Potboiler (2 page)

3.

The invitation to the funeral arrived later that week. Pfefferkorn set down the rest of his mail to hold the heavy black envelope in both hands. It was made of beautiful paper, expensive paper, and he hesitated to break it open. He turned it over. The back flap was engraved in silver ink with the de Vallée family crest. Pfefferkorn snorted. Where had Bill dug up such nonsense? Pfefferkorn decided it must have been Carlotta’s idea. She did have a flair for the dramatic.

He opened the invitation and out leapt a six-inch pop-up cutout of Bill, showing him at his happiest: in his sailing getup, wearing a captain’s hat, about to take to the water, a broad smile splitting his broad, grizzled face. He resembled the older Hemingway. Pfefferkorn had not been to visit the de Vallées in a long time—it pained him to think just how long—but he remembered their yacht, of the kind most often found on the cover of a big, soft, glossy magazine. He assumed it had since been replaced by a more luxe model, one he lacked the wherewithal to envision.

The memorial was to take place in three weeks’ time. No guests would be permitted. The invitee was requested to reply at his earliest convenience.

Three weeks seemed a long time to wait for a funeral. Then Pfefferkorn remembered that there was no body and therefore no urgency of decay. He wondered if Carlotta planned to bury an empty casket. It was a morbid thought, and he shook it off.

Though there was never any question as to whether he would attend, he nevertheless made a brief accounting. Between transportation, accommodations, and a new suit (nothing he owned would do), this trip could end up costing him well over a thousand dollars—no trouble for most of Bill’s friends, Hollywood types who anyway had to travel no farther than down the freeway. But Pfefferkorn earned a meager salary, and he resented the expectation that he should sink his entire paycheck into paying his respects. He knew he was being selfish but he could not help himself. Just as he was incapable of picturing the de Vallées’ latest boat, a rich woman like Carlotta could never grasp how severely a quick nip across the country could damage a person’s savings. He filled out his response card and licked the back flap of the tiny return envelope, thinking of Orwell’s remark that, as a writer, he could not hope to understand what it was like to be illiterate. He wondered if this might make an interesting premise for a novel.

4.

That evening Pfefferkorn received a phone call from his daughter. She had seen the news on television and wanted to offer her condolences.

“Are you going out there? It looks like it’s going to be a big deal.”

Pfefferkorn replied that he had no idea how big a deal it would be.

“Oh, Daddy. You know what I mean.”

In the background Pfefferkorn heard a man’s voice.

“Is someone there?”

“That’s just Paul.”

“Who’s Paul?”

“Daddy. Please. You’ve met him at least a hundred times.”

“Have I?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I must be getting old.”

“Stop it.”

“I can never seem to learn any of your boyfriends’ names before there’s a new one.”

“Daddy. Stop.”

“What? What am I doing?”

“Is it really so hard to remember his name?”

“When something’s important, I remember it.”

“It is important. We’re getting married.”

Pfefferkorn swayed, gripped a chair, made noises.

“The nice thing to say would be ‘congratulations.’”

“Sweetheart,” Pfefferkorn said.

“Or you could try ‘I love you.’”

“It’s just that I’m a little taken aback to learn that my only child is marrying someone I’ve never met—”

“You’ve met him
many
times.”

“—and whose name I can hardly remember.”

“Daddy,
please
. I hate it when you do this.”

“Do what.”

“Play at being doddering. It’s not funny and this is important.”

Pfefferkorn cleared his throat. “All right, sweetheart, I’m sorry.”

“Now can you please be happy for me?”

“Of course I am, sweetheart. Mazel tov.”

“That’s better.” She sniffed. “I’d like us to all have dinner together. I want you to get to know Paul better.”

“All right. Tomorrow night?”

“That’s no good, Paul’s working late.”

“What . . .” Pfefferkorn hesitated. “What does Paul do, again?”

“He’s an accountant. Does Friday work?”

Pfefferkorn never did anything in the evenings except read. “It works fine.”

“I’ll make us a reservation. I’ll call you.”

“All right. Eh—sweetheart? Congratulations.”

“Thank you. I’ll see you on Friday.”

Pfefferkorn hung up the phone and looked at the picture of his daughter he kept on his desk. The physical resemblance between her and his ex-wife was striking. People had often pointed it out to him, much to his irritation. That his daughter could be anything but entirely his seemed to him a vile affront. He had been the one to raise her after his ex-wife had deserted them and then died. Now he admitted to himself that he had been overly jealous, and foolish to boot. His daughter was neither his nor his ex-wife’s but her own, and she had chosen to give herself to an accountant.

5.

Paul cut short his speech on the value of annuities to excuse himself to the restroom.

