“Don’t do that.” A lawyer thrives on documentation and paperwork. “Forward them first, at least.”

  “No need to tell me twice.” He sent them to Benji. Well, whenever he remembers, that is. Some went right into trash and he’s not going to look back.

  He gets a text message. One look at the sender’s name and his heart skips a beat.

  “Okay Benji, update me if and when you can do more about this… this matter.”

  “Sure thing I’ll email with⁠—”

  Pendel ends the call.

  “About fucking time,” he mutters to himself. He taps the screen of his phone and darts off a reply, “Don’t scare me like that.”

  Church is finally coming up for air. Pendel is instantly relieved.

  And then Marina reenters the office, “Emily has sent an offer!”

  Pendel claps his hands together, saying it again, even more enthusiastically than before, “About fucking time!”

  Notification. A new text message from Church.

  “So what are we looking at?” Pendel says, gaze fixed on his phone.

  Church offers an apology—everyone always apologizes to Pendel—and then says, “Can’t seem to get a moment’s peace. Being recognized. Can’t get used to it.”

  Pendel always knows what to say, “You’re famous. A public figure. There’s a parasocial element, and best of all, you have written more masterpieces than a hundred writers combined.”

  Flattery. It always works on an author.

  “She offered $50k,” says Marina.

  He loves this part, feeling like some conductor guiding a deal through its penultimate crescendo. “Draft an email countering with 100k.”

  “Double? Wow,” Marina grins. “That’s… bold.”

  Pendel looks up from his phone, “Counter with $100k. Make it quick. I may need to head out soon.”

  She rushes out of the office, “On it!”

  Church texts back, “A masterpiece is subjective. I hear you.”

  “The sales numbers tell all,” he says. “Now what’s the status on the latest MASTERPIECE?”

  No word from Hendrix. No word from Sharpe.

  Pendel doesn’t back down, though.

  “Incorporating some last-minute feedback,” Church says. “Should be done tonight.”

  Good news. Pendel offers to meet up for brunch tomorrow, their favorite place, meaning Church’s go-to when he’s in the city. Pendel doesn’t care where they go if it ensures that he has the latest manuscript in hand when he finally gets Hendrix on the line.

  “Can do,” Church says.

  “Great,” he says.

  Marina returns to the office with yet another offer. Pendel won’t take anything less than $100k. He turns it into a bit of a tutorial. They counter with $80k and explain how staying strong at $100k will quickly run out their bargaining power. Soon they’ll be pressed up against $100k and the finer details, like number of installments, sub rights, and other gritty details that publisher and agent fight over because, you see…

  “The gritty details grow to become the greenest pastures,” he winks.

  Pendel’s attention moves to the Kawada deal. This young new editor, he may finally remember her name. Emily Mills counters their counter with $95k, which they refuse and expectantly stand at $100k.

  At 6:45 PM, Mills gives them a call. Pendel picks up and it’s more of the same, only this time Marina is in earshot. He makes a show of it, same sternness, and borderline use of fear tactics to influence the young editor into the deal they want. The tutorial concludes with an accepted offer, Mills sending the contract, no longer mere boilerplate terms, now fully customized to the accepted terms.

  “And that,” Pendel reclines in his chair, hands behind his head, “is how you launch an author’s career.”

  Marina is impressed, but any additional admiration is cut short when Pendel reminds her that she will be the one to facilitate the contract.

  “I’m off to enjoy the night,” he says, gathering his phone and other belongings.

  Both Marina and Mills have another hour, bouncing emails back and forth, signing on the dotted line, getting it all prepped for the deal announcement post-haste. Everybody knows Pendel doesn’t like to wait.

  On the way out of the office, Church sends another text message, “Looking forward to it!”

  Years of texting off and on, Church never being much for any other mood than morose, straight and to the point. Business first. Did that really sound like his author?

  Pendel doesn’t think anything of it.

  Chapter 10

  I only keep the good parts. The title is functional. The Renegades. Same with the characters: A trio of survivors in an eco-disaster, pulverizing civil war to end all wars, is enough to work with. Yet I still can’t believe how such a great writer turned a solid foundation into a snoozefest.

