know why. It irritated him.
He thought it was the room at first. The
light bulbs shone too bright for their fixtures. A mirror reflected
those seated at the table, the mirror’s ornate silver frame long
ago tarnished gray. The room was designed for interrogation, not
relaxed conversation.
Then he blamed Grimes. But what had the man
done exactly? He introduced himself. He led Chuck down a long hall
and into the dining room. He sat in silence, while Chuck unpacked
interview equipment and explained his process. It was all very
straightforward.
And yet as Grimes popped two pills and put
the prescription bottle back into his breast pocket, a chill made
Chuck want to recoil.
“What were those?”
“Oxycodone. For the headaches. Or maybe 20 mg
of Oxycontin. I’ve stopped reading the labels.”
Chuck had a few pages of prepared questions
and a legal pad for notes. He scribbled down the drug names. “You
taking anything else?” He tried to gently clear his throat.
Sun-bleached wallpaper curled off mold-infested walls. His throat
still tickled, and he coughed roughly.
He wanted Grimes comfortable and at ease on
his home turf, but maybe the next session could be away from the
mold, maybe outside on the deck in the fresh ocean air, or even up
the road at the site of the avalanche.
“Why you, Mr. Chuck Pointer?” Grimes hadn’t
looked up for more than a moment; he seemed only interested in the
tape recorder at the center of the table. Chuck had yet to press
record.
“If you want your story out there, you could
do worse.”
Chuck had written eight biographies, sold
four film options, and consulted on three high-profile Hollywood
projects. Only one film had made it through the production cycle, The Mardi Gras Serial Killer, but it was enough to cement
Chuck’s status in the publishing industry. In addition to his
mainstream successes, his insight into the morally aberrant made
him a literary darling, and while he still had his vocal critics,
they were nothing he couldn’t ignore if he kept his head down and
focused on the work.
“You’re a gentleman who writes other people’s
stories. Never your own.”
“Not everyone would call me a gentleman.”
“A gentleman is just a man who can remain
straight-faced while listening to other people’s lies.”
Chuck’s wry smile brightened his round,
bearded face, making him look younger than Grimes by a decade,
easily, despite the fact Chuck was fifty-four and his subject was
supposedly only forty-two.
Chuck noted on the pad, “ Fragile like bird
bones. "
He gently cleared his throat again. “Anything
else before we begin?”
The distant sound of the Pacific occupied
another of Grimes’s pregnant pauses, and for a moment, he forgot
Chuck entirely.
Chuck noted on the pad: “ Inexpressive,
withdrawn. Dazed? ”
And then, with a mechanical movement, Grimes
looked up from the tape recorder and stared directly into Chuck’s
eyes. “At your birthday party, with that hypnotist, with your
writing colleagues laughing and feigning interest in your next
project, I had my pick.”
Chuck swallowed hard and shifted in his
chair. “That’s funny. I thought for sure I was the one that
contacted you.” He refused to believe that Grimes’s mysterious
persona was anything more than an act. “How did you hear about the
party?”
Grimes didn’t answer, still staring.
Chuck chuckled to cover his anxiety. “The
guy, the hypnotist, he had what’s-his-name acting like a chicken.
The talk of the town, I guess. Even my son enjoyed himself, and
that's saying something.”
“Bobby Pointer. Yes, the avant-garde writer.
We considered him. A bit too unstable.” A movement at the corner of
Grimes’s lips and at the corner of his eyes animated his face and
hinted at the vibrant man that once resided behind the hollow gaze.
Everett Grimes was supposed to have been extraordinarily handsome
in his youth. How distant that seemed now. “You think I’m off my
rocker. Don’t you?
He thought it was the room at first. The
light bulbs shone too bright for their fixtures. A mirror reflected
those seated at the table, the mirror’s ornate silver frame long
ago tarnished gray. The room was designed for interrogation, not
relaxed conversation.
Then he blamed Grimes. But what had the man
done exactly? He introduced himself. He led Chuck down a long hall
and into the dining room. He sat in silence, while Chuck unpacked
interview equipment and explained his process. It was all very
straightforward.
And yet as Grimes popped two pills and put
the prescription bottle back into his breast pocket, a chill made
Chuck want to recoil.
“What were those?”
“Oxycodone. For the headaches. Or maybe 20 mg
of Oxycontin. I’ve stopped reading the labels.”
Chuck had a few pages of prepared questions
and a legal pad for notes. He scribbled down the drug names. “You
taking anything else?” He tried to gently clear his throat.
Sun-bleached wallpaper curled off mold-infested walls. His throat
still tickled, and he coughed roughly.
He wanted Grimes comfortable and at ease on
his home turf, but maybe the next session could be away from the
mold, maybe outside on the deck in the fresh ocean air, or even up
the road at the site of the avalanche.
“Why you, Mr. Chuck Pointer?” Grimes hadn’t
looked up for more than a moment; he seemed only interested in the
tape recorder at the center of the table. Chuck had yet to press
record.
“If you want your story out there, you could
do worse.”
Chuck had written eight biographies, sold
four film options, and consulted on three high-profile Hollywood
projects. Only one film had made it through the production cycle, The Mardi Gras Serial Killer, but it was enough to cement
Chuck’s status in the publishing industry. In addition to his
mainstream successes, his insight into the morally aberrant made
him a literary darling, and while he still had his vocal critics,
they were nothing he couldn’t ignore if he kept his head down and
focused on the work.
“You’re a gentleman who writes other people’s
stories. Never your own.”
“Not everyone would call me a gentleman.”
“A gentleman is just a man who can remain
straight-faced while listening to other people’s lies.”
Chuck’s wry smile brightened his round,
bearded face, making him look younger than Grimes by a decade,
easily, despite the fact Chuck was fifty-four and his subject was
supposedly only forty-two.
Chuck noted on the pad, “ Fragile like bird
bones. "
He gently cleared his throat again. “Anything
else before we begin?”
The distant sound of the Pacific occupied
another of Grimes’s pregnant pauses, and for a moment, he forgot
Chuck entirely.
Chuck noted on the pad: “ Inexpressive,
withdrawn. Dazed? ”
And then, with a mechanical movement, Grimes
looked up from the tape recorder and stared directly into Chuck’s
eyes. “At your birthday party, with that hypnotist, with your
writing colleagues laughing and feigning interest in your next
project, I had my pick.”
Chuck swallowed hard and shifted in his
chair. “That’s funny. I thought for sure I was the one that
contacted you.” He refused to believe that Grimes’s mysterious
persona was anything more than an act. “How did you hear about the
party?”
Grimes didn’t answer, still staring.
Chuck chuckled to cover his anxiety. “The
guy, the hypnotist, he had what’s-his-name acting like a chicken.
The talk of the town, I guess. Even my son enjoyed himself, and
that's saying something.”
“Bobby Pointer. Yes, the avant-garde writer.
We considered him. A bit too unstable.” A movement at the corner of
Grimes’s lips and at the corner of his eyes animated his face and
hinted at the vibrant man that once resided behind the hollow gaze.
Everett Grimes was supposed to have been extraordinarily handsome
in his youth. How distant that seemed now. “You think I’m off my
rocker. Don’t you?
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