Faking Life Read online

  Might as well try to read, John thought. Take his mind off it. Trying to assuage the guilt was pointless. It was there whether he deserved it or not. If he was going to support Paul, really support him, feeling sorry for himself wasn't the way to do it.

  He hadn't told Paul's parents about the fight. They assumed the cuts on his arms were from the fall, a dropped cocktail glass. John looked at the bandages and wondered if Paul would have any scars. Whether they would heal, or always be there to remind him.

  John let out a frustrated breath and flipped to the beginning of the book. He might as well start over, let himself be sucked in.

  He tried to tune out his surroundings, the sterile white sheets disappearing in his mind's eye. Escapism. That's what he needed. Just let his mind float away…

  “I read that one before they made the movie. They ruined it by casting that guy, you know, the one with the Plexiglass hair.”

  John whipped around and saw Paul staring at him, his eyes bright green. John's book fell silently onto the linoleum.

  “Shit, you're awake!” Paul nodded and looked sleepily around the room. He pointed to the book.

  “Promise you won't tell anyone I read that crap.” John laughed.

  “Yeah, of course I promise.” Paul grimaced and gritted his teeth.

  “My stomach hurts.”

  “Doctor said it would when you woke up.” Paul yawned and scratched his head, wincing when his fingers found the bandage.

  “My head hurts too.”

  “Better you don't touch it, Paulie.” Paul looked up and blinked.

  “Paulie. You haven't called me that since…”

  “Darcy LaPierre's afterparty, sophomore year,” John said, smiling.

  Paul nodded and laughed. “You were so drunk that night. I remember Darcy kept trying to convince you to go home and sleep, and you were all like 'It's ok Darky—you kept calling her Darky cause she wore so much eye shadow—Paulie here is gonna take care of me.' And then you booted all over her kitchen sink.”

  “I think that was the moment my crush on her ended.” They sat in silence for a moment, John too stunned to figure out what to say next.

  “So…how're you feeling?” Safe question, he thought.

  “I feel like I'm due for one mother of a hangover.” John stifled a laugh. He stood up and dragged his chair over to the bedside. Placing his elbows on the rumpled sheets, he let his eyes linger on the sallow color of Paul's skin, the aroma of old cheese wafting up from the bed.

  “First thing you're gonna do when you get out of here is have a shower. I'm talking Brooklyn car wash clean.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  “Worse than the time we rented that summer house in the Catskills that didn't have hot water.” Paul whistled and sucked in his breath. His eyes looked sunken and hollow. John slowly moved his hand across the bedspread and grasped Paul's. He squeezed it and felt the gesture weakly returned. His skin felt like dry paper Mache.

  “Funny,” Paul said.

  “What's funny?”

  “This,” he said, raising his shredded arm, pointing to the tube in his nose. “Couldn't even finish this right.”

  “Did you really want to?” Paul sighed, coughed. A glob of yellow phlegm landed on his shirt. John took a tissue from the counter and wiped it off. Paul shook his head.

  “No, I guess I didn't,” Paul said softly.

  “I figured that.”

  “How so?”

  “The bar. If you really wanted to, you know, do it, you would have gone to a nice dark alley or a subway station. Someplace nobody would have thought twice about a guy lying unconscious in a pile of dirt.” Paul laughed.

  “Funny. If I wasn't drunk already I might have done just that. Maybe your subconscious really kicks in when your brain isn't working. I guess mine didn't really want to go through with it.” John nodded.

  “But the pills, Paul…I mean…” Paul's eyes squinted, then closed.

  “I guess we all had our secrets.” He looked up, his eyes tired, yes strangely hopeful. “Hey John?”

  “Yeah buddy?”

  Paul took a deep breath. “I'm sorry.”

  “Paul, don't, it's really not…” Paul held up a trembling hand.

