There followed a letter from the collective lawyer of the three irate shareholders. Demands. Threats. Then, on the part of Jack, capitulation. They had him dead to rights. As Irena claimed, there had indeed been intentionality.
Jack was upset about the departure of Irena – more upset than he could admit. He did make some attempts at fence-mending. What had he done? he asked her. Why was she writing him off?
No dice. She’d made an evaluation of him, she’d added him up and found him wanting, and no, she did not want to discuss it, and no, there wasn’t anyone else, and no, she would not give them another chance. There was one thing Jack could do – should already have done, she said – but the fact that he had no idea of what it was merely underscored why she had left.
What did she want? he pleaded, though feebly. Why couldn’t she tell him? She wouldn’t say. It was baffling.
He drowned his sorrows, though like other drowned things they had a habit of floating to the surface when least expected.
On the sunny side, The Dead Hand Loves You was a hit in its own field, neglected though that field was by serious literati. As his editor put it, “Yeah, it’s a piece of shit, but it’s good shit.” Even better, there was a film deal in the offing, and who more suitable than Jack to write the screenplay? And then to produce a sequel to The Dead Hand Loves You, or at any rate some other piece of good shit? Jack quit his advertising job and devoted himself to the life of the pen. Or rather, to the life of the Remington, soon to be replaced with an IBM Selectric, with the bouncing ball that let you change the typeface. Now that was cool!
His life as a scribe has had its ups and downs. Truth to tell, he’s never lived up to the success of his first book, which is still the one he’s known for and provides the bulk of his income; an income that, thanks to that youthful contract, is three times smaller than it ought to be. Which rankles. And as time passes and he finds it ever more difficult to churn out the verbiage, it’s rankling more and more. The Dead Hand was his big thing; he won’t, now, be able to repeat it. Worse, he’s at the age at which younger, sicker, more violent writers are patronizing and dismissing him. The Dead Hand, yeah, it was, like, seminal, but tame by today’s standards. Violet, for instance, did not get her intestines ripped out. There wasn’t any torture, nobody’s liver got fried in a pan, there wasn’t any gang rape. So what’s the fun of that?
They’re likely to reserve their spike-haired, nose-ringed respect for the film, rather than the book – the original film, not the remake. The remake was more accomplished, yeah, like, if that’s what you want. It had better technical values, it had – god knows – better special effects; but it wasn’t fresh, it didn’t have that raw, primitive energy. It was too manicured, it was too self-conscious, it lacked …
Here’s our special guest for tonight: Jack Dace, the grand old man of horror. And what do you think about the film, Mr. Dace? The second one, the dud, the failure. Oh. That was your screenplay? Wow, who knew? Nobody on this panel was even born then, right, guys? Haha, yes, Marsha, I know you aren’t a guy, but you’re an honorary guy. You’ve got more balls than half the guys in the audience! Am I right? Witless giggling.
Had he himself ever been that brash, that callow? Yes. He had.
Last week he received a proposal for a TV miniseries, linked to a video-game tie-in; both forms unhappily subject to the original four-party contract, according to his lawyer. There’s also to be an entire symposium – in Austin, Texas, home of super-cool nerdery – devoted to Jack Dace and his work, his total oeuvre, and especially to The Dead Hand Loves You. This renewed activity and the accompanying social-media blitz will lead to more book sales, and more residuals, and more of everything that – fuckit! – has to be split four ways. This is his last gasp, it’s his last hurrah, and he won’t be able to enjoy it; he’ll only be able to enjoy a quarter of it. The four-way splitting is supremely unfair and it’s gone on long enough. Something has to give, someone has to go. Or several people.
How best to make it look natural?
He’s kept track of all three of them, not that he had a choice. Their lawyers saw to that.
Rod was briefly married to Irena, but that’s long over. He’s retired from his position with an international brokerage firm and lives in Sarasota, Florida, where he’s involved in the ballet and theatre communities as a volunteer financial adviser.
