Snake Eater Page 4

  “But why?”

  “A small mystery that doesn’t need to concern us. Daniel’s free, all charges dropped for now. Let’s be grateful.”

  “For now?” repeated Cammie.

  “They could reopen the case.”

  “But it was dismissed.”

  “Without prejudice,” I said. “Meaning there’s no admission that they did anything wrong. But look. I don’t think we have anything to worry about. This is one for the good guys.”

  “Do I get my weed back?” said Daniel.

  I looked at him. He managed to withhold his grin for several seconds. I punched his shoulder. “The Wilson Falls P.D. is probably divvying it up right now,” I said. “Maybe they divvied it up yesterday, and that’s why the case got dropped.”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me,” he said.

  We were strolling to the parking lot when Daniel suddenly stopped. I turned to follow his gaze. Sergeant Richard Oakley was leaning back against a Wilson Falls police cruiser. His arms were folded across his chest, and behind his reflector sunglasses he appeared to be staring at Cammie. He was grinning, baring his teeth.

  She grabbed Daniel’s arm. “Come on,” she said.

  Daniel remained there for another moment, glaring at the policeman. Then he shrugged, and we continued to my car.

  “You can expect them to be watching you,” I told Daniel as we drove back to his place. “They figured they had a good arrest. These things do not make policemen happy. You’ve got to be careful.”

  “Not them,” he said. “Just him. Oakley. And anyway, he wasn’t watching me. He was watching Cammie.”

  I stopped off at Daniel’s house for coffee. Cammie offered to make lunch for me, but I told her I had to get back to the office. We sat at the table in Daniel’s sun-drenched ultramodern kitchen. “I meant it about being careful,” I said to him. “I don’t know what happened in court today, but it’s for sure that they’d love to try again.”

  Daniel shrugged. He had just stubbed out a joint. “I can’t live without my medicine.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know.” He stood up. “Brady, I’ve got something for you. Wait here.”

  He walked out of the room. I lifted my eyebrows at Cammie. She shrugged.

  He was back in a minute. He was carrying a box, the kind that holds a ream of typing paper. It was heavily taped along its seams. He put it on the table in front of me.

  “What’s this?” I said.

  “My book.”

  “Daniel…” began Cammie.

  “It’s time, lass,” he said. He sat down beside me. “You’re a lawyer. You can handle it for me.”

  “You want it published?”

  “Aye.”

  “You need an agent, not a lawyer, Daniel.”

  He shrugged. “Whatever.”

  “You want me to find an agent for you?”

  “Yes.”

  I smiled. “Daniel, you understand—”

  “That everybody and his sister has written a book they think is going to make them rich and famous. Yes, I know that. I’m not interested in getting rich or famous. That’s not why I wrote it.”

  I nodded. I thought I understood. Daniel was haunted by mighty demons. His book was his exorcism.

  “I’m using a pen name,” he added. “This book isn’t for me.”

  “What kind of book is it?”

  He gave me an understated shrug. “A story, I guess.”

  “I mean, a novel? A memoir?”

  “Just a story.”

  “Can I look at it?”

  He peered at me for a moment, then shook his head. “No,” he said. “It’s all ready to send off. Can you just find someone to send it off to?”

  “Sure,” I said. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  I got back to the office around two in the afternoon. Julie greeted me with a stack of messages. I clutched the box with Daniel’s manuscript in it against my chest. “Don’t pester me,” I said. “I haven’t had any lunch.”

  “Poor baby.”

  “Have you?”

  She looked at me and rolled her eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Of course you haven’t. Let me make a quick call and then I’ll run out for sandwiches.”

  I went into my office. Julie followed me. “How’d it go this morning?” she said.

  “The prosecutor moved for dismissal.”

  Julie sat down. “No shit.”

  I sat, too. “No shit indeed.”

  “Why?”

  I shrugged. “Beats me.”

  “Well, that’s good, huh?”