  “Stop, just hear me out.” John sat back in his chair. Paul took a breath. “I owe it to you. Fact is, I knew you'd been writing for a long time and it was killing me that I didn't know what it was. When you went to meet Esther, I'd already tipped back a few—you knew that—and my curiosity got the better of me.” He paused and closed his eyes again. For a moment, John feared he'd fallen asleep. It was a full minute before they reopened. .

  “I booted up your computer and found the file. Wasn't hard, it was the only one in the 'Recent Documents' folder that wasn't a bootleg music file. When I started reading, I was expecting it to be a piece of shit. I wanted it to be a piece of shit. I would have been happy with that. I wouldn't have had to pay it any more attention. But when I read it, I could tell that not only was it not a piece of shit, but it was actually pretty good. Now you gotta understand, by that point I'd probably thrown back a case of long-necks, and the more I thought about it, the more I hated it. That make any sense?”

  “A little.”

  “I guess with me getting the heave-ho from my agent and then seeing what you did, I got jealous. I started wondering if you'd been hiding anything else. I didn't want to believe that someone who'd never written so much as a haiku could do what you did. So I started going through the files on your computer. When I didn't find anything there, I went through your desk. That's where I found the contract with Nico Vanetti and I just lost it. I mean fucking lost it. Right then, I knew it was going to sell. And that's before I heard the message. One thing I've learned about marketing is that the only thing better than a great platform is no platform. That's what you had. The greatest non-platform of all. It's the people that come out of nowhere who make the waves in this business, and it pissed me off to think that you could be such a big fucking wave. You and Esther just happened to get home right when the brunt of it hit me.”

  Paul took John's hand and squeezed it tight, tighter than John thought he was capable of. He felt a tightness in his chest, then gasped for air, not realizing he'd been holding his breath while Paul spoke. Hearing his closest friend praise him while lying in a hospital bed was almost more than he could handle.

  John looked up, his eyes stinging.

  “I should have told you.” Paul nodded, his face solemn.

  “Yeah, you should have.” He paused, wiped his eye. “John?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You take that fucking thing and you conquer the damn world with it.” John looked up, confused. Paul's eyes were wide open. John's fingers tingled, the blood squeezed out by Paul's grip. He could see the tendons trembling in Paul's wrist like strings on a plucked harp. He was using all the strength he had. Slowly, John wrenched free.

  “Paul, the book's gone. My computer's wrecked, remember? I didn't have the file backed up.” As soon as John said the word 'gone', Paul started shaking his head. “What, what is it?”

  “It's not gone.”

  “What do you mean?” John said, his heart palpating.

  “When I started reading it, I was planning to stop after the first chapter. I didn't know when I'd get a chance to read more, with you home all the time now. Sue me, I was curious and didn't think I'd actually sit there and read so much in one sitting.” He closed his eyes. For a terrifying second, John thought he'd fallen asleep. Then they snapped open. “I made a copy. It's on a floppy disk in the middle drawer of my desk. The label says 'Asshole'. You can work off of it.” John's felt his heart skip a beat.

  “You're not fucking with me, right? You really have a copy?” Paul nodded. Suddenly John felt a magnet pulling him. He looked around the room, then back at Paul.

  You're staying right where you are, John thought. Your friend is lying up with a concussion and you want to go home and punch keys? Shame on you, yo
u self-centered prick.

  “Hey John?” Paul said.

  “Yeah?”

  “Get out of here. I don't want to see you again till that thing is finished.”

  John nodded and bolted out of the room, nearly knocking over a nurse in the hallway. He pressed the elevator call button, waited four seconds, then threw open the door and took the stairs four at a time. He ran past the security desk and squeezed ahead of an elderly man passing through the revolving door. No cabs in sight, he sprinted to the corner, his jacket flying out behind him, and headed home.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Nico's 9mm Browning rested in an empty manuscript box in his bedroom closet, under a shoebox with Allen Edmond wingtips he hadn't worn in ten years. The shelf was a good nine feet off the ground to prevent Pietro from reaching it. As far as he knew, Pietro never knew it was there.

