Under the Lake

1

John Howell stirred to the sound of a familiar voice. Elisha Cook, Jr., he registered immediately. He kept his eyes shut and listened to the next voice. Sidney Greenstreet. He had the scene before Bogart even spoke: The Maltese Falcon and Bogart had just been drugged. Howell sat up and, throwing up a hand against the morning sunlight, stared at the television set in disgust. The Maltese Falcon was a midnight, not a mid-morning movie. Where did these people come off putting a dark movie like that on at ten o’clock in the morning? Probably some postgrad Bogart freak of a programmer at the station. Howell should be waking up to “I Love Lucy” reruns, not The Maltese Falcon. What was the world coming to? There was no sense of fitness, of propriety any more.

He looked about him at the seedy room above the garage; it was a mess, as usual: manuscript paper scattered over the desk and floor; the typewriter, its keys dusty from disuse, waiting. The sight of it filled him with the nameless dread that seemed to start most of his days lately. The inside of his mouth felt like the inside of his head; swollen, inflamed, dirty. There was an empty Jack Daniel’s bottle and a second, one-third empty, on the desk next to the typewriter, silent evidence of the origin of his condition. No, not the origin, just a symptom. The origin was harder to pin down, required more thought than Howell felt able to muster. Howell fixed his mind on the only thing that would move him off the old leather sofa and get him into the house: a toothbrush. He would kill for a toothbrush.

He squinted to bring his wristwatch into focus: eleven fifteen. Shit; he had an appointment at noon. He struggled upright, slipped his feet into his sneakers, grabbed the empty bourbon bottle and headed for the house, dropping the bottle into a trash can next to the back door. He didn’t want the maid picking up empties.

“Afternoon, Mr. Howell,” the maid said, drily, as he passed through the kitchen. Bitch. He didn’t need that from her. He ran up the stairs to the bedroom. She had left it pin neat; the maid wouldn’t have to lift a finger. He dug a suit out of his dressing room, flung it on the bed, brushed his teeth violently far two minutes, then dove into a hot shower.

Forty-five minutes later, miraculously on time, he sat, flipping idly through the pages of Poultry Month magazine and wondering what the hell he was doing here. The reception room was a perfectly normal, even tasteful one, with plush carpets, leather furniture and decent art. Only the seven-foot-high fiberglass chicken seemed out of place.

The phone on the reception desk buzzed, and the young woman lifted it and turned toward Howell. “Mr. Pitts will see you out.” she said. She rose and opened the office door for him.

Lurton Pitts came at him from behind the huge desk like a baseball manager comes at an umpire after a questionable call. Only at the moment his hand shot out did the man smile. “John… can I call you John? I’m awful glad to meet you. I’ve admired your work for an awful long time, I can tell you. I’ve been reading your stuff ever since you won the Pulitzer Prize for the stories about those murders. I read your book about it, too. Fine stuff, that was.”

“Well, thanks, Mr. Pitts…”

“Call me Lurton, son, everybody does. Can we get you a glass of ice tea or something?”

Howell supposed that a man who had on his office wall a warmly autographed photograph of himself with the Reverend Jerry Falwell would not have a bar in the same office. “No thanks, I’m just fine, uh… Lurton.”

“Good, good,” Pitts said, directing him toward a chair and circling the desk to find his own. “I’m grateful to Denham White for arranging this meeting. I know how valuable your time is, and I’ll get right to the point. What do you know about me, John?”

“Well, only what I read in the papers, I guess.” Howell knew that the man had over a thousand Little Chickie fried chicken parlors all over the country, that he was the quintessential self-made man, and that he espoused causes and gave money to charities and office holders that were all over the political ball park, from far right to far left field. It was hard to get a fix on Lurton Pitts.

“I’ve had a rewarding life,” Pitts said, leaning back in his high-backed leather chair and gazing out over the Atlanta skyline. “My daddy was a one-mule farmer until I showed him how to get in the chicken-raising business. I was fourteen when I figured that out. By the time I was twenty-one I was the biggest chicken farmer in the state. I opened my first Little Chickie that year, too. It’s grown by leaps and bounds, and I don’t mind telling you we’re snapping at Colonel Sanders’ ass, if you’ll pardon the expression.”

“Mmmm,” Howell said. He couldn’t think of anything else to say. Why was he here?