  “It certainly is. I mean, they would’ve presented their evidence and I would’ve moved for dismissal on the ground that their evidence was insufficient. I would’ve challenged the warrant, the reliability of their informants. All the usual things. But my motion would’ve been denied, and the judge would’ve found probable cause, and the ADA would’ve taken the case to the grand jury for an indictment. Which they would’ve gotten. And on to trial.”

  She gave me her stunning Irish smile. “You’re a helluva lawyer, Brady Coyne. The prosecutor takes one look at you and figures it’s a lost cause.”

  “Yeah,” I said, “I guess that’s what happened.”

  “Look,” she said. “You want tuna?”

  “I said I’d get them.”

  “Hey, you’re the victorious attorney. I’ll go out. You watch the phone.”

  “Tomato and lettuce with the tuna,” I said. “On a bulky roll. Barbecued chips, dill pickle, ice-cold Pepsi.”

  “Don’t press your luck, fella.”

  After Julie left I called Charlie, as I had promised him I would. When Shirley, his secretary, put me through, he said, “Well?”

  “The Commonwealth moved to dismiss.”

  He was quiet for so long that I said, “Charlie? You there?”

  “I’m here. What the hell happened?”

  “Come off it,” I said.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I just don’t understand why you made us go through the arraignment and then the hearing first. It would’ve been a helluva lot easier on all of us if—”

  “Brady,” said Charlie, “what the Christ are you talking about?”

  “Don’t give me your bullshit, old buddy. You pulled some strings. I’m calling to say thanks on Daniel McCloud’s behalf.”

  “I didn’t do anything.”

  “Hey, I understand that your overdeveloped concept of ethics prevents you from admitting it. But thanks anyway.”

  “Honest,” he said. “I don’t have that kind of pull with the Commonwealth. I don’t work those streets. I’m just a D.O.J. drudge, one of Uncle Sam’s soldiers, remember?”

  “Listen, Charlie—”

  “Brady, believe me, it wasn’t me. I wish it was. If I’d thought there was anything I could do for you—for Daniel—I would’ve done it. But I didn’t. You don’t know what happened?”

  “Maybe it was a fuckup with the evidence, then,” I said.

  “Probably. Those things happen.”

  “So I rescind my thanks.”

  “In which case,” said Charlie, “I am absolved from having to say ‘You’re welcome.’”

  “Daniel has written a book,” I told Charlie.

  “Daniel?”

  “Yep. And I’m to find him an agent.”

  “What kind of book?”

  “I don’t know. He won’t say.”

  Charlie chuckled. “Everybody’s got a story these days, huh?”

  5

  LATER THAT AFTERNOON I left my office and strolled across the square to the Boston Public Library, where I copied out a dozen phone numbers from a writer’s directory. Then I returned to the office and began calling New York literary agencies. They all wanted the same thing—a cover letter detailing the author’s credentials and something they called a “chapter outline,” which they explained was a brief narrative summary of the book’
s plot. Until they had a chance to review an outline, they all informed me, they wouldn’t touch a manuscript from an anonymous and unpublished writer.

  As far as I knew, Daniel had no credentials. And he had given me no outline.

  I called him that night. “Credentials?” he said.

  “Credits. Things that you’ve had published.”

  “Nay,” he said. “I have no credentials. Unless you can count the demolition handbook I helped revise.”

  “I doubt if that would count.”

  “I was really a technical adviser on it anyway,” he said.

  “How about making an outline for me?”

  “Just find someone who’ll read the book, Brady.”

  “They don’t seem interested in reading it.”

  “They’ll be interested in this one.”

  “Daniel,” I said, “do you know what the odds are on this book getting published?”

  “I know all about long odds,” he said quietly.

  “The publishing world is a different kind of jungle,” I said.

  “Just find someone willing to read it. They’ll take it.”

  I sighed. “Well, I’ll keep trying. But no guarantees.”

