Chapter 1

The hostess put a glass of eggnog into Will's hand, and he tasted it to find that it was virgin, just plain egg and sugar and milk. That was bad. It was a college, he reminded himself, and while the resident students mostly got plastered in their dorms right now, the collection of writing club geeks and ass-kissing honor students assembled in the lecture hall would be as sober as church ladies. Will, however, did not intend to hold an hour-long speech on a Friday evening without at least some booze in his system, and he excused himself to the bathroom briefly, glass in hand. A minute later, he had dumped about three fingers worth of eggnog into the sink and replaced it with Bacardi from his trusty stainless steel hip flask, the one he had bought on a research trip to Scotland ten years ago. When he emerged from the bathroom again, he held the glass way out of smelling range of his hostess.

They made their way through several corridors, the linoleum floor squeaking under the soles of his almost-new Oxfords. He had picked the Euro-writer outfit for the evening, a pair of tan slacks and a patterned brown sport coat over a black shirt. Even the small-rimmed pair of glasses on the bridge of his nose was part of the outfit. He didn't need glasses yet, technically speaking, but he had started wearing them after his publicist suggested that a Nobel laureate should look properly studious on his book jackets. His hostess led him into a lobby adjoined by a set of slightly opened double doors, and Will could see a stadium-style lecture hall beyond the cracked doors.

Undoubtedly the biggest facility of its kind on campus, he thought sourly. It may hold as many as two hundred students.

"Right in here, Mister Liebkind. Professor Francisco is going to make a quick introduction, and then they're all yours." She smiled at Will, all professional and properly reverent of the superstar author gracing the halls of her college, and he smiled back graciously.

"Thank you, ma'am."

His hostess opened the double doors a little further and gave a wave and a thumbs-up to the speaker behind the podium on the raised stage in the back of the room. Will saw that the lecture hall was packed, with some people standing in the aisles at the side of the room.

All of them wasting a perfectly good Friday to see the Great Novelist, he thought. And I'm wasting it pretending to know that I have a fucking clue about writing.

However, the school's check had already cleared, so Will put on his game face and straightened his coat before opening the double doors fully, striding towards the podium like a boxer before a bout.

The speech was a well-rehearsed one; it was his standard college circuit lecture. The young crowd always liked it, and he had memorized it just about word for word. He started at the lectern, studying the assembly over the rim of his artfully tilted-down glasses, until the room was quiet and everybody looked at him in quiet and curious expectation.

Then he reached into the pocket of his sport coat, brought out a small leather case, and opened it. Inside was a gold medal, and Will took it out of its padded case and dropped it on the lectern, where it landed with a solid "thunk". Then he picked it up again and flipped it onto his palm.

"Heavy little sucker," he said. "Seven ounces and change, I believe. They used to be made of solid twenty-three carat gold, but they switched to eighteen-carat gold twenty-five years or so ago. We younger guys got gypped."

This part usually brought the first chuckles from the crowd, and he was not disappointed. Some of the students laughed, and others murmured to each other when they saw the two-inch disk of gold he now held between his fingertips.

"Anyone know what this thing is?"

"Uh, the Nobel prize medal?" An eager and enterprising bespectacled girl in the front row offered the answer to the obvious question, and he gave a her a smile that made her blush.

"Yep, that's right. The Nobel Prize for Literature. They give you that, and a cool diploma for your living room wall. Oh yeah, there was a bunch of money, too."

More laughter. Good. Will held the medal up for everyone to see, and many of the students craned their necks to get a glimpse at it.

"The front of this thing says, 'And they who bettered life on earth by new found mastery.' It's from the Sixth Song of Aeneid, and it's written in Latin, of course, because that's what academics use when they want to sound smart and relevant."

The crowd was loosening up now, and the spiked eggnog did its part to loosen Will up as well.

"They gave me this thing when I was twenty-five, youngest recipient ever. In fact, I was seventeen years younger than the next youngest recipient on the list, which was Rudyard Kipling. I am speaking from experience when I tell you that giving a gold medal and ten million Swedish crowns to a twenty-five year old English Lit major is not usually a good idea."

He grinned as the crowd broke out in laughter, and took a sip of his drink before continuing.

"Yeah, I still have the medal, as you can see. The diploma is, in fact, on my living room wall, but I have no clue what happened to all that cash between then and now."

Another pause for laughter, and he went ahead with the script, saying the same stuff for the fiftieth time this year alone.

"Now, why am I telling you about all this? I mean, other than to dazzle you with my amazing intellect, of course." He stowed the medal back in its case and snapped it shut.

"The point is that they gave me this thing when I was just a little older than you guys are now. In fact, I was probably a worse slacker than most of you, having changed my major twice in two years. Once it was just so I could take classes with a girl I had a crush on..."

It was a catchy speech. Will had worked on it for a day until he had gotten it right, and it still gave him a lot of mileage. It was the usual motivational junk, personal anecdotes mixed in with college jokes and bits about achievement and the universal appeal of literature, and it was all a bunch of fluffy shit. The college kids, however, tended to lap it up with applause, and he was a popular enough guest at colleges that he could stay in high-dollar hotels for a month straight during graduation season if he booked his appearances right.

