Chapter 26

Harry met Gavin Lawson, and though the man seemed to ooze a sort of gentrified respectability that made Harry feel like he should be addressed as Mr. Lawson or sir even, Gavin insisted he be called by his first name, at his home office at a fancy Park Avenue address. Apparently his wife came from a rich family as did he, though less rich and less supportive. Maddy, short for Madeline, the wife, kept Peg occupied.

“I’m glad you were willing to read my manuscript,” Harry said once he sat on the comfortable if smaller office chair in which Gavin had gestured for him to sit.

“Tom and Frances and my wife and I have been friends for a long time,” Gavin explained. “In all that time, he’s never recommended a writer, so that made me curious. First you should know I’m at the tail end of my career.” He looked like he would be, and though keeping himself in shape, Harry would guess the man neared seventy. “I’ve retained only two clients, both difficult and moderately successfully, both preferring my company and services rather than finding someone else they would be willing to work with, which is fine. I’ve always liked a challenge. Keeps the old blood flowing,” he chuckled. “That said, I’d like to be your agent if you’re willing to have an old codger like me.”

“However old you are,” Harry replied, “I don’t see it reflective of your abilities. That said, how long do you see yourself continuing?”

“A wise question,” Gavin chuckled. “And the answer is as long as I remain healthy enough to do my job, and last check-up I passed with flying colors. You want to see?”

Harry laughed. “That’s okay.”

“A lot of people my age have retired and gone fishing or to Miami or whatever. Neither my wife nor I are interested in such things. We love it here. We’ve travelled everywhere already, and don’t much like travel anymore. My wife owns a gallery, which, among other things, is interested in print work, graphics if you will, and is involved with those as well, and has a print shop in the basement, screen printing, inviting guest artists she likes to use it, but also printing fine art books. She was taken by your drawings. You have more?”

“Mostly rather explicit nudes.”

“You wouldn’t have any samples?”

“I do, actually, on my smartphone, and actually some on my drawing pad.”

“Could I see?”

“Drawing pad or smartphone?”

“Maybe smartphone first?”

Harry found the file on his phone and handed it to Gavin.

Looking through it, Gavin showed an approving expression, like a connoisseur might viewing examples of his expertise, a studying seriousness.

“I suppose we’d need models’ signatures,” Gavin said while looking.

“I’d have to ask,” Harry agreed. “I think most will be okay with it, but some probably won’t.”

“My wife especially liked the writing on your prisoner studies.”

“That might be more difficult since as you can see, the women are mostly experiencing sexual excitement. They’re explicit enough without writing some explicit passage. With the prisoners or the guards, its more part of the study, you know? Even if the written study doesn’t match the drawn one.”

“Really?”

“I was worried the warden would use it against them, and told him that, that they didn’t actually match. I had to do a portrait of him and his family to get him off my back,” Harry chuckled.

“Interesting,” Gavin said. “A sort of weird counterpoint. Maybe you could write an intro explaining that with the warden family drawing.”

“I could ask,” Harry responded.

“And maybe something with this counterpoint with these nudes. Something like those written studies.”

“I’m not sure if...”

“My apologies. It’s your art.”

“That’s okay. Food for thought maybe.”

“So your novel ... I’ll cast it out there, get some nibbles, but I think there’s one who’ll take the bait. The photos and drawings?”

“I wasn’t sure about that what with it being a fictionalization of events. I think I included them because how cool they are more than anything. I mean it’s researched, and it’s pretty much original sources, contemporaneous journals and newspaper accounts and government documents and so forth, but I wanted it to be a novel, with its arcs and plots and themes and more drawn out characters. I mean, honestly, I actually prefer more hardcore histories over these fictionalizations these past few decades, but of course dry academic works don’t sell, do they?”

“And I thank you for that,” Gavin chuckled. “However much you made it an easier pill to swallow, it definitely made for compelling reading.”

“Thanks.”

“But I know a publisher who’s a sucker for those interior groupings of photos and other images, of course for their nonfiction books, and they do a great job with them, and they’d get a kick out of doing it for something like this.”

“Aren’t histories normally published by universities?”