  As I lay in bed that night, I thought I remembered having read in my alumni magazine that one of my Yale Law classmates had become a literary agent. Damned if I could remember his name, however.

  It kept me awake half the night, which didn’t help.

  Charlie remembered. “Al Coleman,” he said instantly when I called him the next morning. “Little guy with glasses. Looked like Woody Allen. Used to beat the shit out of me at handball. We kept in touch for a while after we got out of school. He went to work for Uncle right after Yale. Over at State, I think it was. Al was a pretty rigid guy. Couldn’t take the bullshit, all the nuances and ambiguities that are more or less part of government work. Had this overdeveloped concept of the law, justice.” He paused. “Not unlike you, in fact.”

  “Or you, for that matter,” I said.

  “I guess Yale bred that into us,” said Charlie. “Anyway, Coleman quit after a few years, set up his own practice. Again, kind of like you. A little of this, a little of that. Al and I lost touch, but I heard some kiss-and-tell writer hired him to defend a lawsuit, and he won it, so she retained him, and he ended up making a bundle representing her. Eventually he gave up his practice and set up an agency. As I recall, he specializes in ghostwritten celebrity biographies.”

  “Al Coleman,” I mused. “Sounds familiar. Did I know him?”

  “He came out to our place a few times,” said Charlie, referring to the ramshackle house near the water that he and I rented while we were in New Haven. “You were with Gloria in those days, pretty oblivious to anybody else.”

  “Used to bring that tall blonde?” I said. “About six inches taller than him?”

  “That’s the guy. It figures you’d remember the lady.”

  “I remember her well. I wasn’t that oblivious.”

  “Well, that’s what Al Coleman does now. Represents writers.” Charlie paused. “So you’re really going to try to help Daniel, huh?”

  “I promised him I would.”

  “I hear that getting an agent is about as hard as getting a publisher.”

  “I’ve heard that, too.”

  “Well, give Al Coleman a try. Sing the Whiffenpoof song to him. Maybe he’ll give it a look.”

  “Yeah, I guess I will,” I said. “I wonder what happened to the blonde?”

  “She got old,” said Charlie. “Like the rest of us.”

  I slipped over to the BPL at lunchtime. The directory listed the Coleman Literary Agency on lower Fifth Avenue in New York City. The heart of the publishing district.

  Back at my desk, I dialed their number. A sexy female voice answered.

  “Al Coleman, please,” I said.

  “Who should I say is calling?”

  “Brady Coyne. We’re friends.”

  “One moment, sir.”

  I was treated to two minutes of Mozart while I waited on hold. Then she came back on and said, “Mr. Coyne, what was it you wanted?”

  Fair enough, I thought. I hadn’t remembered Al Coleman, and he didn’t remember me. “Tell Al,” I said, “that he used to come down to the house that Charlie McDevitt and I rented while we were all at Yale Law together. Tell him he used to bring a beautiful blonde with him. Tell him I have a manuscript that I want to give him first shot at. Because we’re old friends.”

  “Oh,” she said. She started to say something, then stopped herself. “Well, okay,” she said instead. “Hang on a minute.”

  More Mozart. Then, “Hey, Brady. How’ve you been?”

  “Cut the shit, Al,” I said. “Charlie had to remind me of you, and you don’t remember me.”

  He laughed. It was a good, genuine laugh. “I do remember Charlie. And that shack you guys rented. I remember you, too, except your name failed to ring a bell. I remember the vats of fish chowder you guys’d cook up and all the beer. I used to play handball with Charlie.”

  “He said you were good.”

  “Nah. Charlie was bad, that’s all. You and Charlie used to claim that you made that chowder from fish you caught yourselves.”

  “True. We never told you what kind of fish they were, though.”

  “What, eels?”

  “Among other unmentionables,” I said.

  He chuckled. “So you’ve written a book, huh?”

  “Not me. One of my clients has written one, and he’s asked me to find an agent for it. I thought of you.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “I haven’t read it.”