  My neighbor has a lot to think about after our workshop. I left him soaking in the tub. I find that a nice, good burn really opens the senses, gets the imagination racing. It’s only a matter of time before the words find themselves on the page, fully rendered.

  Me, I’m so inspired right now.

  My time with such a great author is more than enough to inspire me.

  I paid for the hotel room, so I might as well make a little bit of a residency out of it, right?

  “I’m positively sorry for not being responsive.”

  Pendel, do you know who you’re talking to?

  “Incorporating some last-minute feedback. Should be done tonight.”

  Well, not quite actually. He’ll need a bit more time, but housekeeping’s got it covered. They’ll find his body before we meet for brunch. I’ve put a do-not-disturb over the doorknob. The smell will get to them, maybe some complaints from the floor below about a leak. The porcelain of a bathtub is quite resilient, but the liquid solution I use in my process is more intense than most. Part of my so-called calling card, my modus operandi.

  I leave something behind.

  Every author holds a desire for that brand of legacy.

  Flipping through what’s left of the manuscript, I think I’ll save the chapters that Church left behind. The title, the premise, like I said, it’s all serviceable, but I’ll do one better: I’m going to take the chapters, the scenes, the character moments that come to life, the moments that make a story more than the sum of its parts.

  Pendel’s happy about it.

  I make sure to tell him, “I’m inspired. I’m doing my best work yet!”

  He makes plans. Brunch. Sure thing. Not like I didn’t already anticipate his moves. It’s part of the process; we’ll be texting throughout the night. He leaves the office around 7 PM, drops by a nearby dive bar to grab a few without being spotted. Then he’s back to the Village, the same apartment. Wish I could be there to hang around, be in his company, but not tonight. I got so much work to do! There’s so much to look over in this manuscript. To think: How to make this work best? And then there’s tomorrow and the weekend. After the weekend, we’ve got the week to follow. Pendel’s in good hands. He may think I’m a stalker, but come on, don’t we all deserve a better story than that?

  “I have another idea,” I say, via text.

  “Tell me!”

  Pendel lacks any bonds. He doesn’t have any friends. His friends are the surface level connections and transactional conversations with his clients. The poor guy. Still has all those photos hanging on his walls of his ex. What was his name… Whenever I forget, I check Pendel’s Instagram. Charles. Charlie. Often referred to as Chuck. He was a writer too. His last known whereabouts remain unknown. That is, if you keep to Pendel’s feed.

  Chuck is now Clara, living well on the West Coast. Has a great partner by the looks of it. Still writing, but there doesn’t seem to be any interest in publishing the work—trauma from nearly a decade near the gossip, the wheeling and dealing, the industry at max.

  So many stories. Which ones to tell…

  “I had the idea on the plane ride,” I say, a story forming out of thin air. “It’s why I didn’t reply. I was too busy jotting everything down. So anyway, I had this idea, a sort of retelling of an earlier book of mine, An Outsider, but modernized, with the protagonist in a Robinson Crusoe situation when they lose their cell phone and suddenly become completely invisible to everyone.”

  Of course, he loves the idea.

  I’m not about to tell him that it’s a J.G. Ballard novel. Well, except for the phone. Concrete Island almost completely.

  “The Renegades might irk some people,” I say.

  He won’t let a client think less of themselves or their work. Pendel sends back a long paragraph that is so reassuring, I almost tear up. He is such a good champion. So what if he hasn’t read the book? He puts his reputation on the line, blind to every word.

  And so let it be.

  It’s beautiful, really.

  He doesn’t know my full potential. It’s up to me, the author, to tell the story, make it undeniable.

  He asks me if the manuscript is done.

  Representation. My author, my agent. Together, hands held into submission.

  “In due time.”

  Pendel explains how he hopes to garner a multiple book deal, seven figures, giving “me” the room to write this new book, the new idea, and therefore to continue “doing what you do best.” To that, I take another step, just a little tease. See if he notices.

