___
“So, aside from thanking you again for picking up the tab at the Algonquin, that’s pretty much the story.”
Mel listened. His iPhone was silent, resting ceremoniously to his right. It was untouched by his hand, which held one of the Peninsula’s embossed salad forks in mid-air. He finally took a bite.
“Cadence, it’s a sad turn of events, tragic. If I hadn’t experienced one piece of it firsthand, I’d say you made it up (chomp), that it’s all bullshit. But since I can’t dismiss it all, I’ll go along.”
He took another bite of the lunchroom’s signature duck salad, then continued, “Shame. I (chew) had imagined a great meeting.” His other hand swept in the air. “A big, top-floor, teak-lined conference room high above Century City. The publisher, maybe Alrop or Freidken, would be there (gulp), flanked by his VP of Sales. Two or three lawyers. One from an outside firm, maybe Brunson and Cayhill. The others, ‘his people,’ as he might say. Go ahead and eat.”
She started on the salade Niçoise, glad to let him talk.
“We would be there—you, me, some lawyer. Maybe Everett. We would have the upper hand. They’d say, ‘Where’d you get the documents?’ We would tell them, pointing out that they were a gift. They would politely ask questions, testing the edges for ownership. Everett would politely set them straight, then we’d get into some blah-blah about copyright. ‘What copyright?’ Everett would say, ‘It’s fair use in any case, allegory, dogs and cats, all that.’”
He snuck in another bite.
“Then (chew) I would take over. Look the publisher in the eyes, point my index finger down on the table like so … and I’d say, ‘Buy this now and I can keep it off the storyboard circuit. Let us walk out of here and we’ll have ten competing bids by tomorrow. You’ll never get this back!”’
She put her fork down and let him continue.
“They’d pause for a moment. See, they’d already prepared for this. Their outside attorney would lean in, fold his hands, and say, ‘To resolve this matter, we are willing to put X’—call it whatever you want for purposes of this conversation—‘on the table. Total residual rights. We publish it or bury it at our discretion. You and your clients walk away.’”
“And right then and there we have them. Now, as they say, we know what they are and the only question is the price. Plus a few other terms, of course, like them paying my outrageous fee separately.”
Cadence put down her fork.
“Mel, you really do live inside your own movie. Do you write the script dailies up every night?”
“No, butterfly, I make it all up as I go.”
“Well, the bad news is that the original documents are gone, I’m sure of that. Want the good news?”
“There is some?”
“We got a package. No return address.”
“Wait. I got it. From your Mr. Osley. The Figment. Another magically there and gone again character.”
“Figment? He was real as you are, Mel. But no, not from Osley. Listen, you called me, scared as a puppy. Peeing all over yourself about the mysterious offer. I still don’t buy all you’ve been telling me.”
“It wasn’t very magical. Just a nasty squeeze. Dressed up as business but the menace and the message came through, all right. I’d say it was the Mafia but they don’t care about books and they don’t play with riddles. Your lives were threatened, which I was considering, and then mine, whereupon I immediately took action.”
“And one more time, who was saying this to you?”
“It was all by phone, and the message by courier. The voice, he knew the industry well enough to pull off some lines. Clunky and borrowed, like he watched The Directors a few times and was a quick study.”
“Any accent, odd figure of speech?”
“The speech was, oh, imagine a Bulgarian that learned English from watching American TV. It wasn’t just a crank. Like I said to myself, when it’s your ass, you gotta believe. So anyway, what was in it? The package?”
“Ah, that’s what’s interesting. Not the Tolkien documents. Not the originals. But all of the translations.”
“So, the original stash of documents, the invaluable for-sure-Tolkien-owned-it stuff, the ones pretty much verified by Mr. Bois-Gilbert and his Inspecteurs, the ones I saw here at this table? Gone?”
“Yes.”
Mel sighed and put his chin on his fist, dejected.
“What’s so wrong? There’s still the story. If that’s the thing, and all stories continue, who cares who wrote it? She, Ara, was really real.”
“What, you’re believing your own soup now, Cadence? What’s missing is the proof. The Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval that makes it all sellable. Let me boil it down for you: It’s not the story, it’s the sales.”
“I disagree. In fact, that, right there, is where I learned we are very different. I don’t give a damn about money except to fix something broken in my life. But you, you do.”
He waited.
“So that’s why I’m going to give you one last chance. I want you to set up that meeting with the publisher.”
“There’s nothing to go on. No one will take the meeting.”
“I don’t believe you for a second, Mel. You know deep down that this is a real thing. Like you said, people want to know. And the most important part, the story that’s just as magical, is the bigger part about how it came together. Me. My grandfather. Osley. Even you. See, Mel, when this gets written, you’ll be in it. You’re an aspiring author yourself. Come on. You’ll love it.”
She pulled her keys from her purse, signaling an end to the lunch. A large tooth was attached to the keychain.
“That’s some tooth. You grow that yourself?”
“I found it, lost it in a way, and then re-found it. It’s a good-luck charm, but only if you believe. Otherwise it’s bad luck. I carry it, because, in a way, you taught me something.”
“What’s that?”
“About stepping up and betting your life on things. Take your cynicism, Mel, your greatest asset. I would hedge your bets before relying on that.”
Before he could speak, she stood and offered her hand. He rose and they shook hands.
“Goodbye Mel.”
She turned and walked down the hallway toward the foyer, thick with an exuberance of orchids in Sevres vases.
Mel’s iPhone buzzed angrily. He let it ring.