“Normally yes, but there are academic stars, those who become popular through appearances in documentary series, as the go to experts in their field, or even more when they are the hosts for their own shows. And then there are autobiographies of famous figures, and in their case mostly political ones like presidents and well known senators and members of congress, usually with controversial agendas. They’re a bit too serious for movie stars though one done by someone my age who’s avoided gossipy bios of their lives and have skilled ghostwriters can be an exception, and there are star biographers as well, writing about contemporary figures who have just passed or are knocking on death’s door. The point is, the publisher I have in mind has done well with these, both in sales and in how they’re published.”

“You’d know better than me obviously,” Harry said, wondering why Gavin, who obviously had a publisher in mind for publishing his book, would go on with such details.

“What I’m doing is giving you a choice,” Gavin explained. “Focusing on one publisher who I’m pretty certain will jump at the chance of publishing this, not only because it’s good but because we have a history, or going fishing with it, having other publishers have a crack at the bait.”

“And eventually reeling in the bigger fish,” Harry understood. “You’re talking about a bidding war.”

“There’s risks. A first time writer rarely has attractive bait which could actually lessen the size of that fish, or you end up with the higher bid with someone who probably won’t do justice to the publishing, either with a lower quality pressing or less publicity, probably both.”

“Because you’re telling me all this, you’re not recommending either choice, but want me to choose,” Harry realized. “I actually thought about the appeal of a bidding war upping the price, maybe even fantasized about it. Before I decide which, would a publisher have concerns or effect a movie studio buying the rights to film a book?”

“A film of a book can have good or bad consequences. You’d think it would be good for book sales, but that’s not necessarily true. Why buy the cow when you can get its milk? I mean a book is a much richer source of the story, especially a well written one like this, but we are in a society who tweets.”

“But wouldn’t an unknown author benefit?”

“Why would he? Who would the audience notice? The actors. The producer maybe, or the director if the audience has that kind of sophistication or the movie is advertised as produced by or directed by whomever. No. I think the only real advantage would be that after a book is out for a while, has whatever success it has, a film of it might help it regenerate interest, probably a paperback reissue with the actors’ faces on it.”

“And I imagine the publisher you’re recommending might feel the same way you do, would be reluctant to sell the rights.”

“More than most,” Gavin agreed. “Unless there’s a direct tie-in, like with some star academic and his series for instance like we talked about.”

“The cart before the horse,” Harry muttered.

“What’s that?”

“If this publisher buys it, how soon would it be released?”

“It’s possible by holiday time, meaning by Black Friday.”

“The day after Thanksgiving,” Harry nodded. “Could you assure it would be by then?”

“I can try? I imagine there’s scheduled releases, so I don’t know if they’d fit it in. Mostly they’d go for more guaranteed sales, like a series or a proven author. You’re in a hurry? I could get you money up front when they buy it, against the percentage of sales once it gets released.”

Harry sighed, wondering if he should be up front with this man who he could already tell wondered why Harry was asking these questions, becoming suspicious about it most likely, and Harry confirming those suspicions wouldn’t do him any favors. Probably hoping the suspicions weren’t confirmed, because he seemed to really like Harry’s book. At the same time, Harry felt cornered, because the man seemed the best choice for him getting the best choice for a publisher, both in terms of sales and quality. But he really wanted the film he’d written made. Had this backfired? Would the agent he met in Hollywood either withdraw her support or go for an even lesser amount selling it? Except, of course, that would backfire on her as well, getting less for her percentage. And in the end, did he want to continue being a writer of books or of screenplays which fit more into his desire to write roles for the people he wanted to get roles, and, truth be told, to write himself roles too.

“Can I show you something?” Harry asked.

“Okay.”

Harry pulled out the screenplay based on the book and handed it to Gavin.

“Same name,” Gavin noticed, opening it up.

“Yep. It focuses on the Nathaniel character even more than the novel does, centering on the trauma when the Indian prostitute gets murdered.”

“I can see that,” Gavin responded since the first scene had Nathaniel freaking out about the murder. “I don’t know Harry.” Harry heard Gavin’s disappointment.

“I know,” Harry muttered. “I’d hoped it would be a good thing, but obviously it’s not.”

“How many people know about this?”

“Tom must have told you about us collaborating on a screenplay based on my life?”