  “Already living my best life,” I say.

  J.D. Church is living his best life. One broken equals another’s breakthrough.

  Pendel is at his desk, alone in that apartment. I like to hold on to that image, not because it’s saddening. No, not at all. It’s because he’s texting with one person, undivided attention. One person, nobody else. And that person is me.

  I’ll continue to keep him company.

  Ambition. Pendel begins to lower his guard as evening turns to night. The alcohol loosens his tongue and he gets to talking about his career, his legacy, the dollar amount he hopes to die with, a number so high, I can only text back emojis. Pendel’s own legacy is about leaving behind an impression. When it’s “Church’s” turn to talk legacy, it’s all about the work-in-progress.

  “I would like to finish all the books I plan to write before it’s all said and done.”

  How many is that? The lonely and weakened agent wants to know.

  “It’s always changing,” I say, a truth, one harsh enough that might catch a writer vulnerable enough like shrapnel. Pendel texts back an “LOL.” Is he actually laughing on the other end? How many sips before the end of that drink and the beginning of the next pour?

  An offering of assurance, I tell him, “I’ll leave behind enough projects to ensure a healthy posthumous career.”

  “That’s why you’re my favorite client!”

  In death, ownership remains.

  My author.

  My agent.

  My idea.

  My body of work.

  My work-in-progress.

  “An author leaves behind a world for their readers. An agent leaves behind unfinished work.” He shouldn’t be telling a client such things, but I appreciate this trial period, a little taste of how our relationship will work on a professional and personal level.

  “I have another idea,” I say.

  “I love it. I love the hustle.”

  Tongue so loose he’s one half-step away from love. And then it hits me, and I have all that I need to see this through. Pendel doesn’t know it yet, but he’s on the verge of a career-high, a new accomplishment. He’s about to sign the client of a lifetime.

  Brunch tomorrow. He’ll be so happy to see me.

  The only work-in-progress that ever remains unfinished is yourself.

  Chapter 11

  Columbia alum Brendon Kawada’s debut MECHANICAL ANIMALS, a novel about an epic struggle across time between two star-crossed lovers that may in fact also be vampires, leaving behind a trail of broken hearts and drained bodies, to Emily Mills at FSG, in a six-figure deal, in an exclusive submission, by Henry Richmond Pendel at Cooper Willis Endeavor (world English).

  How wonderful it is to be the current topic of conversation, in the minds of the tastemakers and industry talkers. Pendel lives for these moments. Surely the money and the liquidity of being a top 5 agent in collective deals industrywide helps with cash flow and financial freedom, but the real rush comes from the praise and occasional jealousy that comes from his peers. He loves seeing everyone clamor over a 60-word deal announcement; mere mention of the premise and the deal figure is enough to have dozens of editors in other territories and industries crawling over to him, asking about sub rights, film options, the whole gamut.

  Certainly helps when battling a hangover. Pendel calls a car and gets to the office by 9:30 AM. He’s running on fumes and waiting for the painkillers to kick in when he gets the first email, this one from an editor he’s done work with previously, one that sold Pendel short, believing he wouldn’t find deals for a few riskier and controversial clients. He still has the receipts, email exchanges where the editor said, It’s just too dark, and I like dark, and, You’ll be lucky if you find a home for it in the indie and small press world, and, If it isn’t with the Big Five then it doesn’t really exist. The editor’s name, he doesn’t bother. It’s a name among other names, all of them judging based on perception. Right about now, Pendel is among the select few agents that has been able to secure six-figure deals in the last four months due to the industrywide dry spell. He has broken free of the worry, and now, you better believe he’s going to relish every pandering and congratulatory email.

  Wow, this sounds amazing. The editor says after Pendel replies to the broader initial congrats. What else do you have in the docket? I’m actively acquiring for next fall. I’ll put yours as top priority.