“I’m so glad we’re doing this,” Pfefferkorn’s daughter said.

“Me too,” Pfefferkorn said.

The restaurant was no place Pfefferkorn had eaten, nor would he ever again. To begin with, the prices were obscene, more so considering the size of the portions. In vain he had searched the menu for something that didn’t contain one or more obscure ingredients. Then he had embarrassed his daughter by questioning the waiter as to the identity of a certain fish. Paul had leapt in to explain that it had become fashionable recently due to its sustainability. Pfefferkorn had ordered the hanger steak. It came in the shape of a Möbius strip.

“The wonderful thing about the desserts here,” Pfefferkorn’s daughter said, “is that they’re not sweet.”

“Isn’t dessert supposed to be sweet?”

“Uch. Daddy. You know what I mean.”

“I really don’t.”

“I mean not
too
sweet.”

“Oh.”

Pfefferkorn’s daughter put down the dessert menu. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not upset?”

“About Bill, you mean? No, I’m all right.”

She took his hand. “I’m so sorry.”

Pfefferkorn shrugged. “It’s different when you’re my age.”

“You’re not that old.”

“All I’m saying is, at a certain point you realize that most of your life is behind you.”

“Do we have to talk about this?”

“Not if you don’t want to.”

“It’s depressing,” she said. “We’re supposed to be celebrating my engagement.”

Why had she chosen to bring up the subject of death, then? “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

Pfefferkorn’s daughter sat back and crossed her arms.

“Sweetheart. Don’t cry, please.”

“I’m not,” she said, wiping her eyes.

“I didn’t mean to.”

“I know,” she said. She took his hand again. “So, you like Paul.”

“I love him,” Pfefferkorn lied.

She smiled.

“I don’t know what you’ve discussed between the two of you,” he said, “but I’d like to contribute in some way to the wedding.”

“Oh, Daddy. That’s very nice of you, but it’s not necessary. We’re all taken care of.”

“Please. You’re my daughter. I can’t pitch in?”

“Paul’s family has already offered to help out.”

“Well, I’m offering to help out, too.”

Pfefferkorn’s daughter looked pained. “But—it’s all taken care of, really.”

Pfefferkorn understood that he was being turned down out of pity. They both knew he had no money to spend on a wedding. He had no notion of what he’d meant by “pitch in.” What could he do? Park cars? He felt humiliated, both by her rejection and by his own impotence. He stared at his knotted fingers as silence settled across the table.

His daughter was correct: the desserts were not remotely sweet. The donuts Pfefferkorn ordered had the taste and texture of compressed sand. At conclusion of the meal, he tried to pay, but Paul had already given the waiter a credit card on his way back from the men’s room.

6.

The airport newsstands and bookstores all featured prominent displays of William de Vallée novels. Every ten yards or so Pfefferkorn passed another towering cardboard bin, its top crowned by an enlargement of Bill’s jacket photo, which had the famous author posing in a trench coat against a background of dark, bare trees. Pfefferkorn, an hour early for his flight, stopped to stare. William de Vallée indeed, he thought.

“Excuse me,” a man said.

Pfefferkorn stepped aside to allow him to take a book.

For thirty years, Bill had, unprompted and without fail, sent Pfefferkorn inscribed copies of his novels. Back in the early days, Pfefferkorn had been happy for his friend, gratified that Bill should single him out to celebrate his good fortune. Over time, however, as that fortune continued to grow, and Pfefferkorn’s stagnancy became more and more apparent, the gift began to feel like a cruel joke. Pfefferkorn had stopped reading the books long ago—thrillers were not his cup of tea—but in recent years he’d begun throwing the packages straight into the trash. By and by he had gotten rid of the old books as well. Today, first editions of the earliest novels, printed in small batches before William de Vallée became a household name, fetched substantial sums. Pfefferkorn refused to profiteer, donating the books to his local library or slipping them into strangers’ bags on the bus.

Standing before the gaudy display, Pfefferkorn decided he owed it to Bill to catch up a bit. He bought the hardcover, walked to his departure gate, and sat down to read.

7.

