BESTSELLERS GUARANTEED
For Anibal Martinez
Larry had a headache, as he often did. It was those all-night stints at the typewriter, along with his job and his boss, Fraggerty, yelling for him to fry the burgers faster, to dole them out lickity-split on mustard-covered sesame seed buns.
Burgers and fries, typing paper and typewriter ribbons—the ribbons as gray and faded as the thirty-six years of his life. There really didn’t seem to be any reason to keep on living. Another twenty to thirty years of this would be foolish. Then again, that seemed the only alternative. He was too cowardly to take his own life.
Washing his face in the bathroom sink, Larry jerked a rough paper towel from the rack and dried off, looking at himself in the mirror. He was starting to look like all those hacks of writer mythology. The little guys who turned out the drek copy. The ones with the blue-veined, alcoholic noses and eyes like volcanic eruptions.
"My God," he thought, "I look forty easy. Maybe even forty-five."
"You gonna stay in the can all day?" a voice yelled through the door. It was Fraggerty, waiting to send him back to the grill and the burgers. The guy treated him like a bum.
A sly smile formed on Larry’s face as he thought: "I am a bum. I’ve been through three marriages, sixteen jobs, eight typewriters, and all I’ve got to show for it are a dozen articles, all of them in obscure magazines that either paid in copies or pennies." He wasn’t even as good as the hack he looked like. The hack could at least point to a substantial body of work, drek or not.
And I’ve been at this . . .God, twelve years! An article a year. Some average. Not even enough to pay back his typing supplies.
He thought of his friend Mooney—or James T. Mooney, as he was known to his fans. Yearly, he wrote a bestseller. It was a bestseller before it hit the stands. And except for Mooney’s first novel, THE GOODBYE REEL, a detective thriller, all of them had been dismal. In fact, dismal was too kind a word. But the public lapped them up.
What had gone wrong with his own career? He used to help Mooney with his plots; in fact, he had helped him work out his problems on THE GOODBYE REEL, back when they had both been scrounging their livings and existing out of a suitcase. Then Mooney had moved to Houston, and a year later THE GOODBYE REEL had hit the stands like an atomic bomb. Made record sales in hardback and paper, and gathered in a movie deal that boggled the imagination.
Being honest with himself, Larry felt certain that he could say he was a far better writer than Mooney. More commercial, even. So why had Mooney gathered the laurels while he bagged burgers and ended up in a dirty restroom contemplating the veins in his nose?
It was almost too much to bear. He would kill to have a bestseller. Just one. That’s all he’d ask. Just one.
"Tear the damned crapper out of there and sit on it behind the grill!" Fraggerty called through the door. "But get out here. We got customers lined up down the block."
Larry doubted that, but he dried his hands, combed his hair and stepped outside.
Fraggerty was waiting for him. Fraggerty was a big fat man with bulldog jowls and perpetual blossoms of sweat beneath his meaty arms. Mid-summer, dead of winter—he had them.
"Hey," Fraggerty said, "you work here or what?"
"Not anymore, Larry said. "Pay me up."
"What?"
"You heard me, fat ass. Pay up!"
"Hey, don’t get tough about it. All right. Glad to see you hike."
Five minutes later, Larry was leaving the burger joint, a fifty-dollar check in his pocket.
He said aloud: "Job number seventeen."
The brainstorm had struck him right when he came out of the restroom. He’d go see Mooney. He and Mooney had been great friends once, before all that money and a new way of living had carried Mooney back and forth to Houston and numerous jet spots around the country and overseas.
Maybe Mooney could give him a connection, an in, as it was called in the business. Before, he’d been too proud to ask, but now he didn’t give a damn if he had to crawl and lick boots. He had to sell his books; had to let the world know he existed.
Without letting the landlord know, as he owed considerable back rent, he cleaned out his apartment.
Like his life, there was little there. A typewriter, copies of his twelve articles, a few clothes and odds and ends. There weren’t even any books. He’d had to sell them all to pay his rent three months back.
