The Saint (3 page)

Ben had been drinking before noon on a weekday? Terrific. Had he been doing this for long? Maybe she was here on a fool's errand after all.

“How many bottles?” she asked, shifting out of the sunbeam that shone through the transom over the club's French doors. She found direct sunlight hard to tolerate these days.

“Just two.”

Two was at least one too many. Ben Hunter was not a drunk, exactly, but he was rarely completely sober after four o'clock. In the time she had known him, he had gone from recreational drinking on weekends to almost perpetual though wellmanaged inebriation. Divorce took some people that way, but he had seemed to level off at a manageable degree of alcohol abuse. Adora felt for him, because she had danced a few rounds of the drugaddiction tango not so long ago, but was dismayed at this sign. For many, there was no proper prescription for nihilism and despair. And it was a short step from wine to Demerol and Valium, and from there to lifelong drug dependence.

Not that this growing love of alcohol could affect Ben's ability to precisely pronounce obscenities in three languages, or move his attention from the bottom line. Ben was always all business. But on those occasions when he crossed the line from buzzed to actually drunk, he could get unpleasant and stubborn. More than stubborn. And his hard drunks could and often did last for days.

Still, this couldn't wait. A job had been offered— one that paid well—and Adora had to find some excuse to take it, because she was losing her mind as well as her house. But that meant extracting a few more details from Ben—ones that contradicted the incredible message he had left on her machine.

Squaring her shoulders, Adora said, “Thanks, Alphons. Shall I be informal and just show myself in?”

The attendant glanced at the table where Ben was brooding, sitting in an island of shadows, all of the club's other patrons having retreated to the edge of the room. Though an excellent employee and professional to the core, Alphons shuddered, and his smile slipped a notch. Adora didn't blame him. Ben had a thin mouth and an insulting conversational style with those he considered his inferiors. And while Ben never called him “the midget” to his face, his discomfort with Alphons's dwarfism was plain.

“Just as you like, miss. I'll send Luther over with your iced tea. You take it with lemon, yes?”

“Yes.” Adora smiled. Apparently Alphons recalled people and their foibles too. She was touched. “It's kind of you to remember.”

“Not at all. It's always a pleasure to see you.”

She was glad that someone thought so.

Adora squared her shoulders and marched toward Fate.

“Hello, Ben. Please tell me that you're joking about this assignment. It's really mean to tease me about money,” she said to her agent a moment later. She kept her sentences short because her breaths were necessarily shallow. She hated the odor that habitually clung to Ben even when he left his office: a mix of strong aftershave, cigarettes and burnt coffee laced with scotch, and now overlaid with a patina of wine. Many people would not have noticed, but Adora had developed a keen sense of smell since her illness. A single smoldering cigarette butt was enough to make her eyes water, and this more intense odor set her stomach to churning.

“Adora, my dear, you know that I never joke— especially not about money.” This was sadly true. Ben had no discernible sense of humor these days. Perhaps that was what made him a good agent. It definitely wasn't his winning personality or clean living that got good contracts for what few writers he had left. “Sit down—I've been waiting forever. And stop frowning, this offer is on the level. This guy, this Mr. Bishop S. Nicholas, is a wealthy philanthropist, and he's willing to pay you a hundred grand to write his biography. Frankly, I don't see what your problem is. You said that you were better now, and that you're ready to get back in the game.”

Adora pulled out a chair and sat down. Since Ben wasn't kidding about the job, the conversation might take a while. An unobtrusive Luther slipped a glass of tea in front of her, and she smiled in thanks while her agent glared and shook a nearly empty bottle of wine. She hoped that Ben tipped well. Perhaps bad manners were easier to take if one left thirty percent.

“So, are you ready or not?” Ben demanded.

“
You
don't tell jokes.
I
don't hurry my decisions,” she answered. “This sounds very weird, and I have some questions.”

“Hmph! So ask.”

Right. But where to begin when it was all so weird?

Ben drummed his fingers on the table while he watched her, making Adora want to swat them. She also wanted to tear off his tie pin, which was probably very fashionable but was made of some bright plastic and looked like a tub toy. Ben chased fashion trends, and his tie was a reminder that he had never quite matured into an adult—meaning compassionate and responsible—human being. Instead of giving in to impulse, she sat calmly, saying nothing while he sulked and she thought the matter through.

There were many things to consider, but what interested her most was why she had been approached for this job. It probably wasn't because her prospective employer had actually read her work. After all, almost no one had. She supposed it might be a case of having tried everyone else and failed. Or maybe they had approached Ben and asked—discreetly—if he had any writers desperate enough to take this project on. Ben would have heard the word “desperation” and naturally thought of her. After all, she badly needed money. And she wasn't married—wasn't even currently involved with anyone—had no pets or other dependents to object if she took the job. Also, she didn't share normal people's interests. To her, ancient scandals were more interesting than current ones. She often found dead guys of more interest than live ones. To her, a deceased, crazed poet was more attractive than a live movie star, so perhaps Ben had a valid reason to believe that this project was one that would appeal to her.

On the other hand—Santa Claus? How big a kook did he think she was?

Even before she'd heard the outline of this job, Adora had had reservations about working for another supposed philanthropist. She hadn't known many people who worked full-time doing nothing but good deeds—only two, in fact—but two was plenty. “Old money” was peculiar—reserved, even hostile. She had always suspected that, had she made her request for their family historical documents—which might as well be called
Scandalous Family Secrets I'd Rather Die than Reveal
—in some lonesome library instead of a well-lit office with lots of witnesses, those so-called philanthropists would have ordered their loyal family retainers to bludgeon her to death with their sterling silver candlesticks, or to flatten her body with their Rolls-Royce limos.

