the stakeout, Whitaker felt bored and decided to hang it up for now. Sundown might be a better time to expose this creep. That was when these people were more likely to break the pick-up-your-poop rule—in the dark when they could get away with it.
“Not anymore,” promised Whitaker, climbing out of the Land Rover and returning to the house. “Not anymore.”
Whitaker hung his binoculars on the coatrack next to the umbrella. In the kitchen, he poured himself another cup of coffee and destroyed it with creamer. While stirring the concoction, his mind wandered into book land. Although the words weren’t flowing like they used to, he’d been typing some. That was the difference between now and the good old days. Where the man who had won copious literary awards, sold his book to Hollywood, and even for a moment made his father proud, was a respected writer, the man erratically running around in his bathrobe on this Sunday morning was a typist.
As the typist made his way to what could barely be called a third bedroom, Whitaker interviewed himself out loud. More and more lately, he was talking to himself, the banter of the lonely.
“Mr. Grant,” he started, with Walter Cronkite–esque authority, “what do you do for a living now? Are you writing again?”
In his best washed-up Whitaker Grant accent—one he’d mastered considering he was one and the same—he answered, “No, I’m just typing. I don’t have any more stories to tell. Nothing of consequence, at least.”
“How are you paying the bills with this typing?”
“Oh, I’m not really. Still living off a few royalty checks, but I’m also dabbling in investments, advising folks on where to put their money.”
“What do you know about banking?”
“One of the benefits of being Jack Grant’s son. I was studying stock charts before I could read. Because I have somewhat of a name in the area, my clients tend to find me.”
“Don’t you miss writing? I can’t imagine typing has the same creative return.”
“Oh, no. Typing is much more fun.” Whitaker threw his hands in the air. “Of course I miss writing, you bumbling fool! I’m lost in a world of words, and I can’t get my fingers around any of them. They’re everywhere. All I see . . . letters and words. But I can’t wrap my hands or head around a damned one.”
“I see,” Walter responded with a twinge of pity. “You’re screwed, aren’t you?”
“Royally, Walter. Royally.”
Nevertheless, Whitaker needed to sit down and get started on this typing venture. He felt sure that if he kept pecking away, the typing would turn to writing again, though the doubt and fear swollen inside him didn’t leave much room for a creative outburst.
Like the rest of his house, the third bedroom–turned-office was a mess. Whitaker would do one of his monthly cleaning sessions soon, which was well overdue. In the meantime, he just didn’t care.
A fold-up card table for a desk, covered with mail. Food particles on the rug, dirty laundry on the floor. Two of the three light bulbs on the ceiling fan dead. Sometimes you needed to worry about surviving. Then once you figured that part out, you could worry about the details of surviving with style: cleaning, shaving, that sort of thing.
Today, Whitaker was alive and sitting down to write. That was about as great of an accomplishment as the typist was capable of at the moment. Whitaker brushed aside a stack of books from his chair, let them fall to the floor, and dropped into his seat. Prepared for battle, he glanced up to find inspiration from the movie poster based on his bestselling novel, Napalm Trees and Turquoise Waters, hanging on the wall. He couldn’t help looking at the framed photograph to the right of the poster, a shot of him and his ex-wife, Lisa—dressed to the nines—standing on the red carpet moments before the premiere in West Hollywood. Her lava-red hair long and wavy, the freckles he used to touch one at a time—connecting the dots, her soft skin, the two young lovers’ hands clasped together as if nothing could ever sever their connection. What happened to the man in the photo? Whitaker looked back at Lisa. When she left, he left. Mystery solved.
Whitaker had always been attracted to redheads, and when Lisa had crossed his path one day at a book signing, he’d asked for her number. Those were the days when his game was strong. His confidence was unparalleled during those beautiful years after the release of