In less than twenty minutes, he snuck out without being seen, loaded the typewriter and his two suitcases in the trunk of his battered Chevy, and looked up at the window of his dingy apartment. He lifted his middle finger in salute, climbed in the car and drove away.
Mooney was easy to find. His estate looked just the part for the residence of a bestselling author. A front lawn the size of a polo field, a fountain of marble out front, and a house that looked like a small English castle. All this near downtown Houston.
James T. Mooney looked the part, too. He answered the door in a maroon smoking jacket with matching pajamas. He had on a pair of glossy leather bedroom slippers that he could have worn with a suit and tie. His hair was well-groomed with just the right amount of gray at the temples. There was a bit of a strained look about his eyes, but other than that he was the picture of health and prosperity.
"Well, I’ll be," Mooney said. "Larry Melford. Come in."
The interior of the house made the outside look like a barn. There were paintings and sculptures and shelves of first-edition books. On one wall, blown up to the size of movie posters and placed under glass and frame, were copies of the covers of his bestsellers. All twelve of them. A thirteenth glass and frame stood empty beside the others, waiting for the inevitable.
They chatted as they walked through the house, and Mooney said, "Let’s drop off in the study. We can be comfortable there. I’ll have the maid bring us some coffee or iced tea."
"I hope I’m not interrupting your writing," Larry said.
"No, not at all. I’m finished for the day. I usually just work a couple hours a day."
A couple hours a day? thought Larry. A serpent of envy crawled around in the pit of his stomach. For the last twelve years, he had worked a job all day and had written away most of the night, generally gathering no more than two to three hours’ sleep a day. And here was Mooney writing these monstrous bestsellers and he only wrote a couple of hours in the mornings.
Mooney’s study was about the size of Larry’s abandoned apartment. And it looked a hell of a lot better. One side of the room was little more than a long desk covered with a word processor and a duplicating machine. The rest of the room was taken up by a leather couch and rows of bookshelves containing nothing but Mooney’s work. Various editions of foreign publications, special collectors’ editions, the leather-bound Christmas set, the paperbacks, the bound galleys of all the novels. Mooney was surrounded by his success.
"Sit down; take the couch," Mooney said, hauling around his desk chair. "Coffee or tea? I’ll have the maid bring it."
"No, I’m fine."
"Well then, tell me about yourself."
Larry opened his mouth to start, and that’s when it fell out. He just couldn’t control himself. It was as if a dam had burst open and all the water of the world was flowing away. The anguish, the misery, the years of failure found expression.
When he had finished telling it all, his eyes were glistening. He was both relieved and embarrassed. "So you see, Mooney, I’m just about over the edge. I’m craving success like an addict craves a fix. I’d kill for a bestseller."
Mooney’s face seemed to go lopsided. "Watch that kind of talk."
"I mean it. I’m feeling so small right now, I’d have to look up to see a snake’s belly. I’d lie, cheat, steal, kill—anything to get published in a big way. I don’t want to die and leave nothing of me behind."
"And you don’t want to miss out on the good things either, right?"
"Damned right. You’ve got it."
"Look, Larry, worry less about the good things and just write your books. Ease up some, but do it your own way. You may never have a big bestseller, but you’re a good writer, and eventually you’ll crack and be able to make a decent living."
"Easy for you to say, Mooney."
"In time, with a little patience . . . "
"I’m running out of time and patience. I’m emotionally drained, whipped. What I need is an in, Mooney, an in. A name. Anything that can give me a break."
"Talent is the name of the game, Larry, not an in," Mooney said very softly.
"Don’t give me that garbage. I’ve got talent and you know it. I used to help you with the plots of your short stories. And your first novel—remember the things I worked out for you there? I mean, come on, Mooney. You’ve read my writing. It’s good. Damned good! I need help. An in can’t hurt me. It may not help me much, but it’s got to give me a damn sight better chance than I have now."
Larry looked at Mooney’s face. Something seemed to be moving there behind the eyes and taut lips. He looked sad, and quite a bit older than his age. Well, okay. So he was offended by being asked right out to help a fellow writer.
That was too bad. Larry just didn’t have the pride and patience anymore to beat around the bush.
