“You can tell him, no matter what, we’ll make it happen.” It’s the least he can do. The editor agreed to meet at the agency office. Besides, an agent is only as good as their word.

  Chapter 2

  I don’t need much to get inside—this building, this apartment, his mind. Just takes a little patience, a little bit of that creativity I usually save for the page. Really, when it comes down to it, there’s no difference between fact and fiction, a story told versus a story lived. A person’s body of work is only as good as what remains in a person’s memory. So when I start my story, I choose one of the biggest names in this business.

  Henry Richmond Pendel.

  A name so presumptuous you’d think his parents took one look at him at birth and knew he’d be a walking literary stereotype. He was born in Dorchester, MA, to one Harold Anderson Pendel and Margaret Catherine Pendel, both entertainment lawyers. An only child, he was raised in an upper-middle-class household, attending a private school, which must have opened doors for his subsequent undergraduate studies at NYU, followed by graduate study at Columbia. He wasn’t an agent at first; rather, he took the Columbia Publishing Course because he, and I quote from an interview that he did years later, “overheard his crush talking about it with such enthusiasm that he ‘just had’ to follow his lead.” Of course, it was effortless, his admission into the course. Though he had already earned a master’s in sociology, he went the extra mile, completing the course and quickly accepting an editorial role at Grove Press, where he acquired three future New York Times bestselling authors, Vernon Childress, Mallory McAllister, and J.W. Clemens. After five years at the press, he left suddenly, in a dramatic disappearance that lasted three months. He became the subject of controversy and industry-wide worry, mostly because he was there one day and suddenly… gone.

  What an inspiration! I like this part of his story. Too bad it is ruined by his reemergence. How else could it be anything but a letdown? Pendel calls up McAllister, who he had become friendly with over the years as her editor and reveals that he had a little bit of a breakdown and walked away from life to go live abroad in Europe for a few months.

  He is quoted in The New York Times story-exclusive about his disappearance: “After 12-hour days and so much pressure, years of being told that the entire press’s financial future is on my shoulders, I ‘just had’ to get away. I couldn’t breathe. Everywhere I looked, I felt like I was being watched.”

  Must be nice, being able to just up and leave. Pendel started at the press as associate editor, making $56k a year, and ended his tenure as a senior editor, earning $112k a year. Some people are shooting stars, destined to be the leading role of their own story.

  Pendel chose not to return to Grove, instead shifting to the agent role. He spent the first three years at 505 Entertainment, an agency focused more on the film industry. He emerged as a literary agent mere weeks after leaving 505 and joining Cooper Willis Endeavor, the biggest and oldest literary agency in the country and perhaps the English-speaking world. A power move, he poached McAllister and Childress and J.W. Clemens and made them among his first clients. Big names, easy deals. Big money. Pendel’s story becomes a dizzying, seemingly endless list of deals made, many of them to the biggest editors in the business, especially Hendrix de Leon, the editor who turned J.D. Church into the “king” of horror. Church is one of his clients.

  Me? I’m a storyteller on the verge of a breakthrough. It’s all stacking up, for once. I’ve always been creative. Grew up writing fan fiction, obsessed with Marvel and DC, and then it just kept going, and I was always telling stories. There was never a time when I wasn’t trying to leave an impression. At some point, all the derivative and unremarkable stuff fades away and your craft, the very essence of what you’re looking to create, becomes something entirely separate, entirely your own. Like, you could be living in this building, but I’m not looking to tell your story. Mine has been a long time coming.

  I took a chance. The query itself workshopped like anything else, to the point of being near perfect. I sent it to Pendel on a Tuesday in March. QueryTracker said it takes at least six weeks to hear back. I heard back in 20 minutes.

  Thank you for trusting me with your query. Though I admire your ambition, I don’t feel strongly enough about the manuscript to offer representation. Publishing is a subjective business, so keep in mind that though it’s a pass from me, your manuscript may be perfect for another agent.

  Not the most imaginative of replies, especially given how much effort went into mine, but the quickness of the reply demanded more. So I gave him another reply.

  If there are any changes or considerations of note, I would gladly edit and revise to better fit what you’re looking for.

  Just because there isn’t a reply, it doesn’t mean it’s a dead end. Like a door opening up to a foyer or lobby, it’s often unlocked. The trick is knowing which number leads to the right scene, finding it by way of a directory, maybe hitting the buzzers to see if anybody replies. It’s about taking all that time and patience and refusing rejection. It’s what I did.

  Turns out he’s on the top floor, 7B. Lives alone, which makes it easy to peruse his shelves. For someone who represents so much genre fiction, his library is severely lacking. He does have a nice six-volume set, worth $800 these days, of sci-fi classics like Dune and Stranger in a Strange Land. He won’t miss them. Probably won’t even notice.

