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I gave him what was intended to be a sharp glance but he didn't seem to notice. "How do you know I write?"
"I know a lot. And you don't write any of that artsy-fartsy stuff I can't stand." There was a tight grin, and he added, "Every time I used that phrase, 'artsy-fartsy,' to Max, he looked pained. Four letter words, as far as he was concerned, and the publishers didn't approve of any of them." Then, "Now, can we get on with this? I may not have a lot of time."
"With what?"
"Why I'm here. What I need from you."
"What did you mean, before?"
"Not talking like I write? You mean the hundredth draft business; that was just bullshit. I never did that, but I told everyone the same story. I did go over my work, reading every sentence, balancing each one with the next and making sure every word was the right one. And I was good, damned good. A genius, Max said. You know about Max, don't you?"
I nodded. "Max Perkins. Scribner's. He died, too."
"Yeah. A real friend. And he called me 'Hem,' usually. Not that damned 'Papa' like everybody else did. I hated that. Still do. Even She does it -- insists on it, and She knows how I hate it. But writing anything a hundred times was plain silly; no one could do that and even remember what he was writing about."
"No, I didn't mean that. When you said you expected the lightning and the rain to begin again."
"Oh, that. God. Who I meant when I said called me 'Papa."
"God?"
"Yeah. She can't be everywhere all the time. Oh, She knows what's going on all over, but even She can't keep an eye on everyone all the time. She doesn't let me out of Her sight for long, though, and when I turn up missing She knows I've tried to run off again. Until She finds me She throws a few lightning bolts around. And the rain. Once She did more than fourteen inches in just over an hour. Drowned a bunch of people. She was sorry about that, and said She wouldn't do it again."
"She?"
"Oh. Yeah, I guess you wouldn't know. God is a woman. That hit me pretty hard, at first. Takes some of the point from the macho image I spent my whole life building. And She makes me think of my mother -- even looks a little like her. That's probably deliberate. Give Her a tighter handle on me. I guess She thinks so, anyway.."
"And you haven't much time, you said?"
"Just 'til She finds me again. And She will. So we've got to get this done."
"We? And just what has to be done?"
"This." He'd been sitting at the table, elbows seemingly propped on its top, hands flat, one over the other above the still steaming coffee cup. Now he heaved upward and produced a piece of paper from somewhere on his person. He held it out, not letting me touch but so that I could read it. I could see the paper tremble slightly in his hand, and there was a quick blaze of rekindled anger in his eyes.
It was one of those advertising flyers magazines send out, trying for more subscribers. This was for one of the major review publications, full of events and happenings and reviews of current books. They had reprinted, in this flyer, excerpts of book reviews printed in past issues. I found the one he wanted me to see, the review of an originally unfinished novel begun by Hemingway. It had been discovered in his papers long after his death and was finished by someone else.
The reviewer had written rather caustically that this last story uncovered the possibility of a latent homosexuality on Hemingway's part. The piece added that Hemingway's whole life and the total of his writing was an effort to obscure this tendency.
The man in front of me was obviously enraged. His eyes bulged, his throat worked, the paper trembled more visibly. "That piece of shit!" he roared just as the rain suddenly cut off, his bellow echoing through the room in the abrupt silence. "The greasy little turd! I won't stand for it, d'you hear?" He pronounced 'greasy' as if it was spelled with a 'z.'
Mildness seemed called for. "You won't? Then what?"
"What else? We've got to kill the little piss-ant. And the sooner the better. She'll stop me, unless She's too late."
"That's crazy. What do you mean, kill him? Just for writing a review you didn't like?"
"Don't be a fool! Don't you understand anything? The man has challenged my honor. My manhood. That's what my writing was all about. A celebration of the male, a paean to masculinity, to the hero, to strength and machismo. He's made me sound like a puling queer, and I'm not going to stand for it. He's got to die, and with a shotgun. That's how I did myself in."
"Why'd you do that, by the way?"
"Oh, that? I was sick. If I'd gone on it was only a matter of time until I would have been helpless, depending on others for everything. Spoil the image I'd spent my whole life, and my work, building. But that doesn't matter, now. And it just seems fitting, using the same kind of weapon." He hesitated, but only for a breath. "Now, come on. We've got to get going on this."
"Wait a minute. How did I get involved? Why me?"
"I know about you. You write. And you've been interested in me and my work. I figured you'd have some empathy for me, some willingness to help me with my problem. Namely, this little snot."
"I still don't see it. Why do you need any help from me?"
"I'll show you. Here," he said, and started a roundhouse swing with an open hand, around and downward.
I cringed, expecting the filled coffee cup to slam across the table and into me, spilling the hot liquid everywhere. That isn't what happened. That big, hard hand swung through the cup, angled down and passed harmlessly lower and on through his side of the table. "See?" he said, "I can't handle the physical end. You'll have to do it. You've got a shotgun here. We'll take it with us. And some ammo. Double-ought buck, if you've got any."
"I don't." A possible way out? "All I brought was some Number Two and bird shot."
"Number Two'll do. It'll have to. Now come on, let's get going."
Well, that didn't work. No surprise. What worried me was that I had no idea of what his physical limitations were. If he was completely unable in handling anything physical, anything of matter, I might be safe enough, but I didn't know that. And I didn't know what else he might be able to do. He was, obviously, completely insane. There had been no hesitation; the reviewer had to die and, according to him, at my hand. It was a time for temporizing, I thought.
"What, exactly, do you think I have to do?"
"Simple. It's part of the timing. The little cocksucker is due in Idaho Falls tonight. When I realized you'd be here, no farther away than this, it was too good a chance to miss."
"But you can't ask me to kill somebody for you, just like that. No matter what he's done."
"I can. You will. Look, it's no big thing. We'll just drive over there. You shoot him and we drive back. That's all there is to it. You'll have to drive, of course."
"And what's going to happen to me afterwards?"
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