"An in, huh?" Mooney finally said.
"That’s right."
"You sure you wouldn’t rather do it your way?"
"I’ve been doing it my way for twelve years. I want a break, Mooney."
Mooney nodded solemnly. He went over to his desk and opened a drawer. He took out a small, white business card and brought it over to Larry.
It read:
BESTSELLERS GUARANTEED
Offices in New York, Texas, California
and
Overseas
The left-hand corner of the card had a drawing of an open book, and the right-hand corner had three phone numbers. One of them was a Houston number.
"I met a lady when I first moved here," Mooney said, "a big name author in the romance field. I sort of got this thing going with her . . . finally asked her for . . . an in. And she gave me this card. We don’t see each other anymore, Larry. We stopped seeing each other the day she gave it to me."
Larry wasn’t listening. "This an editor?"
"No."
"An agent?"
"No."
"Publisher, book packager?"
"None of those things and a little of all, and a lot more."
"I’m not sure . . . "
"You wanted your in, so there it is. You just call that number. And Larry, do me a favor. Never come here again."
The first thing Larry did when he left Mooney’s was find a telephone booth. He dialed the Houston number and a crisp female voice answered: "Bestsellers Guaranteed."
"Are you the one in charge?"
"No sir. Just hold on and I’ll put you through to someone who can help you."
Larry tapped his finger on the phone shelf till a smooth-as-well-water male voice said: "B.G. here. May I be of assistance?"
"Uh . . . yes, a friend of mine . . . a Mr. James T. Mooney—"
"Of course, Mr. Mooney."
"He suggested . . . he gave me a card. Well, I’m a writer. My name is Larry Melford. To be honest, I’m not exactly sure what Mooney had in mind for me. He just suggested I call you."
"All we need to know is that you were recommended by Mr. Mooney. Where are you now?"
Larry gave the address of the 7-Eleven phone booth.
"Why don’t you wait there .. . oh, say . . . twenty minutes and we’ll send a car to pick you up? That suit you?"
"Sure, but . . . "
"I’ll have an agent explain it to you when he gets there, okay?"
"Yes, yes, that’ll be fine."
Larry hung up and stepped outside to lean on the hood of his car. By golly, he thought, that Mooney does have connections, and now after all these years, my thirteenth year of trying, maybe, just maybe, I’m going to get connected, too.
He lit a cigarette and watched the August heat waves bounce around the 7-Eleven lot, and twenty minutes later, a tan, six-door limousine pulled up next to his Chevy.
The man driving the limo wore a chauffeur’s hat and outfit. He got out of the car and walked around to the tinted, far backseat window and tapped gently on the glass. The window slid down with a short whoosh. A man dressed in black with black hair, a black mustache, and thick-rimmed black shades, looked out at Larry. He said, "Mr. Melford?"
"Yes," Larry said.
"Would you like to go around to the other side? Herman will open the door for you."
After Larry had slid onto the seat and Herman had closed the door behind him, his eyes were drawn to the plush interior of the car. Encased in the seat in front of them was a phone, a television set and a couple of panels that folded out. Larry felt certain one of them would be a small bar. Air-conditioning hummed softly. The car was nice enough and large enough to live in.
He looked across the seat at the man in black, who was extending his hand. They shook. The man in black said, "Just call me James, Mr. Melford."
"Fine. This is about . . .writing? Mooney said he could give me a . . . connection. I mean, I have work, plenty of it. Four novels, a couple of dozen short stories, a novella—of course I know that length is a dog to sell, but . . . "
"None of that matters," James said.
"This is about writing?"
"This is about bestsellers, Mr. Melford. That is what you want, isn’t it? To be a bestselling author?"
"More than anything."
"Then you’re our man and we’re your organization."
Herman had eased in behind the wheel. James leaned forward over the seat and said firmly, "Drive us around." Leaning back, James touched a button on the door panel and a thick glass rose out of the seat in front of them and clicked into place in a groove in the roof.
"Now," James said, "shall we talk?"