The thirty-third installment in a series, the novel featured special agent Richard “Dick” Stapp, a brilliant, physically invincible figure formerly in the employ of a shadowy but never-named government arm whose apparent sole purpose was to furnish story lines for thrillers. Pfefferkorn recognized the formula easily enough. Stapp, supposedly in retirement, finds himself drawn into an elaborate conspiracy involving one or more of the following: an assassination, a terrorist strike, a missing child, or the theft of highly sensitive documents that, if made public, could lead to full-blown nuclear engagement. His involvement in the case often begins against his will.
I’ve had it with this rotten business
he is fond of avowing. Who in real life, Pfefferkorn wondered, avowed anything? For that matter, who
declared, exclaimed, interjected, chirped, chimed in, put in, cut in, piped up,
or
squawked?
People said things, and that was all. Who
sighed heavily
?
Or
groaned lustily
?
Who
fought to hold back the tears, which came without fail?
Several times Pfefferkorn had to close the book, he was getting so exasperated. Once sucked (or dragged, or pulled, or thrust) back into the maelstrom (net, vortex, spiderweb) of deception (treachery, lies, intrigue), Stapp learns that the mystery he was initially trying to solve is in fact just the tip of the iceberg. A far greater conspiracy simmers beneath, one that raises the specter of ugly events from Stapp’s past and that has implications for his personal life. With dismaying frequency he is accused of a crime he did not commit. Stapp’s son, a drug addict with whom he has no contact due to Stapp’s having been a crummy father, too busy saving the free world to play ball or attend school plays and so forth, tends to fall into jeopardy. Long conversations consisting mainly of leading questions supply a complicated backstory. Trains and flights run on schedule, to exactly the right destinations, allowing Stapp to cover enormous distances in improbably short amounts of time. Despite the fact that his ordeal affords him little food and no sleep, he remains unimpaired when called upon to make passionate love to a beautiful woman. Captured, he must rely on his ingenuity to escape. A friend is revealed to be an enemy and vice versa. An event or detail that earlier appeared irrelevant comes to play a critical role. Finally, the hero is forced to make a seemingly impossible choice, often having to do with the beautiful woman. Make it he does, though at great cost. For although Stapp is physically invincible, he bears deep emotional scars. Either the woman betrays him or he leaves her, afraid to endanger her.
You’re like a moth
he might murmur.
Drawn to what will destroy you.
Then swiftly follow the delivery of vigilante justice and the tying of loose ends in complete defiance of logic or normal rules of criminal procedure. By story’s end Stapp is on the run again, his name blackened, his heroism never to be acknowledged, his demons in hot pursuit.

It was a terrible book, even by its own standards: crass and inelegant and sodden with cliché. The plot was overwrought and reliant on coincidence. The characters were flimsy. The language was enough to make Pfefferkorn’s throat pucker in distaste. Yet millions of people had rushed to buy it, and millions more would follow suit, especially now that Bill’s death was the latest scoop. Were they truly blind to the book’s faults, or did they willingly ignore those faults in exchange for a few hours of mindless diversion? Pfefferkorn tried to decide which was worse: having no taste or having taste and setting it aside. Either way, this was not the purpose of literature. He finished reading during his second leg, from Minneapolis to Los Angeles. Rather than leave the book on the airplane for someone else to find, he discarded it while walking to the rental car shuttle bus.

8.

Pfefferkorn checked into his motel with several hours to spare. He decided to take a walk. He put on his tennis shoes and a pair of shorts and ventured out into the glare.

The motel was located along a seedy stretch of Hollywood Boulevard. Pfefferkorn passed cut-rate electronics dealers, sex shops, emporia of movie-related trinkets. A young man handed him a flyer redeemable for two tickets to the taping of a game show Pfefferkorn had never heard of. An unshaven transvestite with foul body odor brushed against him. A woman in hot pants smiled toothlessly as she hawked aromatherapy kits. The streets swarmed with tourists under the impression that movies still got made here. Pfefferkorn knew better. None of the four movies made from Bill’s books had been shot in California. Canada, North Carolina, and New Mexico all provided filmmakers with tax breaks that made Los Angeles, however storied its streets, financially unworkable. That didn’t stop people from coming to have their picture taken in front of the Chinese Theatre.

A few blocks on, he ran a gauntlet of people brandishing clipboards in support of various causes. Pfefferkorn was asked to lend his voice to the fight against fur, the death penalty, and atrocities allegedly committed by the West Zlabian government. He dodged them all, pausing as he came to a woman kneeling on the sidewalk to light a candle inside a hurricane glass. Bunches of flowers were strewn all around the concrete square wherein William de Vallée’s Hollywood Walk of Fame star was set. The woman noticed him staring and offered a smile of shared misery.

“Care to sign?” she asked. She pointed to a card table, atop which sat a red leather–bound book and several pens.

Pfefferkorn bent to the book and leafed through it. There were dozens of inscriptions, many of them quite heartfelt, all made out to Bill or William or Mr. de Vallée.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get over it,” the kneeling woman said.

She began to cry.

Pfefferkorn said nothing. He flipped to the back of the book and found a blank page. He thought for a moment.
Dear Bill
he wrote.
You were a lousy hack.