The Dirt Peddler (10 page)

Peter Bernadine himself was, I noticed as he stood up to greet me, pretty much a physical carbon copy of his father, though more casually dressed. And whereas the elder Bernadine had pure white hair, his son's was pitch black and slicked down to the point of almost glistening. He also sported a small mustache that reminded me of Adolph Hitler's.

I reached his desk and we shook hands. “Have a seat, please,” he said. His deep voice seemed somehow incongruous with the rest of him.

“My father tells me you're looking for information on an associate of Tony Tunderew's?” he asked as I sat down.

He and his father must have talked while I was waiting in the reception area.

“Uh, yes. Larry Fletcher. Do you know anything about him?”

Bernadine smiled. “Not really, other than the fact that I gather he's Tony's…uh, shall we say ‘special friend'?”

Now that one caught me a little by surprise.

“What makes you think that?”

Bernadine sat back in his chair and reached into his shirt pocket for a pack of cigarettes. He made a gesturing offer to me, and I shook my head. He waited until he had lit up and blew a long stream of smoke into the room before continuing:

“I only spoke with him twice, I think, but he made it pretty obvious. All he talked about was how excited he was for Tony, writing a real book that was sure to make him famous. And the last time he was in, he was telling me about how Tony had given him the money to get a new apartment.”

“So you think Tunderew is gay?”

Bernadine shrugged and took another long drag from his cigarette. “It doesn't matter to me whether he is or isn't, but I wouldn't put anything past him. I'm sure if he saw some benefit in it, he'd probably screw a dead baby.” He flicked his cigarette over the almost full ashtray on the corner of his desk, and smiled. “As you may gather, he's not one of my favorite people.”

“But you published his book. Why?”

He kept the smile as he said, “You're working for him, aren't you? Why?”

He made a quick nod to indicate he didn't expect an answer. “Money is a pretty strong incentive for doing things we might prefer not to do. I knew when he came to me with
Dirty Little Minds
that it could be a runaway best-seller. I knew, too, that he wouldn't have come to Bernadine Press unless he'd been turned down by every other mainstream publisher first. I must say his timing was perfect. The Governor Keene scandal—not that there is any direct relationship between it and
Dirty Little Minds
, of course—was just breaking. He was obviously desperate, and when he said he was already working on another book that would be even more explosive than
Dirty Little Minds
, I decided to get him to commit to a multiple-book deal. If
Dirty Little Minds
tanked, we wouldn't be out all that much. If it caught on, which it did, we had every right to demand something in return for our having taken the chance with him. He agreed.”

“I was a bit curious about that. Why three books?”

Bernadine stared at the end of his cigarette for a moment before answering.

“A little unusual, perhaps, but just as my instinct told me
Dirty Little Minds
would be a goldmine, it also told me Tunderew couldn't be trusted any further than I could throw him. We're a small house, and we can't afford to offer six-figure advances. I knew if
Dirty Little Minds
was as big a hit as I expected it to be, other publishers would be throwing money at him for his next book. Our having refusal rights only on a second book would encourage him to dash off some piece of crap—not that
Dirty Little Minds
is exactly
War and Peace
—just to meet the terms of the contract. Then he'd be free to peddle the big one to somebody else—which, it turns out, is exactly what he did. He was apparently stupid enough, or arrogant enough, not to think we'd get wind of it. So by writing in first refusal rights on the next
two
books, we were covering our ass.”

“And now he wants to back out of the entire contract.”

Bernadine nodded, took a last drag on his cigarette and stubbed it out on the pile of other butts in the ashtray.

“He does, and he's not going to.”

“How often are you in contact with him?”

He pushed the ashtray aside and sat back in his chair. “I'm pleased to say we aren't. One of the first things he did when
Dirty Little Minds
started to take off was to hire an agent—Sal Armata, one of the best. Everything goes through him now.”

“Did you know someone is blackmailing Tunderew?”

I watched for his response.