“He mentioned it.”

“It’s being filmed, and I’m starring as ... myself sort of. The main production company behind it I wanted to have first crack at this screenplay and they’re interested, and they brought in a literary agent to put out the book with the selling of the rights obviously part of it. What the woman anticipated I’d get for the book, and them buying the screenplay as well ... I felt I could do better.”

Gavin nodded. “Makes sense actually. So getting the earliest release of the book...?”

“Would make the timing better for selling the rights in the way you spelled it out. Honestly a simultaneous release and selling the rights would move things faster, so that the novel would say something about it soon being a major motion picture, but maybe that’s not the best idea.”

“How about we keep this in the backburner, hopefully this agent hasn’t spread the word in this all too small community. If she has, I think we can still work with this, better money but maybe not with my recommended publisher. But let me ask you this first. Are you a novelist or a screenwriter?”

“The answer to that effecting whether you want to be my agent or not?” Harry nodded.

“It could affect what I can get you from a publisher,” Gavin added, “But yes.”

Suddenly an itch of an idea occurred, something about the ambition of his nephew Robin, the plain girl who seduced him and the little local girl he attempted to seduce. Added to that, he realized he had enjoyed writing the novel even more than the screenplay, in fact a lot more.

“To be honest, I thought it would be screenplays, but I realize I think I prefer writing novels,” Harry told Gavin. “I’d say both, mostly because of my acting.”

“That actually might be an issue too. There’s not a lot of actors who find much success as writers. There’s probably a bias. Only one comes to mind way back in the seventies, Tom Tryon, but he actually wasn’t all that successful of an actor. Maybe think about an alias? A nom de plume?”

“Just as a novelist.”

“Like I said, very few care much about who wrote a movie except those in the industry.”

“You really are interested in my book?”

“I am.”

“What about Walter Stills?”

“Walt Stills. Walt R. Stillman. Walter Stillman.”

“I feel like the opposite of a producer finding a star name for an actor,” Harry chuckled. “Walter Stillman works for me. Not curious where I came up with it?”

“Enlighten me.”

“Stillwater’s been a significant part of my life,” Harry explained.

“Makes sense.”

“What about readings? A book tour? Interviews?”

“You’re an actor.”

“Glasses? A fat suit? Facial hair? A lower voice? Or I could wear one of those eyes over my head like the Residents.”

“Who?”

“Never mind. Whatever I do, I imagine someone would figure it out. Part of my mystique,” Harry shrugged. “Or I could just forgo the book tour.”

“Probably not.”

“Probably not. Where do I sign?”

“A three book deal?”

“Is that the usual?”

“Conditional on sales. It’s a buyer’s market.”

“Not surprising. If you can get this first book out, I’d be happy.”

Gavin had a boilerplate contract which Harry signed. “If Tom trusts you,” he shrugged. “Now about the drawings...”

“That’s my wife’s thing. You can trust her too. And show her the erotica.”

“I will.”

Like Gavin, Maddie was a proper lady, if remarkably energetic, a petite sparkplug. Peg sitting beside her dwarfed her, but her energy seemed to make up for it. A couple of family albums had been set aside on the coffee table, and Maddie was showing Peg an art book.

“Maddie does beautiful work,” Peg told her husband.

“I just pay for it,” Maddie dismissed the praise.

“Not true,” said her husband. “Any plans for food?”

“I ordered from Claire’s place.”

“Good. Harry wants to talk to you about the drawings and has some more. Anyone need drinks?”

“We’re good,” said Maddie.

“Harry?”

“Whatever you’re having.”

“Scotch?”

“That’s fine. Neat with some water?”

“I’m an ice man myself,” Gavin chuckled. “Why don’t you sit and I’ll take care of it.”

Harry sat on an armchair kitty corner to Peg.

“Gavin told you about my publishing?” Maddie asked.

“He did. He suggested I write an introduction and ask my old warden for a drawing I did of him and his family.” He told her why and she chuckled and nodded. “And he thought you’d be interested in my latest drawings. I have some in my pad, or...”

“Your pad please. I prefer the source. Speaking of which, you have the original drawings?”