  But Valerie did. And that was a fact he was sure would be used against him in the impending divorce. With the Gillis project putting Vanetti Literati back on the map, he was ripe to be torn open by Valerie's lawyers. That was why it was so important that the book not fail. He'd need the money, and his reputation, to withstand the onslaught.

  Nico had only touched the gun twice since buying it. In both instances, he'd been harassed by authors who had taken offense at what they deemed Nico's lackadaisical attitude towards their manuscripts, and had followed up their one-page queries with threatening letters, than obscene phone calls to the office. Then they'd started showing up at his home. Twice he'd returned from work to find the doorman with a hand-delivered package. Both packages had manuscripts in them. Both contained notes promising horrible things if he didn't take them seriously. It wasn't until the police were notified that Nico felt safe enough to forget the pistol nestled underneath his loafers.

  He'd promised himself that someday he'd get rid of the gun. He would safeguard the privilege of watching his only child grow up to be a man, to rid his home of a weapon he knew had been the death of many young children.

  When he bought it, he never considered using it for anything but defense. But the more he thought about it, that's just what he'd be using it for now. Defending his life, his honor. Who was John Gillis to deny that?

  He'd agreed to give Esther the Gillis deal, under the assumption it could be salvaged. But it was still his signature on the contract, not Esther's, and he would retain the rights regardless. Esther couldn't prove a damn thing. It would be her word against his, and soon hers would be worth less than the paper Gillis's book was printed on.

  Two million dollars. Enough to revitalize his career, to bring in a new batch of highly sought after clients. The trade magazines would want interviews. The commission would be enough to convince Valerie he could properly take care of them both. Enough to shower Pietro with every gift his young heart desired. As far as Nico was concerned, he'd never gotten the email from John Gillis.

  John was still his property. Every sentence was still his.

  He'd fire Esther as soon as Marlene Van Tripp gave word that the sale was complete. It simply wouldn't work with her involved. He'd clean out her email account the next day, make sure she had no ties to the office whatsoever. She didn't know the details anyway. She might be suspicious, but she couldn't prove a thing.

  If it had to end, this was the perfect way. A brilliant conclusion to Act Three.

  Nico smiled. These were the very traits prevalent in dozens of third-rate novels that arrived unsolicited at his office every week. Armchair generals and coffee bar soldiers giving their take on the geopolitics of the day. They wrote about stock heroes with ridiculous names that rolled off the tongue like a hammer hitting a granite slab. Colt, Brick, Steele, Frank, Brock. And their last names were Johnson. Always Johnson. Nico wasn't an avenger or a crusader. But what he had in mind could be pulled from any one of those potboilers. The ending, Nico decided, would come on his terms.

  After considerable thought, spurred on by three Seven and Sevens, Nico decided the project would, in the end, be better off without John Gillis. He'd have to convince Marlene Van Tripp of he same, but he didn't think that would be a problem. Besides, what was more poetic than inspiration provided by someone whose life was snuffed out before reaching his potential? James Dean was legendary for that. Elvis. Jim Morrison. Poets who spread their message then died before they could burn out. Marlene would see his side. It'd be even bigger than she ever imagined. John Gillis would burn out and his flame would remain lit forever.

  In his head, the plan worked perfectly. When it was done, he'd drive down the West Side Highway and cast the gun into the Hudson. The set-up was beautiful. Struggling ex-bartender sells memoir, only to pass away before publication. It would break hearts and inspire millions, reviving the stagnant lives of so many working-class bums.

  He'd park his car across the street from John's house and call upstairs. If nobody answered, Nico would wait as long as it took. Boredom was a factor, sure. But the thrill of a stakeout would keep his blood flowing. The rest would be manufactured through caffeine and Italian opera tapes. Timing was crucial. As was dedication. Would he be able to pull the trigger? That was the first question he'd asked himself, and through a scotch-induced haze he'd answered an emphatic 'yes'.

