And Then There Was One?
That’s his most successful
movie, sorry, film to date. Actors don’t make movies. They make
films. Anyway, James Jansen played the detective. You know the part
at the end where the guy walks in on the bank robbery and he’s only
got one bullet left? He knows he’s dead, but he stares down the two
robbers and says, “By God you may walk out of here with that money,
but which one of you is it going to be?” What a line.

I’m actually an inch taller than James
Jansen, but you see, this works to my advantage, because when
people see me, they’re thinking
It’s JJ! He’s larger than
life!

Yes. I am larger than life.

In my real life, I work as a legal secretary
in a patent firm in Charlotte, North Carolina. It’s very
convenient, because I live just up the interstate in Huntersville,
above the garage in my parents’ house. A perfect setup really. I
get to use Mom’s car four days a week (on Tuesdays she takes me to
work and picks me up, because she volunteers in the office of their
Baptist church). Dad doesn’t even make me pay rent, so I’m saving
money like crazy. As of my last bank statement, $41,617.21 was
simmering in my money market account.

I usually wake up at 6:45 a.m. Lewis Barker
Thompson Hardy is quite the casual work environment. Since the
thirty-five attorneys only practice corporate patent law, we rarely
have clients in the office. So the dress code is extremely lax.
Today for instance, I’m sporting gray sweatpants, a T-shirt, and
Adidas flip-flops.

I’m running later this morning, but normally
I arrive at our building around 8:10. I always park in a visitor
space since they’re the closest to the main entrance.

Our offices are located on the seventh floor,
but I only take the elevator if I have it all to myself. I don’t
excel at chitchatting with people. I learned this neat trick: once
I’m inside, I press seven, and then as long as I hold the button
down, the elevator won’t stop until it reaches our floor. But I
don’t even like riding by myself. The walls consist of mirrors, and
the light is dim and eerie.

So nine times out of ten, I huff it up the
stairwell like I’m doing today, downside being that I’m always
sweaty when I reach our floor.

Our suite is already in full operation when I
enter. Heading through the conference room into the break room, I
open one of the four refrigerators and stow the lunch mom prepared
for me inside.

I walk down the hallway. File Rooms A-D are
on the right, the partners’ offices on the left. Through their
windows, I see morning light spreading over the green piedmont
forest and reflecting off a distant pond. I always see that
glinting pond on the way to my desk, except when it’s cloudy. The
buildings of uptown Charlotte shimmer in early sun.

At the end of the hall, I enter the large
room of cubicles. Mine sits in the center grouping. It’s very neat.
The other paralegals keep messy workstations. They’re more
concerned with plastering the walls with pictures of their husbands
and children. I don’t display any pictures. The only
non-work-related item I have is a cutout from a magazine article in
Hollywood Happening
. I taped it to the top of my monitor a
year ago. It’s just two letters: JJ. Janine once asked me what it
meant, but I didn’t tell her.

I turn on my computer and pull out a case
file I’ve been working on since Friday. My duties involve
corresponding with clients. It’s not terribly exciting stuff…Dear
Mr. Smith: We are pleased to inform you that the above-identified
U.S. patent application has been granted a Notice of Allowance by
the United States Patent and Trademark Office…that sort of
thing.

I’m getting ready to begin the first letter
of the day when footsteps stop at my cubicle.

“Lance?”

I swivel around. It’s Janine, the Office
Manager. The other paralegals despise her. I don’t really have an
opinion. She’s kind of pretty—highly blond, tan, quite a
dresser.

“Jeff wants to see you in his office first
thing.”

“Now?”

“First thing.”

I follow Janine back up the hallway, watching
the points of her high heels leave tiny, diminishing marks in the
avocado carpet.

Jeff has a corner office. He’s the Hardy from
Lewis Barker Thompson Hardy. I wonder why she’s leading me to his
office, as if I don’t know where it is.

Partner Jeff is dictating a patent
application when Janine pokes her head through the doorway.

“Jeff, Lance is here to see you,” she says
reverently. He’s the scary partner.

He stops the recorder, says, “Send him in and
shut the door.”

I walk inside and sit down in a chair in
front of his desk. The door closes behind me. Jeff is thin-lipped
and very sleek, and the only time he smiles is when he speaks to
one of the other partners.