“I do.” Because of his pad, and also because of the portfolio of his originals, his shoulder bag tended to be extra-large. He pulled both from it and set it in front of her, the book she and Peg had been looking at set aside. “May I?” he asked, gesturing to that book.

“Help yourself,” said Maddie.

When Gavin brought Harry the two glasses, one short and one tall, Peg took over the short one and took a careful sip.

“I thought...” Maddie started.

“Can’t resist a sip of fine scotch,” Peg explained. “Just a sip though, and I figured your husband would have the taste for the best, and I was right, but over ice?”

Gavin chuckled. “Barbarian I know. What’s the problem sweetheart?”

“I missed my period and got a plus sign on the test just yesterday,” Peg beamed, as did Harry.

“We’d been working on it a while,” Harry smirked.

“Only seriously for a couple months,” Peg amended. “Before that it was just for fun.”

“Congratulations,” said Gavin.

“Thanks,” both Harry and Peg said.

“Your wife figured it out,” Peg explained. “Maybe when I got a little sick.”

“You’ve got that glow,” Maddie grinned. “The sickness was just proof. These drawings are quite remarkable.”

“Thanks,” said Harry. “The prison drawings, I’d like something reasonably priced, maybe even like paper bound? I told your husband about the film I helped write and am in.”

“Peg mentioned it too,” Maddie nodded.

“I thought it could be an accompanying book.”

“Remember those program books they used to sell?” Maddie asked her husband.

“Usually for those Cinerama features,” Gavin remembered. “That was a long time ago.”

“Sixties?”

“Maybe into the early seventies,” Gavin nodded.

“Though this is lovely,” Harry said about the fine art book, “I doubt it’d be what we could sell.”

“I’d like to create something like that,” Maddie said. “For these drawings too, but we do have a printer we use for the affordable versions of some of our books. It’s actually an imprint aligned with Art Forum Magazine so we can have distribution into bookstores, and they put them online as well unfortunately, though that also helps us advertise for the original art books. But I think these would be more affordable because they’re drawings, just one screen for each page, and not done by the usual artists we work with who expect and deserve the higher price for their work. Not to say you’re not an artist, Harry.”

“Not at this level to be sure, and my expectations are a bit lower. I actually gave quite of few of these away.”

“To your subjects?”

“Yep. I borrowed some from my friend Merc, the big black guy in a couple of the drawings. I sent most to my sister.”

“Frances,” Maddie filled in.

“Yep, and more than I thought I had fortunately.”

“You give any to Joseph?” Peg asked.

“He never wanted to be drawn,” Harry replied. “Being my friend was enough. I never had to be Doc with him, though he did let slip what was happening with him from time to time. He was my rock there, almost literally,” Harry chuckled.

“The strong silent type,” Maddie guessed.

“Yep. Joseph joked about him playing the Will Sampson Cuckoo’s Nest cliché in the movie, and he’s not wrong and he actually does look kind of like Will Sampson.”

“Doc?” Gavin asked.

“What they called me. When I drew them I’d get them talking, sort of like a session with a shrink, so Doc as psychiatrist I guess, though no pills dispensed, nor much gems of wisdom really. Made them feel better though.”

“Could I see the other drawings?” Maddie asked, and Harry handed her his phone.

The food arrived in fancy packaging, some modernist concoction Harry found delicious. Afterwards, after an especially delicious decaf, Peg and Harry left the old couple promising to visit Maddie’s gallery and her basement print shop the next day.

The two visitors to Manhattan decided to walk its streets once they exited the building, and headed downtown, staying on Park Avenue. Just before they reached Union Square, actually where they were staying at the W Hotel, they saw a woman of Asian heritage take a picture of a man as tall as Harry, quite a lot taller than her and maybe a decade older, older than Harry by at least a decade. The store behind them, a CVS, didn’t seem worthy of being background, so Harry asked, “Why here?”

“Hunh?” the Asian woman asked.

“Why take a picture here?”

“Frank used to work here when it was Max’s Kansas City,” she explained.

“Lot of memories,” Frank said. “I saw Andy Warhol grab a cab a couple times right where you’re standing. His Factory was just half a block away.”

“Didn’t he hang out at the club?” Harry asked.

“Before my time,” Frank said. “Where are you from?”

“Minnesota,” Peg answered.