“But my interests have always been broader than the chicken business,” Pitts continued. “I’m interested in foreign relations; bet you didn’t know that.”

“Nope,” Howell replied, trying not to giggle.

Pitts leaned forward and fixed Howell with an intense gaze. “John, can I confide in you?”

“Oh, sure.” This was some bizarre joke of Denham White’s. He would arrive at lunch and there would be six guys around a table, drinking martinis and speechless with laughter. He tried to think of some graceful way just to leave, but failed.

“This is strictly off the record, now.”

“Don’t worry, Lurton, I’m not a newspaperman anymore.”

“This is August first, the year of our Lord 1976,” Pitts said. “In November, Gerald Ford is going to be reelected President of the United States.”

“Could be,” Howell said.

“The American people are not going to elect a peanut farmer to the presidency,” Pitts said, in a voice that brooked no argument.

Howell agreed with the man but said nothing.

“Four years from November I’m going to be elected the next President of the United States of America,” Pitts said, with absolute confidence.

Howell let his breath out as slowly as possible to keep from bursting out laughing and worked at fixing his face in an interested expression.

“I guess that’s left you pretty much speechless,” Pitts said after a moment.

“Pretty much,” Howell agreed. Pitts was not only eccentric, he was crazy. If the American people wouldn’t elect a peanut farmer president, why a chicken farmer?

“Well, let me tell you, I’m not going about fulfilling this ambition haphazardly. Some of the finest minds in this country are signing on to help me realize it.”

“Anybody I know?”

Pitts held up a hand. “Too soon to talk about that right now. What I want to talk about right now is you.”

“Me?” Here it came. He wondered how long Denham White had been planning this.

“I want you to write my autobiography.”

Howell was so entertained by the contradiction in that statement that he forgot to reply.

“What do you think of that?” Pitts asked.

“Well, it’s very kind of you to think of me for something as… important as that, Mr. Pitts…”

“Lurton.”

“Lurton. But I’m pretty wrapped up in my own work at the moment…” That was a bald-faced lie; half a dozen publishers had already rejected his attempt at a novel, and he didn’t have an idea in his head.

“Yes, Denham White told me that you were writing for yourself at the moment. Of course, you understand that I would expect to meet your usual fee for writing a book. Excuse me if I get personal for just a minute, John, but how much did the Pulitzer Prize pay you?”

“A thousand dollars.”

“And how much did you make on the book when that came out? Then I would expect to pay you sixty thousand dollars to write my book.”

Howell was speechless again, but not in danger of laughing. He was astonished at what the mention of that sum was doing to his insides.

Pitts rose, walked to a credenza and picked up a cheap, plastic briefcase. He set it down in front of Howell. “Tell you what,” he said. “This contains twelve reels of recording tape. I’ve spoken everything I can remember about my life onto those tapes. You take them home and listen to some of them, then call me back and tell me if you think you can make a book out of them.”

Howell got to his feet. “Well, I’ll be happy to give you my opinion, Lurton, but I don’t know…”

“Just listen to them, John. I think you’ll realize what a story my life has been. Call me in a few days.”

“All right.” Howell picked up the briefcase and held out his hand.

“There’s just two things I ask of you,” Pitts said. “First, nobody must ever know that I didn’t write the book myself. Wouldn’t look good.”

That suited Howell. He would never be able to hold up his head again if anybody he knew thought he had even considered ghostwriting a book for Lurton Pitts.

“Second, I’d ask you to do it in three months.”

“I’ll listen to the tapes first, Lurton, then we’ll talk.”

“We mustn’t meet again, John. Security, you know.”

That suited Howell, too. He walked the two blocks to his lunch, sweating in the August Atlanta heat, trying not to think about this. He wanted to hear what Denham White had to say, first.

He stepped gratefully into the air-conditioned lobby, took the elevator to the fourteenth floor, and stepped out into the foyer of the Commerce Club. As he entered the large dining room, he could see his brother-in-law across the room at his usual table. Howell picked his way through the elegant room full of Atlanta’s most important bankers, businessmen, and lawyers, exchanging a handshake or tossing a wave here and there. He had known these people from a distance as a journalist, and now he knew them closer up because of whom he had married. He reached the table, and a black waiter was there to hold his chair.

