The Thieves of Manhattan - By Adam Langer Page 0,37
card from my wallet, and dialed the number that was printed on it. A recorded message informed me that my jury duty assignment for the following day had been canceled. No, not even the Appellate Court of New York County could distract me from my plight.
On the front steps of the KGB, the man I’d seen at the bar wearing a capote was skimming some pages and sipping a scotch. When he looked up and revealed himself to be Jed Roth, I can’t say I was surprised. I sat down on the steps next to Roth as if this was where I belonged, the place I always knew I would end up. Roth was skimming the manuscript of “After Van Meegeren,” which I hadn’t bothered to take with me after I had finished reading.
“It’s another good story, Ian,” Roth said. “But it’s just too quiet, too small. A quiet little story about people living quiet little lives. Tough to get anyone interested in it when the author doesn’t already have a name.”
I turned to Roth.
“So,” I said. “Tell me again how all this is supposed to work.”
Roth put down his glass.
“Right,” he said, “shall we begin?”
II
fiction
“Yes, it’s very wicked to lie … But I forget it now and then.”
PIPPI LONGSTOCKING
MY LIFE AS A FAKE
When we got back to his apartment, Roth acted differently than he had on our last night together—more focused, less patient; now that I seemed willing to follow him, he seemed to feel there was no need to turn on the charm. The apartment was brighter and less atmospheric than I remembered it. But the manuscript of A Thief in Manhattan was on his living room table, in the same spot where he had placed it after I’d flung it at him. A newly sharpened red pencil lay beside it.
When I sat down on the couch, Roth offered only water; when I asked for something stronger, he pointed to the coffeemaker.
“Just coffee or water? Those are my options?”
“Tonight, we’re working, Ian,” he said.
I took a glass of ice water.
I still had huge misgivings about Roth’s plan, but I needed distraction and a paying gig fast. Just about anything would have beaten waiting tables, tending bar, or pouring coffee; plus, the money Roth was offering was better—a thousand daisies a week. I now figured that Roth was right about the stories I had been writing—they were too quiet, and if nothing else, working with an experienced editor like Roth might give me insight into bigger stories, where the stakes were higher. Probably Roth had also been right when he said that his plan really would draw attention to my work. Writers seemed to be getting rich plagiarizing stories or making them up; I’d spent the better part of a year saying the very same thing, boring Anya and Faye and whoever else would listen.
Still, as Roth sat across his coffee table from me, I kept asking questions, which he answered in clipped tones, as if I were wasting time.
“What if I change my mind about this?” I asked.
“Then you change your mind about it,” he said.
“So, the thing is, you won’t let me tell anybody,” I said.
“You can tell anyone anything you please, Ian,” said Roth.
“Anything?”
“Like what? Like Jed Roth gave you his old novel and asked you to put your name on it and pass it off as your memoir?”
“So that’s it,” I said. “You don’t think anyone would believe me.”
Roth shrugged. I could see he didn’t care. I wondered if I could ever say anything that would faze him, if I would ever ask him a question and he wouldn’t know the answer.
“But what about my stories?” I asked.
“We’ll get to that,” said Roth.
“So that’s not really part of your plan.” I informed him that finding a good publisher for my stories was the only reason I was even considering working with him.
But Roth said the plan remained the same, had always been and would always be the same. I would make Roth’s story my own, it would be published, and then I would declare it all to be a lie. And after the ensuing scandal, everyone would want to read the stories that were really mine. But that was step five, and what was the point of discussing step five when we hadn’t gotten through the first four?
“So, what’s step one?” I asked.
“Read it,” he said, tapping the manuscript of A Thief in Manhattan with the fingers of one hand.