“He creates the big successful ad campaign for Duzzy-Doo household cleaner. But—”
Mr. Ricker raised his eyebrows, waiting for the but. And how could Pete tell him that a year later, Jimmy steals into the agency late one night with matches and a can of kerosene? That Rothstein foreshadows all the protests about Vietnam and civil rights by having Jimmy start a fire that pretty much destroys the building known as the Temple of Advertising? That he hitchhikes out of New York City without a look back, leaving his family behind and striking out for the territory, just like Huck and Jim? He couldn’t say any of that, because it was the story told in The Runner Goes West, a novel that existed only in seventeen closely written notebooks that had lain buried in an old trunk for over thirty years.
“Go ahead and but me your buts,” Mr. Ricker said equably. “There’s nothing I like better than a good book discussion with someone who can hold up his end of the argument. I imagine you’ve already missed your bus, but I’ll be more than happy to give you a ride home.” He tapped the cover sheet of Pete’s paper, Johnny R. and Ernie H., those twin titans of American literature, with oversized martini glasses raised in a toast. “Unsupported conclusion aside—which I put down to a touching desire to see light at the end of an extremely dark final novel—this is extraordinary work. Just extraordinary. So go for it. But me your buts.”
“But nothing, I guess,” Pete said. “You could be right.”
Only Mr. Ricker wasn’t. Any doubt about Jimmy Gold’s capacity to sell out that remained at the end of The Runner Goes West was swept away in the last and longest novel of the series, The Runner Raises the Flag. It was the best book Pete had ever read. Also the saddest.
“In your paper you don’t go into how Rothstein died.”
“No.”
“May I ask why not?”
“Because it didn’t fit the theme, I guess. And it would have made the paper too long. Also . . . well . . . it was such a bummer for him to die that way, getting killed in a stupid burglary.”
“He shouldn’t have kept cash in the house,” Mr. Ricker said mildly, “but he did, and a lot of people knew it. Don’t judge him too harshly for that. Many writers have been stupid and improvident about money. Charles Dickens found himself supporting a family of slackers, including his own father. Samuel Clemens was all but bankrupted by bad real estate transactions. Arthur Conan Doyle lost thousands of dollars to fake mediums and spent thousands more on fake photos of fairies. At least Rothstein’s major work was done. Unless you believe, as some people do—”
Pete looked at his watch. “Um, Mr. Ricker? I can still catch my bus if I hurry.”
Mr. Ricker did that funny yowza-yowza thing with his hands. “Go, by all means go. I just wanted to thank you for such a wonderful piece of work . . . and to offer a friendly caution: when you approach this kind of thing next year—and in college—don’t let your good nature cloud your critical eye. The critical eye should always be cold and clear.”
“I won’t,” Pete said, and hurried out.
The last thing he wanted to discuss with Mr. Ricker was the possibility that the thieves who had taken John Rothstein’s life had stolen a bunch of unpublished manuscripts as well as money, and maybe destroyed them after deciding they had no value. Once or twice Pete had played with the idea of turning the notebooks over to the police, even though that would almost surely mean his parents would find out where the mystery money had been coming from. The notebooks were, after all, evidence of a crime as well as a literary treasure. But it was an old crime, ancient history. Better to leave well enough alone.
Right?
???
The bus had already gone, of course, and that meant a two-mile walk home. Pete didn’t mind. He was still glowing from Mr. Ricker’s praise, and he had a lot to think about. Rothstein’s unpublished works, mostly. The short stories were uneven, he thought, only a few of them really good, and the poems he’d tried to write were, in Pete’s humble opinion, pretty lame. But those last two Jimmy Gold novels were . . . well, gold. Judging by the evidence scattered through them, Pete guessed the last one, where Jimmy raises a burning flag at a Washington peace rally, had been finished around 1973, because Nixon was still president when the story ended. That Rothstein had never published the final Gold books (plus yet another novel, this one about the Civil War) blew Pete’s mind. They were so good!
Pete took only one Moleskine at a time down from the attic, reading them with his door closed and an ear cocked for unexpected company when there were other members of his family in the house. He always kept another book handy, and if he heard approaching footsteps, he would slide the notebook under his mattress and pick up the spare. The only time he’d been caught was by Tina, who had the unfortunate habit of walking around in her sock feet.
“What’s that?” she’d asked from the doorway.
“None of your beeswax,” he had replied, slipping the notebook under his pillow. “And if you say anything to Mom or Dad, you’re in trouble with me.”
“Is it porno?”
“No!” Although Mr. Rothstein could write some pretty racy scenes, especially for an old guy. For instance the one where Jimmy and these two hippie chicks—
“Then why don’t you want me to see it?”
“Because it’s private.”
Her eyes lit up. “Is it yours? Are you writing a book?”
“Maybe. So what if I am?”
“I think that’s cool! What’s it about?”
“Bugs having sex on the moon.”
She giggled. “I thought you said it wasn’t porno. Can I read it when you’re done?”
“We’ll see. Just keep your trap shut, okay?”
She had agreed, and one thing you could say for Teens, she rarely broke a promise. That had been two years ago, and Pete was sure she’d forgotten all about it.
Billy Webber came rolling up on a gleaming ten-speed. “Hey, Saubers!” Like almost everyone else (Mr. Ricker was an exception), Billy pronounced it Sobbers instead of SOW-bers, but what the hell. It was sort of a dipshit name however you said it. “What you doin this summer?”
“Working at the Garner Street libe.”
“Still?”
“I talked em into twenty hours a week.”
“Fuck, man, you’re too young to be a wage-slave!”
“I don’t mind,” Pete said, which was the truth. The libe meant free computer-time, among the other perks, with no one looking over your shoulder. “What about you?”
“Goin to our summer place up in Maine. China Lake. Many cute girls in bikinis, man, and the ones from Massachusetts know what to do.”