As they drove, James explained, "I’m the agent assigned to you, and it’s up to me to see if I can convince you to join our little gallery. But, if you should sign on with us, we expect you to remain loyal. You must consider that we offer a service that is unique, unlike any offered anywhere. We can guarantee that you’ll hit the bestseller list once a year, every year, as long as you’re with us.
"Actually, Mr. Melford, we’re not a real old organization, though I have a hard time remembering the exact year we were founded—it predated the Kennedy assassination by a year."
"That would be sixty-two," Larry said.
"Yes, yes, of course. I’m terrible at years. But it’s only lately that we’ve come into our own. Consider the bad state of publishing right now, then consider the fact that our clients have each had a bestseller this year—and they will next year, no matter how bad publishing may falter. Our clients may be the only ones with books, but each of their books will be a bestseller, and their success will, as it does every year, save the industry."
"You’re a packager?"
"No. We don’t actually read the books, Mr. Melford, we just make sure they’re bestsellers. You can write a book about the Earth being invaded by giant tree toads from the moon, if you like, and we will guarantee it will be a bestseller."
"My God, you are connected."
"You wouldn’t believe the connections we have."
"And what does your organization get out of this? How much of a percentage?"
"We don’t take a dime."
"What?"
"Not a dime. For our help, for our guarantee that your books will be bestsellers, we ask only one thing. Af avor. One favor a year. A favor for each bestseller."
"What’s the favor?"
"We’ll come to that in a moment. But before we do, let me make sure you understand what we have to offer. I mean, if you were successful—and I mean no offense by this—then you wouldn’t be talking to me now. You need help. We can offer help. You’re in your mid-thirties, correct? Yes, I thought so. Not really old, but a bit late to start a new career plan. People do it, but it’s certainly no piece of cake, now, is it?"
Larry found that he was nodding in agreement.
"So," James continued, "what we want to do is give you success. We’re talking money in the millions of dollars, Mr. Melford. Fame. Respect. Most anything you’d want would beat your command. Exotic foods and wines? A snap of the fingers. Books? Cars? Women? A snap of the fingers. Anything your heart desires and it’s yours."
"But I have to make a small, initial investment, right?"
"Ah, suspicious by nature, are you?"
"Wouldn’t you be? My God, you’re offering me the world."
"So I am. But no . . . no investment. Picture this, Mr. Melford. You might get lucky and sell the work, might even have a bestseller. But the slots are getting smaller and smaller for new writers. And one reason for that is that our writers, our clients, are filling those slots, Mr. Melford. If it’s between your book and one of our clients’, and yours is ten times better written, our client will still win out. Every time."
"What you’re saying is, the fix is in?"
"A crude way of putting it, but rather accurate. Yes."
"What about talent, craftsmanship?"
"I wouldn’t know about any of that. I sell success, not books."
"But it’s the public that puts out its money for these books. They make or break an author. How can you know what they’ll buy?"
"Our advertising system is the best in the world. We know how to reach the public and how to convince. We also use subliminals, Mr. Melford. We flash images on television programs, theater films; we hide them in the art of wine and cigarette ads. Little things below conscious perception, but images that lock tight to the subconscious mind. People who would not normally pick up a book will buy our bestsellers."
"Isn’t that dishonest?"
"Who’s to tell in this day and age what’s right and wrong? It’s relative, don’t you think, Mr. Melford?"
Larry didn’t say anything.
"Look. The public pictures writers as rich, all of them. They don’t realize that the average full-time writer barely makes a living. Most of them are out there starving, and for what? Get on the winning side for a change, Mr. Melford. Otherwise, spend the rest of your life living in roach motels and living off the crumbs tossed you by the publishing world. And believe me, Mr. Melford, if you fail to join up with us, crumbs are all you’ll get. If you’re lucky."
The limousine had returned to the 7-Eleven parking lot. They were parked next to Larry’s car.
"I suppose," James said, "we’ve come to that point that the bullfighters call ‘the moment of truth.’ You sign on with us and you’ll be on Easy Street for the rest of your life."
"But we haven’t talked terms."