“Really?” He didn't even look up from the ashtray. “Good for them. I hope they get every cent he has.”

“Well, he's going to do everything he can to see that they don't, and he's surely not going to just sit back and write out a check. I'm trying to find who's behind it before it goes too far.”

Before he could leap to the accurate conclusion that I might be referring to him, I hastened to add, “It occurred to me that it might be tied in with the book he's working on. What do you know about it?”

“Enough to be sure that what he submits to us will be the one he roughly outlined for me. As I said, we're not stupid. Since he said he'd started on the second book when he convinced me to go with
Dirty Little Minds
, I asked him for an outline of the second book before we signed the contract. There are enough basics in there to guarantee he won't be able to foist something else off on us.”

“So you know who the subject of the next book is?”

He smiled yet again. “Well, his books are all completely fiction, of course…”
Uh huh
“…but I think any third grader could figure it out. But of course I'm not going to say anything further than that. I'm sure you understand.”

I did, though I really,
really
wanted to know. Whoever it was just might be the blackmailer.

*

On the way back to my office, I had a serious little talk with myself. I was increasingly aware that I really didn't care who was blackmailing Tony T. Tunderew. And I felt guilty about it because it was my job to care—or at least find out who was behind the blackmail—and that I would do my best to do. I hadn't had a chance to try to find Judith Francini yet, but of the people I'd contacted—Larry Fletcher, Catherine Tunderew, and the Bernadines—any one of them had a pretty good reason, and I could empathize with them all. But if I had to place any bets, I realized that Peter Bernadine had edged ahead of Catherine Tunderew. He had to know Glen O'Banyon was defending Tunderew in the suit, and he also had to know that O'Banyon won the majority of his cases.

Tunderew had mentioned that the blackmailer wanted the money on a specific date—the fifteenth—and that date was two days after his next royalty check was due. It could well be coincidence, but if it wasn't, it was unlikely that anyone other than somebody at Bernadine Press would know when royalty checks went out.

Yeah, but the blackmail demand was for only ten thousand dollars—a small fraction of what Bernadine Press stood to lose if Tunderew broke the contract. Of course, perhaps the blackmailer intended it to be only the first installment.

I debated on whether I should try to contact his new agent, Sal Armata, but decided to hold off on that. Armata was new to the picture and probably couldn't provide any constructive information. Still, I'd keep him in mind.

Tunderew would be back in town Thursday, and I hoped to be able to talk to him then. I still wasn't sure how he was going to take the news that Larry Fletcher probably wasn't the blackmailer: Tunderew was so sure he was. Again, he might well think I was covering up for a fellow fag—everyone knows how we stick together, after all. If that's what he wanted to think, let him.

*

I was surprised, upon returning to the office, to find a message from Jonathan asking me to call him. Since, as I've said, he almost never called me at work, except maybe on his lunch hour, I immediately returned the call.

“Evergreens.” I recognized the voice as one of Jonathan's coworkers, though I couldn't recall his name.

“Is Jonathan around?”

“Sure. Hold a second.”

A very long “second” later, I heard the phone being picked up.

“Hi, Dick. Thanks for calling back.”

“What's up?” I sensed something in his voice.

“I've got a favor to ask… A
really
big favor and I'll understand if you say ‘no.'”

“Randy wants you to pick him up again and bring him into town?”

There was a pause, then, “Uh, yeah…well, no, not exactly, but…uh…”

“‘But uh what?” I was pretty sure I wasn't going to like what came next.

“But can he stay with us for a few days? He got kicked out of New Eden.”

Oh, joy!
I thought.

“Only for a few days.” His words picked up speed in an attempt to forestall my anticipated interruption. “I was going to tell him about Haven House, but he's too old to stay there. He's pretty sure he knows someplace he can stay after a couple of days, but right now he hasn't got anywhere, and he let me stay with him when I didn't have anywhere and I really owe him, and I don't want him to have to just be out on the street with no place to go and…”

“Okay, Jonathan, okay,” I said, trying to get him to let up on the accelerator. “He can stay with us a few days if you want…but it can't be forever.”