Jaffrey – who was also briefly married to Irena, but after Rod – is in Chicago, having tailored his philosophical debating talents to municipal politics. Fourteen years ago he was almost convicted on a charge of bribery, but he dodged the bullet and has carried on as a well-known backroom boy, spin-doctor, and candidate’s consultant.
Irena is still in Toronto, where she heads up a company devoted to raising funds for worthy non-profits, such as kidneys. She’s the widow of a man who did well in potash, and throws a lot of high-end dinner parties. She sends Jack a Christmas card every year, enclosing a form-letter account of her banal society doings.
Jack is not outwardly on bad terms with the threesome, having floated it about years ago that he accepts the situation for what it is. Still, he hasn’t seen any of them for years. Make that decades. Why would he want to? He’s had no desire to experience a burp from the past.
Not until now.
He decides to start with Rod, who lives the farthest away. Rather than emailing, he leaves a voice message: he’ll be passing through Sarasota in connection with a film he’s considering – he’s looking for the right kind of setting – and how would Rod like to have lunch and catch up on old times? He’s ready for a brush-off, but somewhat to his surprise Rod sends an acceptance.
They don’t meet in a restaurant, or even at Rod’s home. They meet in the discouraging cafeteria of the Buddhist palliative care centre where Rod is now a resident. White folks clad in saffron robes drift here and there, smiling benign smiles; bells ding; in the distance, chants are chanted.
Formerly stocky Rod has dwindled: he’s yellowish grey and looks like an empty glove. “Pancreatic cancer,” he tells Jack. “It’s a death sentence.” Jack says he had no idea, which is true. He also says – how does he come up with these platitudes? – that he hopes Rod is receiving the proper spiritual care. Rod says he isn’t a Buddhist, but they do death well, and, having no family, he might as well be here as anywhere.
Jack says he is sorry. Rod says it could be worse and he can’t complain. He’s had a good run – partly thanks to Jack, he has the grace to add, since that Dead Hand money gave him the leg-up he needed at the beginning of his career.
They sit looking at their plates of vegetarian Buddhist-temple cuisine. There’s not a lot more to say.
Jack is relieved he won’t have to murder Rod after all. Did he really intend to go that far? Would he have been up to it? Most likely not. He never disliked Rod as such. That’s a lie: he did dislike Rod, but not enough to kill him, then or now.
“You weren’t really Roland,” he says. He owes at least this much of a lie to the suffering little bugger.
“I know that,” says Rod. He smiles, a watery smile. A middle-aged woman in an orange robe brings them green tea. “We had fun, didn’t we?” he says. “In that old house. It was a more innocent age.”
“Yes,” says Jack. “We did have fun.” From this distance it does resemble fun. Fun is not knowing how it will end.
“There’s something I need to tell you,” Rod says finally. “About that book of yours, and the contract.”
“Don’t worry about it,” says Jack.
“No, listen,” says Rod. “There’s a side deal.”
“A side deal?” says Jack. “How do you mean?”
“Between the three of us,” says Rod. “If one of us dies, their share is split between the other two. It was Irena’s idea.”
It would have been, thinks Jack. She’s never missed a trick. “I see,” he says.
“I know that’s not fair,” says Rod. “It should go to you. But Irena was angry because of the way you wrote about Violet, in the book. She thought it was a dig at her. After she’d been so, well, so kind to you.”
“It wasn’t a dig,” says Jack, another semi-lie. “What happens if all of you die?”
“Then our shares revert to you,” says Rod. “Irena wanted everything to go to her kidney charity, but I drew the line.”
“Thanks,” says Jack. So, it’s last man standing. At least he now has an overview of the state of affairs. “And thanks for telling me.” He shakes Rod’s wan hand.
“It’s only money, Jack,” says Rod. “Take it from me. At the end of the line, money means nothing. Let it go.”