"No, we haven’t. It’s at this point that I must ask you to either accept or turn down our offer, Mr. Melford. Once I’ve outlined the terms, you must be in full agreement with us."
"Accept before I hear what this favor you’ve talked about is?"
"That’s correct. Bestseller or Bohemian, Mr. Melford. Which is it? Tell me right now. My time is valuable."
Larry paused only a moment. "Very well. Count me in. In for a penny, in for a pound. What’s the favor?"
"Each year, you assassinate someone for us."
Larry dove for the door handle, but it wouldn’t open. It had been locked electronically. James grabbed him by the wrist and held him tightly, so tightly Larry thought his bones would shatter.
"I wouldn’t," James said. "After what I’ve told you, you step out of this car and they’ll find you in a ditch this afternoon, obviously the victim of some hit-and-run driver."
"That’s . . . that’s murder."
"Yes, it is," James said. "Listen to me. You assassinate whomever we choose. We’re not discriminating as far as sex, color, religion or politics goes. Anyone who gets in our way dies. Simple as that. You see, Mr. Melford, we are a big organization. Our goal is world domination. You, and all our clients, are little helpers toward that goal. Who is more respected than a bestselling author? Who is allowed in places where others would not be allowed? Who is revered by public figures and the general public alike? An author—a bestselling author."
"But . . . it’s murder."
"There will be nothing personal in it. It’ll just be your part of the contract. One assassination a year that we’ll arrange."
"But if you’re so connected . . . why do it this way? Why not just hire a hit man?"
"In a sense, I have."
"I’m not an assassin. I’ve never even fired a gun."
"The amateur is in many ways better than the professional. He doesn’t fall into a pattern. When the time comes, we will show you what you have to do. If you decide to be with us, that is."
"And if not?"
"I told you a moment ago. The ditch. The hit-and-run driver."
Suddenly, Herman was standing at the door, his hand poised to open it.
"Which is it, Mr. Melford? I’m becoming impatient. A ditch or a bestseller? And if you have any ideas about going to the police, don’t. We have friends there, and you might accidentally meet one. Now, your decision."
"I’m in," Larry said, softly. "I’m in."
"Good," James said, taking Larry’s hand. "Welcome aboard. You get one of those books of yours out, pick out a publisher, and mail it in. And don’t bother with return postage. We’ll take care of the rest. Congratulations."
James motioned to Herman. The door opened. Larry got out. And just before the door closed, James said, "If you should have trouble coming up with something, getting something finished, just let me know and we’ll see that it gets written for you."
Larry stood on the sidewalk, nodding dumbly. Herman returned to the driver’s seat, and a moment later the tan limo from Bestsellers Guaranteed whispered away.
James was as good as his word. Larry mailed off one of his shopworn novels, a thriller entitled TEXAS BACKLASH, and a contract for a half million dollars came back, almost by return mail.
Six months later, the book hit the bestseller list and rode there for a comfortable three months. It picked up a two-million-dollar paperback sale and a big shot movie producer purchased it for twice that amount.
Larry now had a big mansion outside of Nacogdoches, Texas, with a maid, a cook, two secretaries and a professional yard man. Any type of food he wanted was his for the asking. Once he had special seafood flown in from the East Coast to Houston and hauled from there to his door by refrigerated truck.
Any first edition book he wanted was now within his price range. He owned four cars, two motorcycles, a private airplane and a yacht.
He could own anything—even people. They hopped at his every word, his most casual suggestion. He had money, and people wanted to satisfy those with money. Who knows, maybe it would rub off on them.
And there were women. Beautiful women. There was even one he had grown to care for, and believed cared for him instead of his money and position. Lovely Luna Malone.
But in the midst of all this finery, there was the favor. The thought of it rested on the back of his mind like a waiting vulture. And when a year had gone by, the vulture swooped in.
On a hot August day, the tan limo from Bestsellers Guaranteed pulled up the long, scenic drive to Larry’s mansion. A moment later, Larry and James were in Larry’s study and Herman stood outside the closed door with his arms akimbo, doing what he did best. Waiting silently.
