Acrimonious. That was the word for it. Laura had taken just about everything from our walk-up flat – and what she’d left behind was more cruel. The Murphy bed was still secured to the wall. The Olivetti I’d typed on since college held no interest to her. But more than three hundred paperback mysteries – innocuous enough from their spines – sat on the shelf unreadable.
She had cut out the last five pages of every single one. A sadistic move that ensured I would not be able to read “whodunnit” at the end.
I couldn’t bring myself to throw the books out, nor could I afford to replace them. My own efforts as a writer had not been lucrative – a source of discord between Laura and me. We’d moved into the modest studio, situated incongruously above a posh tobacconist, when the bit of money from my first book had run out. There had been no demand for a second.
So, when the telephone call came, I didn’t believe it. It seemed like another nasty taunt from Laura.
“Mr. Fox?” the woman asked brightly.
“Yes?”
“I’m calling on behalf of The Strand on Broadway. Your agent gave me your number and, well… I hope this isn’t an imposition, but would you be able to come by on Sunday to do a signing?”
I didn’t have an agent.
“A signing?”
“We’ve had so many orders of Death of the Invisible Falcon, it would be wonderful if you could sign some for your fans.”
Now, Falcon was my book. If it had any fans, they’d been awfully quiet so far. And, though it could have been another meticulous set-up by Laura, it also could be – just possibly – that something good had happened. Either way, my curiosity won out.
At three on Sunday, I arrived at the bookstore, wearing my most writerly tweed sport coat with leather elbow patches and two good pens in the pocket. The woman, whose voice I’d recognized from the call, guided me to a long table at the end of which about 200 books were stacked. She shared little to decode the mystery: the books had all been pre-ordered, paid for in advance, and my (unknown) agent had recommended the time and day for the signing. I sat and signed them all with a writerly flourish, taking care to change pens when the first started to dry and not to let my autograph become indiscernible as my hand began to tire.
While a few bookstore shoppers glanced my way, none stopped by the table or picked up a book. Once the last of the stack was signed, the woman thanked me warmly and I was on my way – just as curious as before I’d came. There seemed to be no malice in it, so I let go of my suspicion of Laura. At least for a little while.
My thoughts turned to Chinese takeout and being able to pay my rent on time – thanks to my newfound book royalties. When I returned to the flat, it looked different somehow. Before I could even dial to order dinner, the phone rang. It was another store, about 60 miles away requesting a book signing the next day. I agreed, of course, and then ordered the special chow mein and shrimp with lobster sauce.
I sat on the end of the Murphy bed, still in my tweed jacket, eating from the carton and dreaming about a real sofa – the leather Chesterfield kind, and bourbon in a heavy cut-crystal glass and imported cigars.
I drove to the second book signing. There were about 250 copies of Death of an Invisible Falcon that time. All paid for, but no fans in sight. I received three more calls within the week. Three different bookstores, each a little further from home than the last. More copies of my book to sign at every one.
After the fifth bookstore, my hand was in a stiff claw from signing. My back ached from the long drive and the smell of ink and complimentary coffee had become unpleasant. As I walked slowly up the stairs to the flat, I summed and double-summed my royalties in my head, devising new ways to spend them. Anxious to get a check in the mail.
I hung up my jacket, dreaming of a new one, then grabbed cold noodles from the fridge. While I wanted to just relax and read someone else’s mystery, I was acutely aware that Laura had extracted all the endings. New books! Another great pleasure to indulge in when my ship came in.
I folded the Murphy bed into the wall and paced the flat, dreaming over new furniture, too. The rug that dampened the sound between the bed’s sturdy feet and the tobacconist’s ceiling was dirty. I shook it out heartily, each stomp of my loafers making an odd hollow sound. The floor had been cut into and patched roughly. It was almost as if…
I knew then, right before the shop owner or the men in blue knew, that I was standing on the hole to a heist. El Caballo Pálido had been robbed of $1.2 million in cigars over one week. Arturo Fuente Opus X, Cohiba Behike and even a box of Gurkha Black Dragons – all gone. The thieves were never apprehended. And my books were a small investment in their assurance that I’d be away from my flat at the optimal times.
Eventually, I received that royalty check for the sudden surge in sales. And while my secretive agent disappeared with the rest of the thieves, my real publisher did pay me an advance on a sequel to the Falcon.
I haven’t replaced the mutilated mystery books yet. Some days, a reminder of Laura is a good thing. Just enough to keep me writing. Just enough to show her that she was wrong about me.
Listen to "Smoke and Mirrors" through The Story Coterie podcast.