  There are a number of blind spots in the house. The crawlspace near his bedroom is worth noting, though just because I’ve gained access to it doesn’t mean I’ll do anything. It’s too early for any of that. Really, when I finally figure it out, it makes his rejection and silence all the more understandable. Every story has its own breakthrough, and perhaps this was what I needed to finally figure out how to get his attention and, best of all, produce something wholly original.

  I unplug the router, just because. Another decoy, something fun.

  A quick observation while lying in his bed: I can still smell the laundry detergent. Meaning he doesn’t end up in bed as often as the average human. Asleep yet again at his desk, I listen to him snore. That neck’s going to be sore.

  His desk here is a mess, countless pages and bound manuscripts, the predictable mess of an overworked agent. I see that both Church and McAllister have new novels in the mix. After a quick look at them, I can tell just by the first couple paragraphs that it’s going to sell. If they haven’t already, they’ll be deals.

  I make note of their contact information listed on the front pages of their manuscripts. Maybe they can blurb my big breakthrough. They’ll certainly find it interesting at least.

  In due time…

  He drinks his coffee black. No surprise. I hold onto the mug, walking with it as I continue down the hallway and into the bathroom. It’s been cleaned recently, not a single spec of mildew or grime around the tub; the shower curtain is a pattern of astrological signs. A stack of thumbed over New Yorkers near the toilet. On the other side, a plunger.

  Setting the mug down, I reach for the latest issue of the New Yorker.

  What stories got his attention? Which articles? Finding a page dog-eared, I see that it’s a piece of nonfiction about growing up in a family that produces wine, all the while being worn away by alcoholism. An agent like Pendel would reach out to the author in this byline. I’m sure of it. Flipping to the bio, I note the author’s name, Harold Brandt. He hasn’t written much, but somehow got this piece into the New Yorker.

  After the bathroom, I stop and look out the window. A nice enough view, but one that’s just so unmemorable. Carry on for a minute or two before breaking free of the moment. I find myself back at the bookshelves. Wow.

  How can that be?

  What I said about getting inside holds true. You can see so much in a character and a person from what they accumulate. There, taking up most of a shelf: multiple copies of Infinite Jest. Their spines haven’t been creased or cracked.

  Can’t just leave this unaddressed, and now I have his number too. I’ll leave a message, but for now, I walk back into the office, stare at him a moment, and then take in the entire apartment, everything I’ve already come up with, and everything that’ll come to me in the scenes yet to unfold, wash over me. I’m anxious with anticipation, but for now, this is enough.

  Like Pendel, I ‘just had’ to set the scene. Everything else, it’ll be effortless.

  Pendel’s body tremors, a loud snort causing him to shift his weight in his seat.

  Hush now, we’re just getting started.

  Chapter 3

  The agency has an entire wing of meeting rooms. The editor waits patiently in one of the rooms in the back, Pendel’s preference because there’s more privacy, the soundproofing enough to keep any industry gossip clandestine. She’s new, or at least new enough, to have actively waited for Pendel’s arrival when most editors would have left after 15 minutes, seeing it as a red flag. Who wants to feel unimportant, the opposite of a priority?

  “Forgive me,” he says, hand over his heart. “It was a nightmare at home.”

  He isn’t wrong. Though the excuse he provides is a bold-faced lie, “Burst water valve in the bathroom, or so the super tells me.”

  She’s courteous, offering her hand. “It’s totally okay. I understand completely.”

  After a handshake, they are seated across from each other, the large, lacquered oak table more garish than fashionable, yet much of the agency decorum leans that way. It’s about being imposing, and nestled within the hassle is the thought that anybody who happens to be a guest must feel out of place, lesser, clearly not in their pay grade.

  “Well,” he exhales. “So, we were talking about the Kawada manuscript, right?”

  He’s already eying his phone.

  “Oh,” she is taken aback a little, reaching for a tablet. “Actually, we were here to talk about the latest J.D. Church.” She taps the screen, which illuminates her youthful face. Pendel notices her discomfort. She’s still so very new to this. Must be no older than 24, a year or two tops, as an acquiring editor. He already knows what’s going to happen: She will want the latest Church manuscript but will inevitably settle for the Kawada, a debut literary novel that, according to his assistant, is quite good. Maybe it’ll do well. Be optimistic, sure, why not?

  “Ah, well he’s still writing,” says Pendel. He offers his best good-natured grin. He’d love this meeting to end sooner rather than later. Really, it shouldn’t even be a thing. Who meets at the agency? This editor is out of her element.

  “Umm, but…” She raises her hands, “And excuse the confusion, but… I have the manuscript right here.” She gazes down at the tablet and reads the title, “The Renegades. It’s wonderful. Frankly, it’s one of his best in years. I read it in a single sitting.”

  “How odd,” Pendel says, unfazed. The way he keeps a straight face as he comes up with yet another lie: “The Renegades has yet to be completed. In fact, Church told me the other day that it’s only a few chapters away from being complete. I’d be happy to send it to you once it’s complete!”