Will's brain ran on autopilot whenever he delivered the lecture, pausing in all the right spots and gauging the crowd reactions while his eyes scanned the rows of students for a specific kind of audience member. There were always a few in the crowd, and their presence was so predictable that Will had coined a term for them: glory bunnies. Those were the girls that came to his lectures all classed up, dressed in clothes that were bought or borrowed for the night, and who hung on his lips with what they hoped were sufficiently enigmatic and semi-interested smiles. After a minute or two, he had spotted the most likely candidate in the third row, a stunning blonde with blue eyes that were artfully framed by glasses every bit as unnecessary as his own. She wore her hair pulled back into a simple ponytail, and her outfit was suited for a corporate office floor, not a liberal arts college. There was an air of cool superiority about her, and he made a bet with himself that she'd hang on the sleeve of his sport coat not ten minutes after the lecture was over. His gaze kept crossing hers as he concluded his speech, and near the end she was well aware of his attention, giving him sly little smiles whenever their eyes met.

He concluded his speech, basked in the applause, and listened to the closing comments of the college provost. It was always the same when Will signed up as guest speaker in Academia: a speech for the students, and a reception with plenty of elbow time for the faculty. The press was there, as always, four reporters with their attendant photographers, and even a local evening news crew looking for some six o'clock filler. Will did his usual dignified routine, shaking hands and looking into cameras so the local bigwigs could get a picture of themselves with a Nobel laureate for the office wall.

When the faculty had their fill, it was mingling time for the students. He signed copies of his book, everything from the first hardcover edition down to freshly-bought paperbacks with college bookstore stickers still on them, and patiently posed for pictures with young literature geeks who were practically exploding with excitement.

He almost lost the bet with himself, but the stunning young blonde from the third row finally sidled up to him after the initial rush. She had no book to sign, and no camera, which was refreshing. From a distance, she had been attractive; from three feet away, she was a complete knockout. Even her fellow students, who stood shoulder to shoulder waiting to shake hands with the famous writer, gave her a little room when she moved in, as if they were afraid to come too close. She was clearly well out of the league of these college guys. Here was a young woman used to dating guys who drove Porsches instead of Nissans, and who took her to French eateries instead of Denny's. Her makeup was immaculate, perfectly accenting her blue eyes and high cheekbones, and her jewelry was sparse and classy.

Will shook a few more hands and smiled into a few more cameras, and then it was her turn. She offered him a hand, and he took it, surprised at the firmness of her handshake. She did not offer a name, and merely smiled at him.

"So this is what a Nobel Prize winner looks like," she said, and he grinned.

"No, not really. Most of them are about as old as the tides. I'm probably one of the few who can still work up a good whiz in the middle of the night."

She laughed at this, flashing very white and even teeth. Emboldened, he pressed on.

"The Nobel was meant to bankroll further research for the winners. I have no idea why they insist on giving it to people who are about to retire."

"Isn't it all just a big show anyway? A chance for the academic elite to pat each other on the back?"

"That about sums it up," he responded. "Not that the money isn't nice, mind you."

"I'm sure." She leaned in, and he turned his head as he brought his ear towards her lips.

"Do you actually enjoy these things? You must be bored out of your skull. Our provost is about as exciting as the Home and Garden channel."

He laughed discreetly.

"You get used to it. Part of the package, I guess. They do pay well for an hour of pep talk. I'll catch up on fun when I hit the bar back at my hotel in a little while."

There, he thought. The bait is tossed out.

She took it, too, without a moment of hesitation.

"Where'd they put you up, the Motel Nine? Ours is a poor school, you know."

"Hardly," he said, admiring her ability to work the inquiry into an innocent comment without breaking stride.

"They paid for a nice room at the Regency. If it's not the best place in town, it certainly comes close."

There were more people waiting to get their face time with the celebrity, and she yielded her spot, shaking his hand again and patting his arm lightly with a slender and well-manicured hand.

"It was an honor to meet you, Mister Liebkind. Enjoy your stay at our lovely school." She put just the faintest trace of sarcasm into the word lovely, and he smiled as he watched her stride away, a swan among chickens.

The college had hired a limousine with driver for him. On the way back, Will asked the driver to stop at a convenience store, where he bought a twenty-ounce bottle of Diet Coke. The driver watched with well-concealed amusement as Will dumped a quarter of the bottle onto asphalt of the parking lot. Then he topped off the bottle with the rest of the rum from his flask.

"Rough day?" the driver asked as Will sank back into the leather cushions of the Town Car's back seat.

"No, not really. Just a long one. There an open container law in this state?"

"For soda? Hardly." The driver chuckled. "Just don't breathe in the cop's face if we get pulled over."

"Good enough." Will smiled at the driver and leaned back, taking a long sip from his field-improvised rum & coke.

When they arrived at the hotel, his coke bottle was empty, so he tossed it into the garbage can at the door and went straight to the hotel bar. The Regency was nice, he supposed, but all the upscale hotels tended to look alike after a while. He had taken to rating them by the quality of their bars rather than the rooms, and in that category, this particular hotel did well indeed. They had an amazing variety of single malts at hand, and Will settled at the bar with a glass of Oban on the rocks. The bar was nearly empty on a Friday night, which suited him fine.

He was just finishing his first glass when Miss Third Row walked into the bar. She still wore the form-fitting beige pants and black sleeveless top she had worn back at the school. He watched as she stopped briefly at the door to scan the room. When she saw that he had already noticed her, she crossed the room and sat down on the bar stool next to his own.

"I was going to saunter in and check out the room before coming over, but there's hardly anyone here," she said. "Doesn't leave much opportunity for subtlety."

"No, I guess it doesn't. Drink?"

"What are you having?"

He held up his glass. "Oban. Single malt scotch. May not be your thing."

"I'll try some." She ordered one from the bartender before he could do it for her, and Will was relieved when her ID seemed to pass muster. She didn't exactly look like jail bait, but age was a hard thing to guess these days.

She took a sip of her drink and made a little face before setting the glass onto a napkin.

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A Bettered Life

Michael Lindgren

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