He just stares at me. I look out the windows.
I count the framed diplomas and plaques on his walls (nineteen).
His desk is buried under case files. There’s a stack of resumes and
cover letters on the floor by my feet. I’ve just begun to read the
body of the top letter when Jeff says, “Lance, how long have you
been here?”

“Five years next month.”

I try to meet his eyes. I can’t. He’s so
intelligent—only 34 or 35. I’m 38. I could be his big brother. I
tell myself this over and over but it doesn’t help. I stare out the
window again at the Charlotte skyline. I wish I could see the pond
from his office. I feel the zeroing-in of his glare, smell waves of
his cologne lapping at my face. His suit looks so expensive.
Custom-tailored even.

“Lance, you heard of eye contact?”

I meet his eyes.

“Why are you sweating, Lance?”

“I, uh, took the stairs up.”

Opening a drawer, he pulls out a 9” by 12”
Tyvex envelope and tosses it into my lap. Our return address label
has been circled and “Return To Sender” stamped on the envelope.
“We received that in the mailroom Friday afternoon. Take out the
letter.”

I remove the single sheet of paper.

“Recognize that, Lance?”

“No.”

“You should. You wrote it for me a week ago.
See your initials at the bottom?” Beneath Jeff’s signature, I see
JH:lbd. I’m lbd.

“I remember this now,” I say.

“Look at the envelope.”

I look at the envelope.

“You sent it to the wrong client.” He pauses
to let the weight of this crush me. “Dr. David Dupree, to whom you
misdirected it, fired us this morning, before you graced us. He
called me and said, among other things: ‘if you aren’t taking care
of your other clients, how do I know you’re taking care of me?’
He’s got a point.”

“I’m sorry. That was just—”

“A big fuck-up, Lance. A big fucking fuck-up.
Do you know what we invoiced him for last month?” I shake my head.
“$8,450.00
I
invoiced him for that. And that was a light
month. I was on the verge of writing five new patent applications
for him. You cost this firm money. You cost me money. Go clear out
your cube.”

I stand. My head throbbing. Jeff stands, too,
his eyes wide and angry. I look out the windows, Charlotte Douglas
International Airport visible in the distance, the speck of a jet
lifting off a runway.

“Here’s a tip,” he says. “When you go in for
your next job interview, dress like you give a shit. No one
appreciates you walking around here like a slob. This isn’t your
living room. It’s my office. It’s the office of hard-working,
brilliant men.”

My face is hot. I can stare at him now.

“Don’t talk to me like I’m nothing. I could
be your big brother.”

“Get out of my office.”

The first thing I do is drive to the bank
since it’s just down the street from the building where I used to
work. I walk in and tell the teller to transfer everything from my
money market to my checking account. Then I withdraw $2,000 in
cash, slip her a twenty for her trouble, and drive uptown.

It doesn’t really hit me that I’ve been fired
until I’m walking in the cool, spring shadow of the First Union
Tower. I’d planned to work until I saved up $50,000, but I think I
can manage on what I have. It feels surprisingly good to be
unemployed, especially at this early hour of a Monday morning, when
thousands of people are just beginning their workday all around
me.

The store I’m looking for is on the corner up
ahead—McIntyre’s Fine Men’s Clothing. I’ve heard their
advertisements on the radio.

Inside, an exquisitely-dressed older
gentleman puts down a sweater he’s folding and comes over.

“My name is Bernard. May I help you find
something?”

“I want the most expensive suit in the
store.”

“Well, why don’t you follow me.” He leads me
over to the dressing rooms. “Have a seat. I’ll be right back.”

I sit down, the only customer in the store.
The smell of clean, unworn fabric engulfs me.

Bernard returns carrying a jacket in each
hand. One is dark blue, one dark gray.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”

“Lance.”

“Well, Lance, I’m holding the two finest
suits in the store. You’re a forty-two, right?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re a 42. At any rate, they’re both Hugo
Boss. One hundred percent wool. Single breasted. Three buttons.
Very smart.”

James Jansen wore a gray suit in the movie
The Defendant
. He played a man wrongly accused of murder. It
almost won him an Oscar.

“The gray one.”

“Well, why don’t we try it on then?” Bernard
opens one of the dressing rooms and hangs up the gray one. “Let me
just measure your neck and we’ll get you a crisp Oxford shirt to go
with it.”