  “How can that…” The editor is completely baffled, and by now, she may be catching on to Pendel’s implications. She isn’t the sort of editor who is “lucky enough” or rather “trusted” to make an offer on such a large, established name as J.D. Church. He is an author who pioneered horror back when it was tossed around as a bottom-tier paperback-only genre alongside sci-fi. He accounts for 80% of Pendel’s yearly income on back catalog and rights alone. And this young, ambitious editor wants to be his editor, when Hendrix de Leon has been Church’s editor for a dozen books? If you asked Pendel, he’d be inclined to say that the disrespect here is by the editor on behalf of his client. To think, this young editor barely has a Publishers Marketplace footprint, and she wants to put in an offer for a J.D. Church.

  “The Kawada,” Pendel changes the subject, “Now that’s going to be huge. You know that kind of manuscript where it just speaks to you? You are barely two pages into reading it and you can just sense the magic?”

  He waits for her reply.

  The editor clears her throat, “Umm, yes. I mean, I feel that way about every book I have bought and would only ever put in an offer if that ‘magic’ was there.”

  “Good answer,” Pendel grins. “That’s what an agent likes to hear. So you like the Kawada, then?”

  She thumbs through some documents on her tablet and then offers a tentative nod. “I do. It’s quite the romance. I think it might be just about time for vampires to get another moment in the spotlight!”

  It’s how the editor backs down so quickly, and how Pendel uses the situation, a place of power, that makes this meeting yet another in a long-running sequence where the interpersonal and the political end up providing the through line for a book deal. The editor went all this way thinking Pendel would work with her on finding the right terms for the latest Church, and instead, he uses the situation, backed into a corner, to sell her on a book, not exactly lesser, but viewed as less when used as leverage for what should have been its own negotiation.

  But Pendel knows how to get his way; furthermore, he knows how to get the best deal. They’re out of the room, handshake deal, et al.

  “Send me your boilerplate and we’ll make it legit!”

  The editor does her best to shrug off the manipulation, and it’s written across her face, the thought so commonly made and implied: If I buy this one, maybe I’ll get access to Pendel’s bigger clients in the future.

  Isn’t that just the way?

  His assistant, Marina Grace, waits for him at the doorway. Pendel doesn’t stop, brushing past her into his large, messy office. “Shouldn’t they have cleaned this?” A habit of sorts, he’s grown used to venting through delegation, always finding some new task to assign to the custodians, the interns, and, of course, the one directly in line with his every comment and command, Marina.

  She carries her agency-issued laptop, tapping away while she says what she always says, “I’ll check on that.”

  Pendel sighs as he collapses into his chair. Didn’t get a whole lot of sleep last night. He skims through his inbox, marking every query with the tag Marina had created, every query hers to consider, and every query considered, yet only a paltry few will make the weekly list offered to Pendel for his “undivided attention.”

  “What was her name?” He’s talking about the editor.

  “You’re kidding, right?” Marina says, though none of this is shocking. Not anymore. Hasn’t been for quite some time. “Emily Mills, the new editor at FSG. She’s on fire. Every book she’s acquired has put in some awesome numbers.”

  “Well, good for her,” says Pendel, not really listening. “Have you seen anything from J.D.? He should be keeping me up to date with his current PR and book tour. I need every bit that counts to get him some extra zeroes on that book deal.”

  It takes only a minute for her to do a thorough search, the project management software spitting out every mention and marking involving the bestselling author.

  She shakes her head, “No, not today.”

  “Fuck,” he hisses. “Get him on the phone.”

  “According to the itinerary, he is en route, flight into JFK for the Brooklyn Book Fest.”

  “Just get him on the line,” he says, showing his desperation. “This is important.”

  Chapter 4

  Well of course it’s important. When you’re a VIP, a venerable public figure that can be easily spotted at the airport terminal while you venture tiredly off the tarmac, right into the throes of a crowd, you better believe it’s important to have a few people on hand.

  That’s how I see the author. Really, if there’s any author that should be made a stereotype, it would be J.D. Church. I just love (and I mean love) his book, Another Way Out. According to all the interviews he did for the book, it came from a real, very dark place. To think he was able to write about losing his mom and then his sister, only to collapse due to a stroke, all in the span of three weeks… yeah, that’s the kind of nightmare fuel that captures and creates a magnum opus. Yeah, it’s his best book, by far. Never mind the fact that nobody else thinks that’s true. Everyone goes to Paradise Unfound or The Neverland Gang, both becoming big film adaptations and cultural moments, or maybe they namedrop Them, the alien home invasion book, or maybe they cite Church being a major influence for their own writing with Sunday Mass, his craft/master-class on writing; or maybe they talk about Heather Must Die, the heinous and controversial book about a woman that becomes obsessed with removing her skin; or maybe it’s really the one that everyone calls one of the best films of all time, never mind that it was a book first. Yeah. That one. The Last Mile: A Redemption Story. That’s the one that has so many people queued up and calling out his name as he walks the terminal, hand in hand with two men who must be bodyguards for rockstars when not on Church’s payroll.