“Us too!” the Asian woman grinned. “Leah.”

“Peg, and this is my husband Harry.”

“Frank,” said Frank. “Where in Minnesota?”

“Stillwater,” Peg responded.

“Northeast Minneapolis,” Frank said. “We were headed over to Irving Plaza, the last club standing.”

“I guess we are too,” Harry chuckled.

The club had a gymnasium feel to it, a stage at one end and an open area in front of it, ringed by a balcony with tables. It reminded Harry of First Avenue, the historic club in Minneapolis where he’d gone with his last girlfriend before incarceration for a couple of all ages shows since neither were 21, but more in the general concept of open space in front of the stage and the balcony, not the configuration which resembled more of a high school gym than First Avenue did.

They’d arrived early, and since the bands playing weren’t national acts nor major draws, there weren’t a lot of people there. “An old friend is in the closing band,” Frank told them, and led them to the entrance to the backstage area.

It took a couple beats for this friend to recognize Frank, but he eventually did. “Max’s right?” he asked. “John’s favorite waiter.”

“Something like that,” Frank responded.

“You were in the Feeders,” Harry realized, the man’s clownish clothes familiar, though also his face despite being aged forty years. An older boyfriend of Frances’s had somewhat of an obsession for old school punk and what led to it, like the Stooges and the leader of the Feeder’s former glam rock band, and took a liking to Harry despite him being years younger, and Harry agreed with the boyfriend’s tastes, tending to like old school things rather than contemporary ones, which still remained.

“Fun times,” the man smirked.

In a way it was sad, Harry thought, the nostalgia for a music made by young people for young people now nostalgia, becoming old people playing music for old people, and the opening band that shared the backstage was like that too, a reunion of a band who’d never even made it outside the New York punk scene, first iteration, though the bass player had had a semi successful career in other bands. This old guy Harry recognized had actually played in that band too, and would be playing in both bands that night.

The show, though not great, a bit too raw to be, and that had its own charm, definitely rocked. The crowd managed to crest by the time the closing band came on to at least half fill the place, which had the advantage of having room to dance. And by the time the closing band came on, Harry and Peg were dancing with another.

“Fia,” the redheaded Irish woman in her mid-thirties had told them. “Don’t worry about the spelling, Irish always makes things difficult for you Americans. It means wild.”

An apt description, she’d come with friends, including her much tamer sister, whom she dueted with in their band, and the rest of her band along with another band who’d gained popularity in the states, and though Harry had no clue who they were, others recognized them and would approach them because of it. This second band from New York had lured Fia’s band over the proverbial pond. The two bands, their entourage and hangers on created a fairly large group of friends which she happily retreated from to join Peg and Harry and their elastic dancing.

They managed to yell over the music introducing themselves, and found a free table upstairs when the first band ended and the second set up.

“So what’s your story?” Fia asked in her sexy Irish accent and her rough lower voice.

“Harry is planning to sell his novel, which is why we’re here,” Peg told her.

“No shit? So you’re a novelist?”

“Amongst other things,” Peg chuckled. “Actor. Screenwriter. Lover.”

Fia laughed at the last word and even that was sexy in its roughness and its uninhibitedness.

“And you?” she asked Peg.

“A lover too,” Peg winked.

“She owns a bar,” Harry told the woman.

“That’s so cool,” Fia reacted.

“Cooler than actor and writer?” Peg asked.

“Most definitely. So where’s it at, this bar?”

“Minnesota.”

“I think we tour through there. First Avenue?”

“Great club,” said Harry. “You’re in a band?”

“Me and my sister, sort of a Gaelic punk rock band, a bit of Pogues and a bit of the McGarrigle sisters, but a bit angrier and noisier. You know them?”

“I do,” Harry said. “Not the Roches?”

“Hmm, not really a fan of them.”

“Me either,” Harry agreed.

“So what brings you here? You’re not really a part of the old farts contingent nor the young and restless.”

“Met up with a couple nostalgic about Max’s Kansas City, the guy once working there as a waiter. I guess he’s friends with Frank Lund.”

“The leader of the Wackos,” Fia nodded. “I guess why we’re here too, a bit of nostalgia for the bad old days, even if we never lived ‘em.”

