In the night room Page 0,59

gun,” Will says. “I don’t even own a gun!”

“Photoshop,” says Patel. “The maker of miracles. I believe this kind of thing happens nearly every day. Look how much money you are alleged to have stolen.”

“I didn’t steal, he stole from me!” Willy yelps, and scans the article running down the page alongside the photograph.

In an act that had puzzled both bank officials and New Jersey law officers, Willy Patrick, thirty-eight, a prizewinning author of novels for young adults and the fiancée of well-known area figure Mitchell Faber, had pointed a 9mm pistol at bank president Robert Bender during a private consultation requested by Ms. Patrick, and ordered Bender to give her $150,000 in cash from her future husband’s accounts. “For the safety of my employees, I did as the lady requested,” Mr. Bender was quoted as saying. A “troubleshooter” for the Baltic Group, Mr. Faber was said to be hurrying back from meetings in European capitals to offer support to his troubled bride-to-be and aid to area law enforcement officers. Aldo Pinochet, a spokesman for the Baltic Group, described Ms. Patrick as an “unstable woman with a history of mental problems and in desperate need of help.”

“Aldo Pinochet,” Patel says. “See how they work? Everything is connected. You need only take a few steps back, and the pattern comes clear.”

“ ‘Troubleshooter,’ ” Willy says. “That’s literally what he is.”

“Will he want to shoot you?”

“Oh, shooting wouldn’t be nearly good enough,” she says. “First he’ll want to break most of my bones, and after that he’ll start cutting off little bits of me.”

“Is there someplace safe I can take you? The meter will stay off, that should go without saying. However, I must soon return to my duties. You have a headquarters in this city, do you not?”

“I don’t have a headquarters, no. Why would I?”

“Then perhaps you wish me to go to a police station and report your friend’s murder. Or perhaps I should go to the offices of the New York Times and tell them what I saw.”

“I don’t know what to do. Maybe they’re looking for this cab.”

And it goes on from there—Willy is right: a police officer driving up the West Side Highway sees the cab, there’s a cop anyhow, and we know he’s calling in their location. Patel shoots around the corner, gets to Broadway, and drops her off. It is no longer safe for her to stay in his taxi; she must fend for herself. For the rest of the book, Willy is on the road, running toward knowledge she has been kept from all her life.

Now I must reluctantly climb out of my sandbox and begin to prepare for tonight’s reading at the Upper West Side B&N, which is on 82nd and Broadway, about a million miles from here. My publicist and the bookstore event managers work out these decisions between them; nobody ever asks me where I’d like to read. How about the Astor Place store, that’s pretty hip? How about Union Square, with that nice big reading space? For that matter, what’s wrong with the one on Broadway in the East Village? But 82nd and Broadway is where they want me to read, so that’s where I’ll go.

For about five minutes I’ll pander shamelessly for laughter, then read bits and pieces of lost boy lost girl for about twenty minutes, the maximum length of time I can bear to listen to someone else read from his own work. After that there’ll be the good old Q&A, which I enjoy, and I’ll sign books for as long as there’s still someone in line.

Right after I saved my document and checked my e-mail—three new messages from mixed-up, unhappy dead people, deleted the way you’d wipe a stain off a wall—who should walk in but Cyrax, frend & gide, appearing as usual in a big blank blue rectangle on my screen. Apparently Cyrax expects unusual things to happen at my reading, and he wants me to brace myself.

Underdone, yr gr8 moment comes 2nite

u must do rite & b strong & brave

tho

it is not e-z 4 a slug like u

(LOLOL!)

rede yr boke, rede the 1 with-in

the 1 u wrote

& hear the brush of gr8 WINGS!

u have no choice, my deer,

yr time is come to make re-pair,

& re-pair u must!!! the lyfe u knew

is no mor b-cuz U MUST CO-RECK THE ERROR!!

What in the world does this gabby busybody expect to happen? Jasper Kohle, probably—I’ll warn the staff to keep an eye out for him.

Tim Underhill Sails

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