Denham White was dressed in a gray, three-piece suit that said “successful lawyer.” Howell knew that Denham was dressed by Ham Stockton, the city’s premier clothier, who each year chose for him a range of suits, shirts, and ties in basic hues of blue and gray that were entirely compatible. All Denham had to do was to choose any suit, any shirt, and any necktie, in the certain knowledge that they would complement each other beautifully. He could do it with his eyes closed, which he probably did. Denham had already started on the bread. “Well?” he asked, his mouth full.

“Well, what?”

Denham waved at a waiter and ordered them both a martini. “Are you going to do it?”

“You mean you knew what Pitts wanted? And you set me up for that?”

“I only had an inkling. Did he offer you sixty grand?”

“How did you know that?”

“It’s what you made on the book, isn’t it?”

“You sonofabitch. If you knew he was going to offer me what I made on the book, why didn’t you tell me? I would have told him I made a hundred thousand on the book.”

Denham spread his hands. “John, the man is my client, after all. He pays me a hundred and fifty bucks an hour to look after his interests.”

“I’m your client, too.”

“Yeah, but you’re family; you don’t pay. Anyway, where else are you going to make sixty grand in three months? Since this is on the quiet, I can probably get him to pay you in cash. He deals a lot in cash.”

“So now my lawyer is advising me to evade income tax?”

“I’m giving you no such advice, boy, I just thought you might find cash more… convenient.”

A waiter brought menus. “How come you’re being so nice to me, Denham?” Howell asked. “I’m not exactly your favorite brother-in-law.”

“Sure, you are. You’re my only brother-in-law. Oh, come on, John, you know I’ve always liked you. It’s made me sad to see you screwing up your life the way you have. You had such a flying start.”

“Screwing up my life, huh? I’m doing what I want to do, buddy. How many people you know do that?”

“Almost none, granted, but you’re making my sister unhappy, sport, and I can’t have that, not if I can help it.” Denham was looking serious, now.

“And you think my earning a few bucks might fix things up at home, huh?”

Denham looked away from him. “I think your earning a few bucks somewhere else might give you both a breathing spell to figure things out,” he said, uncomfortably.

Howell looked at him, surprised. “Somewhere else?”

“Well, you don’t seem to get a hell of a lot done over that garage, do you? What you need is some place quiet, out of the way, a place with no distractions.” Lunch came.

Howell swallowed an oyster. “I have a feeling you have some place in mind.”

Denham fished a key out of a vest pocket and slid it across the tablecloth. “How about a cabin in the mountains? Nice view over the lake, total privacy, a writer’s paradise.”

“I didn’t know you had a cabin in the mountains.”

“Well, ”cabin‘ may be stretching it a bit. “Shack’ might fit better.” Denham leaned back from his oysters and assumed a faraway expression. “It’s up on Lake Sutherland; you know it?”

“No.”

“Up in the very prettiest part of the north Georgia mountains. A local power company built it after World War II; they didn’t sell any of the lakefront lots. Instead, they leased them out to friends and other suitables, cheap, on long leases. Kept out the riffraff. I got a lot for a hundred years at ten bucks a year back when I was in law school. My old man knew Eric Sutherland, who built the dam and modestly named both the lake and the town next to it after himself.”

“Ten bucks a year? Not bad.”

“You know it. I’d go up there on weekends and buy a load of green lumber at a sawmill and have it delivered to a fishing camp at the opposite end. There wasn’t even a road around the lake in those days, so I’d nail it into a raft and tow it down the lake with a canoe, then pull it apart. I built a one-room shack, then, eventually, expanded it into a three-room shack. There’s power, plumbing, a fireplace, and a phone that sometimes works, and a little runabout with a big outboard. Terribly romantic.”

“Terribly primitive, from the sound of it.” Howell gazed out over the crowded dining room for a moment. “I’ll think about it.”

“I hope you’ll do more than think about it, boy. You need a change.”

Denham was pushing all the right buttons, Howell thought. God knew he needed a change. On the way out of the building, Howell stopped at a phone booth, rang Lurton Pitts and told him he would be his autobiographer, a wonderful word, Howell thought.

“That’s fine, fine,” Pitts said. Howell could hear him grinning. “I’ll see that you get an advance to meet your expenses, and, I’ll tell you what, I’ve got a piece of a company that makes those new word processors. I’ll send you one of those over, too. You let me know how you like it.”

Howell hung up the phone and pressed his forehead against the cool glass of the booth. The world was suddenly a different place. He wasn’t sure he liked it.