“Kind of like us being married by Elvis,” Peg chuckled.

“Classic! Vegas?”

“Yep.”

“Too cool! So you’re an actor then?” she addressed Harry. “Movies, or...”

“I’m in the midst of my first,” Harry explained. “Kind of on hiatus.”

“Next week he’s shooting as a villain in a series,” Peg added, telling Fia the name of the show.

“Oh wow, I’m a fan. And you’re just starting?”

“My boy’s got talent,” Peg smirked.

“Nothing personal but you’re kind of older just starting out.”

Halfway through his explanation of being in prison and the movie that came from it, the band started up.

“I want to hear more!” Fia declared. “Let’s go dance!”

So they did. Halfway through, Fia’s sister approached her, had a lively discussion over the loud music and left looking disappointed.

Fia moved close to the older couple. “I just invited myself over. Is that okay?” she asked.

“Yes,” both Peg and Harry responded, both grinning. Fia grinned too.

When the show ended, the three walked out, Fia waving to her sister. They started heading back to Park Avenue. Fia commented, “You guys are really saving me. Another night on the floor of that loft.” She took out her cigarette pack, offered Harry and Peg who shook their heads, and lit up a smoke.

“Your sister looked concerned,” Harry commented.

“She worries about me even if I’m not the one fucking the lead singer of that band.”

“Not a fan?” Harry asked.

“They’re okay, and they’re lending us their coattails to get seen here in the states, but it’s looking like just so the singer can fuck my sister.”

“Soap opera?” Peg asked.

“We’re both single, Ashleigh breaking up with a longtime boyfriend just before we left probably because of those two fucking now. Early times we made the mistake of fucking our bandmates, the whole Fleetwood Mac thing inevitable, though not in me fucking the band member she fucked, though he was prick enough to obviously want that. I stuck with the drummer and that got stale quick, and weird, so we vowed up front that part of the deal was them not fucking us, and we sort of ensured it by hiring on already married blokes, though I’m not sure my sister has completely abided. Still waters run deep for that horny bitch,” she laughed. “I hook up with fans sometimes, or meet someone at a club for a night, and there’s a couple who likes when I visit sometimes, strictly for fun, mind you.”

“So those you pick up...?” Peg asked.

“Depends on my mood which sex,” Fia answered, “Or more which takes my fancy. You could tell, couldn’t you?”

“Your gaze tended to study both of us,” Peg confirmed.

“You’re exactly who we’d be interested in,” Harry finished.

“Hot redheads?” Fia smirked.

“Bisexual women we can share,” Harry chuckled.

“You being a hot redhead didn’t hurt,” Peg added.

“How come we’re stopping?” Fia asked.

“Because we’re here,” Peg gestured to the entrance to the hotel.

“Very cool,” Fia grinned. “Mind if I finish this?”

“Nope,” both Harry and Peg said.

“Don’t smoke much anymore. After I step out of a place that won’t let me, which is anywhere these days, post restaurant, post bar, post show. Used to smoke up a storm, especially when I worked on my songs, but got really sick with bronchitis that turned into pneumonia that nearly killed me. After I worried I’d need it, like an alcoholic thinking he needs a drink to go on, but it tasted like shyte, so I just stopped except once in a while like this where I’m outside and it tastes kind of good, kind of like an exclamation point or something capping things off.”

“You don’t drink either,” Harry had noticed.

“Same story, got too fucked up to continue, so I don’t anymore. Don’t tell me fans though. Got me wild reputation to think about. Used to think my wildness came out of my drunkenness since I’d been drinking since I was a wee one. Turns out I’m just naturally wild. Even got more energy for it. Excepting smoking marijuana and the occasional psychedelic, I don’t do much imbibing.”

“Psychedelics?” Harry asked.

“Got a friend in London who’s a total acid head. Actually does graphics for his business which sort of makes sense,” she laughed. “I go up to his flat when I’m in town and we go on a blitzed adventure and he leaves me a couple tabs. I brought some along with me but am waiting for the right time between rehearsals and our show which is now actually if you’re interested.”

“Your sister?”

“I didn’t tell her. She’s not always the best company when she’s tripping.”

“I’m out but you can go ahead,” said Peg.