  But it was different now. The fog was thinning and he could see again, and what he saw was hesitation. If he couldn't do it the first time, he knew he never would. That's why he'd bring the flask along.

  He'd start drinking as soon as he arrived, so that when Gillis did show, the safety valve in his head would be worn away. He didn't want any unwelcome attacks of conscience infringing on his duty.

  This is real, Nico thought as he entered his apartment, kicking off his boots. Not like anything in those goddamn newspapers. They were writing about the old Nico Vanetti. John Gillis wants to write about real life? He doesn't know what real is.

  Real is losing your family and having the world turn its back on you.

  Real is questioning everything you once stood for and being willing to fight for it all over again.

  Real is your reaction to what the world does to you.

  For John Gillis, the only “real” is the life I've decided to give him. And that life will last forever. He'll go down in history. Everybody will see it happen. And they will love him for it.

  He wants to be real? I'll show him what reality is.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  The wind burned Esther's face as she stood outside of John Gillis's apartment. She'd buzzed upstairs four times in the past fifteen minutes and had finally resigned herself to that fact that he wasn't home. He could merely be ignoring her, but common sense said John would have no way of knowing she was the one ringing his bell like a drunken deliveryman. So she stood there, cursing her thin sweater, hoping it wasn't long before John returned home.

  Esther had trouble getting used to the way winter swept through New York, closing like a frosty eyelid over the crisp days of Fall. Those months were a mere transitional season after summer, tiding over the winter solstice before the harsh gusts began to blow from the North. When she first moved to the city, Esther went running nearly every day, looking to reclaim her shape after the lethargy of college. She dreamt of days sitting on the great lawn in Central Park, wearing tank tops and short shorts while eligible young men jogged with their Labradors, pausing to chit chat with the toned brunette reading Tolstoy and sipping Chardonnay from a picnic basket.

  No matter how prepared she was for all of Manhattan's silent truths, there were still moments that surprised her. In the end, she was hoping John Gillis might still surprise her.

  So many men preferred to walk into oncoming traffic than sacrifice an ounce of their pride. John had no reason to trust that she wasn't lying again. All she had to go on was the truth. If he could see anything, she hoped, he would see what lay in her heart. Shivering, Esther gazed at the empty streets around her.

  In her mind's eye, every passerby was John Gillis. At the sight of every new jacket, she eagerly cl
asped her hands and hoped to see a warm smile approaching. Fifteen minutes earlier she'd nearly jumped into the arms of a black man with dreadlocks who threatened to call the cops. Each time she heard the squeal of tires, her head jerked in that direction, looking for an occupied taxi streaking towards his awning. The only sound she ignored was the fluttering leaves, the only noise that didn't get her hopes up.

  By ten o'clock she was ready to give up. John could very well be out for the night. She could freeze to death before he came home. And what if he did return, but in the arms of another woman? Her heart would probably stop that instant. Best not to think about it. She tucked her hands into her coat, closed her eyes, and tried to ignore the wind stabbing her body. She couldn't give up. This was too important. He was too important. He…

  “Esther?”

  Her breath caught in her chest.

  “Hi John.”

  She slowly turned to face him. John was wearing torn Levis and a gray sweatshirt over a white t-shirt. He hadn't shaved in a couple of days and she noticed large, dark circles under his eyes.

  “Esther, what are you doing here?” Her mouth opened but nothing came out.

  “Hey John.” Smooth. Maybe if she just repeated herself over and over again he'd forgive her. Sure. And maybe there was a palm tree for her to hide behind.

  “Esther, I said what are you doing here?”

  “I needed to see you.” Her words came out wet, choking back the sobs in her throat. “I need to talk to you about the other night.”

  “There's nothing to talk about,” John said. He brushed past her and went for his keys. He had them in the lock when she put her hand on his. He stopped and looked at her.