They always questioned why she would want to hear the sordid details of past scandals. All she could think was,
were they kidding?
Any man on the street could tell them that the sordid details of past scandals were the mortar that held the dry bricks of a person's life together. And it was their foibles and flaws that made mythical beings back into humans, made them appealing to Joe Everyman.

Still, not everyone wanted to be descended from mere mortals, and many of the rich would do anything to see that their ancestors' legends remained just that. It was a free country, though, and so all they could do was refuse access to their archives— which they usually did. Not that such actions stopped Adora from getting at the truth—once focused, she was like a hungry wolf after its lunch. But it certainly slowed her down and caused her a lot of headaches.

Of course, not everyone was publicity shy. A couple of times she had been courted by the rich and famous who were finally feeling death's icy breath on their necks and were anxious to fix their place in the history books before their relatives did—even if it meant some liberal fact-stretching. One had been a corrupt two-time governor, the other an empire builder doing his level best to rid his state of trees and clean water. She had declined both jobs.

She could afford to back then. Now? Well, she might just have to hold her nose and ignore what smelled. This client didn't simply want to be the son of immortals, he wanted to be immortal himself. That alone suggested an arrogance passing into true mania.

She was also worried because she liked to keep a low profile. Her privacy was like a religion. It wasn't that she had anything specific to hide—she wasn't wanted by the IRS, the FBI, or a sadistic exhusband—she simply liked her solitude, and the thought of the possible celebrity to come with this project made her uneasy. She didn't mind writing about high-profile people, but becoming one was another matter.

And yet . . . the poverty thing loomed large. She had discovered that she really hated being poor— for all the usual reasons and then one more: boredom. Boredom was terrible enough on its own, but when she was idle too long, her brain—always hungry for information or new projects—began taking self-inventory, and it never liked what it found. This time it said that she was a weakling who couldn't stand being alone. And that was a little too close to the truth for any degree of comfort.

Adora knew from experience that, short of putting her inner voice in a chemical straitjacket, the only way to stop its carping catalogue of defects was to demonstrate to her inner critic that she was emotionally and materially self-sufficient.

But . . .
Santa Claus?

“What's the problem?” she finally responded. “Well, gee, Ben, this guy thinks he's the real Santa Claus! Even you have to admit that that's crazy. And no one can write a biography about Santa—a
living
Santa at that—and not get laughed out of the field,” she added reasonably. She always tried to be reasonable, she really did. It was just that some days it came harder than others. Especially when she felt like she was being teased for a paycheck.

“Look, Adora, most rich people are a little eccentric. It's their privilege. They earn it by paying higher taxes.” Ben, as he had told her before, wasn't joking when he said this.

Many of them are also jerks,
but she didn't say that out loud. Ben loved the rich. They were his hobby, his obsession. He was going to be one when he grew up. Sadly, he was running out of time to achieve his goal, and was becoming depressingly more aware of it.

“This isn't eccentric, it's insane—even for a rich man. It's the line between charmingly quirky and a wackjob—a slight but distinct difference, in my book.”

Ben leaned forward and fixed her with his bloodshot gaze. “But it's a hundred grand, and to do a job that should be fascinating. And no one else is rushing in with offers, are they? Look, Adora, just take the meeting. You don't like what you hear,
then
you walk away. In the meantime, you get to meet one of the great fruitcakes of our time, and you get to fly first-class in a private plane to Los Angeles and have lunch at the Beverly Wilshire. And think about this: People might eventually call you both nuts, but this book could easily be a bestseller. In fact, I'm betting this guy makes sure it's the
best
bestseller. You could be set for life!” And that would assure Ben some fresh and possibly famous clients when they decided that they, too, needed to be immortalized in print.

“Hmph!” she said. But whatever her agent's motives, he was likely right. Santa Claus was a perennially popular subject. Chances were she wouldn't enjoy the interviews with the subject himself, but that was nothing new. Many of these chats with the famous were like catching a cold: You had to deal with a lot of snot and had a headache for a few days. Still, it was worth it in the end—if you got the story.

And she couldn't discount the fact that there was a distressingly large segment of the population that believed in weird things—like the idea that pro wrestling wasn't fixed, or that alien visitations happened all the time, or that Big Foot really lived just outside Seattle. Those kooks would probably all buy her book.

And she could write it under a nom de plume, she realized with a small burst of cheer.

“Do yourself a favor. Get noticed by the
Times
. Then you can go back to having scruples and writing about dead people no one cares about.”

Ben's nose wrinkled as he said this. He was too smart an agent not to see the quality of her writing—particularly when critics kept pointing it out—but he had never understood what drove her to “live among the dead like a necrophiliac.” Adora couldn't really explain it, herself. There were just certain people who fascinated her, and she felt compelled to get to know them—even when they were no longer among the living.

That aside, though Ben was a bit of a bastard and a control freak—with a now obviously severe drinking problem—he wasn't stupid. His advice, though often unpalatable and even insulting, was usually worthwhile. She also doubted that he would send her into any situation that looked truly dangerous. After all, he wouldn't get paid if she were dead and unable to write the book.

Adora took another sip of her iced tea and allowed herself to really ponder the idea of writing about the life of Santa Claus. What Ben said was true. Offers weren't rolling in these days, even from the magazines for which she usually freelanced. She'd been gone too long and lost her contacts. Her publisher was still around, but the biography of Ninon de Lenclos—though it had been received well by the critics—had not captured the popular imagination. Her book on Shelley had done only slightly better. And absolutely no one wanted to hear about her ideas for a book on Sir Walter Scott. In the real world, cream rose to the top. That didn't always happen in publishing. In fashion, taste in hemlines went up and down with every season. It was that way in the literary world too. And she was always a below-the-knee dress in a world of miniskirts. Put another way, her career as a biographer was currently at a standstill.