  “Send me an outline. I’ll give it a look.”

  “No outline. He refuses to do one. Says the book speaks for itself. He’s a funny guy. Very shy. Wants to use a pseudonym. He’s a Vietnam vet, got himself doused with Agent Orange over there.”

  “Well, what’ve we got? A novel or what?”

  “I don’t know. A story, he calls it.”

  “Christ,” he muttered. “How’m I supposed to take a book, you can’t even tell me what kind of book it is?”

  “I understand.”

  I heard Al sigh. “The market’s real soft on Vietnam stuff just now, Brady.”

  “I don’t even know if it’s a Vietnam book. I was just hoping you’d look at it. I know you can’t guarantee anything.”

  “You have any idea how many people are writing books these days?”

  “Too many, I guess.” I hesitated. “Listen,” I said, “if you could just glance at it, maybe tell me if it’s worth anything. You know, if I should just tell Daniel to forget it.”

  He was silent for a long moment. Then he said, “I guess I could look at it. That’s what the old school tie is all about, huh?”

  “I appreciate it, Al,” I said.

  “Send it down.”

  “I will.”

  “It’ll take me a few weeks to get back to you.”

  “Fine. Understood.” I hesitated. “Hey, Al?”

  “Yeah?”

  “What ever happened to that blonde?”

  “The one I used to bring to your parties?”

  “That one.”

  “I married her.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. She’s the one who answers the phone here. You just talked to her. We’ve got four kids. What about you?”

  “Me?”

  “Yeah. You used to have a knockout brunette with you. I can almost remember her name.”

  “Gloria,” I said.

  “Right. What happened to her?”

  “I married her.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yes. We have two boys. Divorced eleven years ago.”

  “Well, I’m sorry.”

  “Sometimes I am, too.”

  6

  AL COLEMAN CALLED ME back two weeks later. “I really got my hands full here,” he said. “I hardly ever take on a new client. I’m trying to avoid hiring anybo
dy. It’s just me and Bonnie. A two-person office, that’s how I want it.”

  “Me, too,” I said. “Maybe Yale bred that into us. The lone-wolf mentality. Does this mean—?”

  “I handle everything myself,” he interrupted. “Personal attention. My writers always know who they’re dealing with. They appreciate it that way. I’ve got a few big name writers, and several good solid pros. They take all my time, keep me as busy as I want to be. It’d take something really special for me to bring another writer aboard, especially someone who’s got no track record. Something like what you sent me, I just have a policy against even looking at stuff like that, and I’m afraid I’m pretty closed-minded about unproven writers. Do you understand?”

  “Sure. That’s fine. I appreciate your looking at it, anyway. So what did you—”

  “I mean,” Al went on quickly, “we do have to keep bringing new blood into the literary world and all that. Every bestselling author in history started with a first book. But a little mom-and-pop operation like mine, I just don’t have the luxury of beating my brains out trying to sell something that’s not going to make anybody any money. That’s just how it’s gotta be. Big agencies are different. They’re always trying to sell promising new writers. It’s like working pro bono. Every writer—your Hemingways and your Micheners and your Stephen Kings—they all started as unknowns. Agents and publishers know this. Nothing they like better than discovering the next Elmore Leonard. It’s rare, first books making money. But good writers will make everybody money in the long run.”

  “So maybe you can recommend someone for me, Al. Someone who’ll give this book a look. I mean, if it’s got some potential.”

  “No. I can’t.”

  “Well, sure, if it’s not—”

  “You said you didn’t read it.”

  “No.”

  “You should read it.”

  “Well, when you send it back, maybe I will.”

  “You missed the point,” said Al.

  “The point?”

  “Look,” he said. “I’m not quite finished with it. But this thing is absolute dynamite. It’s wild. An incredible yarn. A genuine page-turner, and not that badly written. It’s a fucking powder keg, Brady. Bestseller material, handled right. This guy’s got a fantastic imagination.”

  “You mean….?”