James was dressed in black again. He still wore the thick-framed sun shades. "You know what I’ve come for, don’t you?"
Larry nodded. "The favor."
"On March fifteenth, Bestsellers Guaranteed will arrange for an autograph party in Austin for your new bestseller, whatever that may be. At eleven-fifteen, you will excuse yourself to go upstairs to the men’s room. Next door to it is a janitor’s lounge. It hasn’t been used in years. It’s locked but we will provide you with the key.
"At the rear of the lounge is a restroom. Lift off the back of the commode and you will discover eight small packages taped to the inside. Open these and fit them together and you’ll have a very sophisticated air rifle. One of the packages will contain a canister of ice, and in the middle, dyed red, you will find a bullet-shaped projectile of ice. The air gun can send that projectile through three inches of steel without the ice shattering.
"You will load the gun, go to the window, and at exactly eleven-twenty-five, the Governor will drive by in an open car in the midst of the parade. A small hole has been cut in the restroom window. It will exactly accommodate the barrel of the rifle and the scope will fit snugly against the glass. You will take aim, and in a manner of seconds, your favor for this year will be done."
"Why the Governor?"
"That is our concern."
"I’ve never shot a rifle."
"We’ll train you. You have until March. You won’t need to know much more than how to put the rifle together and look through the scope. The weapon will do the rest."
"If I refuse?"
"The bestselling author of TEXAS BACKLASH will be found murdered in his home by a couple of burglars, and a couple of undesirables will be framed for the crime. Don’t you think that has a nicer ring to it than the hit-and-run program I offered you before? Or perhaps, as a warning, we’ll do something to your lady friend. What’s her name, Luna?"
"You wouldn’t!"
"If it would offer incentive or achieve our desired goals, Mr. Melford, we would do anything."
"You bastard!"
"That’ll be quite enough, Mr. Melford. You’ve reaped the rewards of our services, and now we expect to be repaid.
"It seems a small thing to ask for your success—and certainly you wouldn’t want to die at the hands of other bestselling authors, the ones who will ultimately be your assassins."
In spite of the air-conditioning, Larry had begun to sweat. "Just who are you guys, really?"
"I’ve told you. We’re an organization with big plans. What we sponsor more than anything else, Mr. Melford, is moral corruption. We feed on those who thrive on greed and ego; put them in positions of power and influence. We belong to a group, to put it naively, who believe that once the silly concepts of morality and honor break down, then we, who really know how things work, can take control and make them work to our advantage. To put it even more simply, Mr. Melford, we will own it all."
"I . . . I can’t just cold-bloodedly murder someone."
"Oh, I think you can. I’ve got faith in you. Look around you, Mr. Melford. Look at all you’ve got. Think of what you’ve got to lose, then tell me if you can murder from a distance someone you don’t even know. I’ll wait outside with Herman for your answer. You have two minutes."
From the March fifteenth edition of The Austin Statesman, a front-page headline: "GOVERNOR ASSASSINATED, ASSASSIN SOUGHT."
From the same issue, page 4B:"BESTSELLING AUTHOR, LARRY MELFORD, SIGNS BOOKS."
Six months later, in the master bedroom of Larry Melford’s estate, Larry was sitting nude in front of the dresser mirror, clipping unruly nose hairs. On the bed behind him, nude, dark, luscious, lay Luna Malone. There was a healthy glow of sweat on her body as she lay with two pillows propped under her head; her raven hair was like an explosion of ink against their whiteness.
"Larry," she said. "you know, I’ve been thinking ... I mean there’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you, but haven’t said anything about it because ... well, I was afraid you might get the wrong idea. But now that we’ve known each other a while, and things look solid ... Larry, I’m a writer."
Larry quit clipping his nose hairs. He put the clipper on the dresser and turned very slowly. "You’re what?"
"I mean, I want to be. And not just now, not just this minute. I’ve always wanted to be. I didn’t tell you, because I was afraid you’d laugh, or worse, think I’d only got to know you so you could give me an in, but I’ve been writing for years and have sent book after book, story after story in, and just know I’m good, and well . . . "
"You want me to look at it?"