I could almost hear him exhale in relief. “No, it won't. I promise. Just a few days.”

“What time are you supposed to pick him up?”

“I'm not. He's here now.”

Great!
I thought. I wondered what Randy had done to get kicked out of New Eden on little or no advance notice. Whatever it was, it couldn't be anything good. And I was more than a little concerned for Jonathan. I didn't want Randy to start influencing him in the wrong direction.

“Okay. I'll pick you up right after work.” I didn't ask what Randy would be doing in the meantime, but I hoped his showing up wouldn't get Jonathan in any trouble with his boss.

I had a few minor time-filler projects, including a trip to the Hall of Records to trace previous ownership on a parcel of land for one of the straight attorneys for whom I did occasional jobs. Hey, if I'd wanted a life of glamour I'd have gone to beauty school.

Even though I deliberately took my time, I was in the car and on my way to the nursery half an hour early. When I pulled up in front of the main building, I saw Randy sitting on a bench, leaning forward, elbows on knees and hands clasped between them, apparently lost in thought. An Army-Navy Surplus duffle bag was propped against the edge of the bench. He didn't even look up as I got out of the car and walked toward him. Finally, he noticed me and sat up.

“Hi, Dick,” he said, not smiling.

“Randy.” I gave a head nod toward the duffle bag. “You want to put your bag in the trunk?”

He got up quickly. “Sure.” He picked up the bag, slinging it over his shoulder, following me to the car and, and when I opened the trunk, he tossed the bag in.

“Thanks for letting me stay with you guys,” he said casually. I was struck by the realization that this was how Randy lived his life—one place to the next, never long in any one of them, everything he owned in a duffle bag. It was not a happy realization.

“No problem.”

I was not about to ask him what had happened that had made him leave New Eden. I figured if he wanted to tell me, he would. Or Jonathan would, later…if he knew. We moved around to the sidewalk side of the car. Not knowing how long Jonathan might be, I didn't want to get in. I felt a little awkward, not really knowing what to say, and there was about a minute of silence until Randy looked toward the nursery entrance gate and gave a small heads-up nod.

“Jonathan likes it here,” he said. “He's doing pretty good.” I read into the last sentence that he didn't mean just the job.

“Yeah, I'm really proud of him.”

Randy said nothing, but nodded.

At that moment, luckily, Jonathan emerged from the gate and, grinning, came over.

I went around to the driver's side as Jonathan and Randy got in the passengers' side.

Jonathan, never at a loss for words, kept things from being too quiet on the way home by telling us of his day's adventures, which included having gone with a landscaping crew to the suburbs to dig up a perfectly good front lawn, lay down fresh sod, and then discover they'd gone to the wrong house. Since his boss had written up the order and put down the wrong address, nobody got blamed for the mistake.

*

The evening went fairly smoothly. We picked up a bucket of fried chicken and trimmings on the way home, put Randy up in the guest bedroom, and spent most of the evening watching TV. Jonathan tried to do a little studying for his Thursday night class, but apparently didn't want Randy to feel neglected.

Randy himself didn't have much to say, though he didn't seem too concerned over his current situation.

He in fact made a couple oblique references to a pretty solid future not too far off. Hustler talk? I couldn't tell, but as with the previous times, there seemed to be an air of conviction that went somehow beyond fantasy.

Jonathan and I went to bed around eleven, Randy opting to stay up and watch TV. Jonathan stayed in the living room with him until I was in bed, then came in a few minutes later.

“You'd better watch out,” he said as we assumed our pre-sleep front-to-back “spoon” position, Jonathan's back to me and my arm over his shoulder.

“For what?”

“Randy thinks you're hot. He asked if we ever did three-ways.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“I told him ‘sure!' He'll be in in a minute.”