he could envision were copies of Chris’s books stacked on shelves at all the bookstores. Inside, Karl was crying.
“Seriously, Chris, that’s brilliant.”
“Brilliant …”
“Do you have an agent?”
“An agent? Is that another joke? You shouldn’t use that word near me.”
“I mean a
literary
agent.”
“No, the publishers got in contact with me directly, asked me to consider writing my memoirs. I’ve sent them about three chapters. Still working on the rest. I’ve a lot of it strewn about the place. Haven’t been able to focus, lately.”
Shaking his head in disbelief, Karl wondered why was it that
he
never got the breaks every other fucker seemed to be getting?
“I could be your agent,” volunteered Karl. “Those publishers can be tricky bastards. I know quite a bit about the publishing world.” The last sentence sounded bitter.
“
You
know about publishing?” Chris made a don’t-make-me-laugh face.
“A lot more than you can imagine. I can draw on my wealth of … experience, to further your career. Here’s my card.” Karl produced a business card.
“What’s this for? I already have one.”
“Send it to
Burrger and Goldman.
They’ll be impressed. They’llunderstand that you’ll take no shit from them, once they know you have acquired my services as your agent. I’ll get you all the media contacts you need.”
Chris looked at the card, then directly into Karl’s eyes. “Why do I sense that you want this more than me?”
“Forgive the pun, but it’s a long story.”
“I’ll think about it.” Chris took the card, slipping it into a little pocket attached to the side of the wheelchair.
“That’s all I ask, that you think about it. Nothing more, nothing less.” Karl smiled. “Do you have a title for your memoir, yet?”
“Haven’t really given it too much thought.”
“Killing for a Living.”
“What?”
“Killing for a Living. That’s a cracker of a title – and I won’t even charge you for it.”
“What a guy.” Chris shook his head. “I only hope you understand that once this gets out, about me writing a book, all those associated with me are not going to get any invites to the Policemen’s Ball?”
“I hate dancing with cops, all those wooden truncheons swaying to the music. Anyway, you just wait until I get started,” promised Karl. “Killing is a serious business in the publishing world. Trust me.”
A wry smile suddenly appeared on Chris’s face. “The last time I heard those famous two words, someone shot me six times in the fucking back …”
C HAPTER S EVEN
Monday, 29 January (Afternoon)
‘Cowardly dogs bark loudest.’
John Webster,
The White Devil
K ARL PRESSED THE doorbell but could not hear any sound coming from either it or the inside of the house. He rapped on the door twice. No answer. He waited a few seconds before trying again.
“What the fuck’s with all the noise!” screamed an angry-looking young man, suddenly pulling the front door wide open. “We aren’t buying anything. Now blow, before I get pissed off and have to slap you about, pops.”
Mister Young Angry, noted Karl, was built like the proverbial brick wall. He was wearing a greasy T-shirt two sizes too small to accentuate his Sylvester Stallonesque torso. Leprous tattoos covered his unreal, Popeye-the-fucking-Sailor-Man arms.
“Is your mother in?” asked Karl, his voice calmly professional.
“What?” Young Angry’s face screwed slightly.
“Your mother? Would she be –?”
Without warning, Young Angry took a swing at Karl’s head. Thankfully, steroids had impeded Young Angry’s speed, and Karl ducked easily, grabbing the swinging arm in midair, turning slightly before jerking the arm up along Young Angry’s back.
“
Easy, sonny
,” hissed Karl into Young Angry’s ear-ringed ear.
“Let go! You’re in for it, once I get free –
arghhhhh!
”
“I need you to calm down,
sonny
. Otherwise, the arm goes further north. Understand?” Karl
“Seriously, Chris, that’s brilliant.”
“Brilliant …”
“Do you have an agent?”
“An agent? Is that another joke? You shouldn’t use that word near me.”
“I mean a
literary
agent.”
“No, the publishers got in contact with me directly, asked me to consider writing my memoirs. I’ve sent them about three chapters. Still working on the rest. I’ve a lot of it strewn about the place. Haven’t been able to focus, lately.”
Shaking his head in disbelief, Karl wondered why was it that
he
never got the breaks every other fucker seemed to be getting?
“I could be your agent,” volunteered Karl. “Those publishers can be tricky bastards. I know quite a bit about the publishing world.” The last sentence sounded bitter.
“
You
know about publishing?” Chris made a don’t-make-me-laugh face.
“A lot more than you can imagine. I can draw on my wealth of … experience, to further your career. Here’s my card.” Karl produced a business card.
“What’s this for? I already have one.”
“Send it to
Burrger and Goldman.
They’ll be impressed. They’llunderstand that you’ll take no shit from them, once they know you have acquired my services as your agent. I’ll get you all the media contacts you need.”
Chris looked at the card, then directly into Karl’s eyes. “Why do I sense that you want this more than me?”
“Forgive the pun, but it’s a long story.”
“I’ll think about it.” Chris took the card, slipping it into a little pocket attached to the side of the wheelchair.
“That’s all I ask, that you think about it. Nothing more, nothing less.” Karl smiled. “Do you have a title for your memoir, yet?”
“Haven’t really given it too much thought.”
“Killing for a Living.”
“What?”
“Killing for a Living. That’s a cracker of a title – and I won’t even charge you for it.”
“What a guy.” Chris shook his head. “I only hope you understand that once this gets out, about me writing a book, all those associated with me are not going to get any invites to the Policemen’s Ball?”
“I hate dancing with cops, all those wooden truncheons swaying to the music. Anyway, you just wait until I get started,” promised Karl. “Killing is a serious business in the publishing world. Trust me.”
A wry smile suddenly appeared on Chris’s face. “The last time I heard those famous two words, someone shot me six times in the fucking back …”
C HAPTER S EVEN
Monday, 29 January (Afternoon)
‘Cowardly dogs bark loudest.’
John Webster,
The White Devil
K ARL PRESSED THE doorbell but could not hear any sound coming from either it or the inside of the house. He rapped on the door twice. No answer. He waited a few seconds before trying again.
“What the fuck’s with all the noise!” screamed an angry-looking young man, suddenly pulling the front door wide open. “We aren’t buying anything. Now blow, before I get pissed off and have to slap you about, pops.”
Mister Young Angry, noted Karl, was built like the proverbial brick wall. He was wearing a greasy T-shirt two sizes too small to accentuate his Sylvester Stallonesque torso. Leprous tattoos covered his unreal, Popeye-the-fucking-Sailor-Man arms.
“Is your mother in?” asked Karl, his voice calmly professional.
“What?” Young Angry’s face screwed slightly.
“Your mother? Would she be –?”
Without warning, Young Angry took a swing at Karl’s head. Thankfully, steroids had impeded Young Angry’s speed, and Karl ducked easily, grabbing the swinging arm in midair, turning slightly before jerking the arm up along Young Angry’s back.
“
Easy, sonny
,” hissed Karl into Young Angry’s ear-ringed ear.
“Let go! You’re in for it, once I get free –
arghhhhh!
”
“I need you to calm down,
sonny
. Otherwise, the arm goes further north. Understand?” Karl
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