  Pendel’s got him right where he wants him. First, he waits nearly a half hour before replying, which establishes the impression that Pendel is busy, has more pressing matters than this editor, and then when he does reply, he settles for a calm and disengaged, Great! I’ll consult my list and see where your sensibility might fit in.

  Done. Nothing more, nothing less. He might as well have said, Go fuck yourself.

  Pendel doesn’t intentionally hold grudges; it’s more like the consistent nonstop 12-hour days, the chase and hustle for lateral movement in this industry, have warped his priorities. Really, it’s just too much fun to see those who had once sold you short, treated you unfairly, coming back acting like nothing’s happened. A fresh start, in the trade publishing industry? It’s hard enough to get publishers to catch up to the modern times, much less erase any slate and work from zero.

  Pendel is swimming in the highs of another deal when Marina enters his office. “Hey Henry, congrats!” The assistant is looking for more advice, another agenting seminar. Pendel reads her enthusiasm as false, practiced, when it’s more likely that Marina is the only person who can provide him with a genuine compliment without any contingencies attached. Still, Pendel takes it and defaults with, “What is it? What’s the damage?”

  She laughs, “For once we don’t have any fires to put out. Actually, I have a certain editor you’ve been desperate to speak to on the line.”

  “Hendrix?”

  She nods, “Yup. He offers his apology for being slow and unreachable.”

  “Of course,” he says. “Impression is that I’m easily able to move on without him, evidenced by selling a debut for six figures to a nobody, a new editor on the scene. Hendrix can sense how easy it is to fall off my short list of exclusivities.” Pendel gestures for the phone, Marina lowers her chin, signaling yes, he’s waiting on line one. “He’s probably in damage mode.” He reaches for the phone, hand over the receiver, “Thank you Marina, you can go.”

  “Right,” she says, hesitating a little before leaving the office.

  Pendel’s going to enjoy every minute of this conversation.

  “Hendrix, what gutter did you crawl out of, hmm?”

  “I deserve that,” he says. “It’s been brutal here. Our budget was cut in half. I can’t acquire anything. We’ve got a tentative freeze, so even I can’t pick up easy sells.”

  “Yeah, yeah, excuses,” Pendel says, readying to pounce. “What you should really be explaining is how you plan on saving your career after you lose your biggest author.”

  “Pendel, I already said I’m sorry. The facts are there, we’re in a freeze.”

  “Yeah well, if you can’t buy Church now, you won’t buy Church later. I’ll go somewhere else. Come now, there’s no limit. Someone will risk putting in an offer; it just takes having a spine.”

  Hendrix goes quiet.

  “Did I scare you? Hendrix,” Pendel gets down to brass tacks: “You and I have done business for years. This should be a done deal. I told you back when we first started that I’d elevate your career. Mine too. What have I done? I did that. I’m still doing that. Here’s your latest promotion and mark of prestige: J.D. Church’s latest novel, The Renegades, in a multi-book deal. I’m thinking, hmm, oh, maybe a three-book deal so we don’t have to keep doing this. You can cool off with all your manuscripts and I can move on to other matters.”

  “How much are we talking about?”

  Pendel gets a calendar reminder. Brunch.

  “Speak of the devil,” Pendel chuckles. “I’m about to meet with our author right now. How about I bring him the perfect gift? Thinking to the sound of a seven-figure book deal.”

  Hendrix sighs, “I’ll make it work.”

  “Good,” Pendel says. “Circle back this afternoon. I’m out to lunch.”

  Chapter 12

  Church’s favorite spot for brunch is deep in Brooklyn. Black Swan isn’t anything special, which is the reason why he likes it so much. When you’re someone like Church, you got a lot to hide. Better to stick to the less popular and visible locales. I’m a little early, what a surprise, so I walk around the neighborhood in two and three-block circles, rotating around, keeping to a casual and common pace. It’s just like Pendel to take a car, which I spot heading up Bedford Ave, windows down, Pendel living up the day. He just announced that book deal. Every single one counts. According to Publishers Marketplace, he’s nearing the hundred mark on reported deals. Granted there are plenty that never make it onto the site, but he’s not anybody.