"Yeah, but more than that, Larry. I need an in. It’s what I’ve always wanted. To write a bestseller. I’d kill for . . . "
"Get out! Get the hell out!"
"Larry, I didn’t meet you for that reason. . . "
"Get the hell out or I’ll throw you out."
"Larry. . ."
"Now!" He stood up from the chair, grabbed her dressing gown. "Just go. Leave everything. I’ll have it sent to you. Get dressed and never let me see you again."
"Aren’t you being a little silly about this? I mean . . . "
Larry moved as fast as an eagle swooping down on a field mouse. He grabbed her shoulder and jerked her off the bed onto the floor.
"All right, you bastard, all right." Luna stood. She grabbed the robe and slipped into it. "So I did meet you for an in; what’s wrong with that? I bet you had some help along the way. It sure couldn’t have been because you’re a great writer. I can hardly force myself through that garbage you write."
He slapped her across the cheek so hard she fell back on the bed.
Holding her face, she got up, gathered her clothes and walked stiffly to the bathroom. Less than a minute later, she came out dressed, the robe over her shoulder.
"I’m sorry about hitting you," Larry said. "But I meant what I said about never wanting to see you again."
"You’re crazy, man. You know that? Crazy. All I asked you for was an in, just . . . "
Luna stopped talking. Larry had lifted his head to look at her. His eyes looked as dark and flat as the twin barrels of a shotgun.
"Don’t bother having Francis drive me home. I’ll call a cab from downstairs, Mr. Bigshot Writer."
She went out, slamming the bedroom door. Larry got up and turned off the light, went back to the dresser chair and sat in the darkness for a long time.
Nearly a year and a half later, not long after completing a favor for Bestsellers Guaranteed, and acquiring a somewhat rabid taste for alcoholic beverages, Larry was in the Houston airport waiting to catch a plane for Hawaii for a long vacation when he saw a woman in the distance who looked familiar. She turned and he recognized her immediately. It was Luna Malone. Still beautiful, a bit more worldly looking, and dressed to the hilt.
She saw him before he could dart away. She waved. He smiled. She came over and shook hands with him. "Larry, you aren’t still mad, are you?"
"No, I’m not mad. Good to see you. You look great."
"Thanks."
"Where’re you going?"
"Italy. Rome."
"Pope country," Larry said with a smile, but at his words. Luna jumped.
"Yes . . . Pope country."
The announcer called for the flight to Rome, Italy. Luna and Larry shook hands again and she went away.
To kill time. Larry went to the airport bookstores. He found he couldn’t even look at the big cardboard display with his latest bestseller in it. He didn’t like to look at bestsellers by anyone. But something did catch his eye. It was the cardboard display next to his. The book was called THE LITTLE STORM, and appeared to be one of those steamy romance novels. But what had caught his eye was the big, emblazoned name of the author—LUNA MALONE.
Larry felt like a python had uncoiled inside of him. He felt worse than he had ever felt in his life.
"Italy, Rome," she had said.
"Pope country," he had said, and she jumped.
Larry stumbled back against the rack of his book, and his clumsiness knocked it over. The books tumbled to the floor. One of them slid between his legs and when he looked down he saw that it had turned over to its back. There was his smiling face looking up at him. Larry Melford, big name author, bestseller, a man whose books found their way into the homes of millions of readers.
Suddenly, Hawaii was forgotten and Larry was running, running to the nearest pay phone. What had James said about moral corruption? "We feed on those who thrive on greed and ego . . . once silly concepts of morality and honor break down . . . we will own it all."
The nightmare had to end. Bestsellers Guaranteed had to be exposed. He would wash his hands with blood and moral corruption no more. He would turn himself in.
With trembling hand, he picked up the phone, put in his change, and dialed the police.
From today’s Houston Chronicle, front page headline:
"POPE ASSASSINATED."
From the same edition, the last page before the Want Ads, the last paragraph: "BESTSELLING AUTHOR MURDERED IN HOME." The story follows: "Police suspect the brutal murder of author Larry Melford occurred when he surprised burglars in the act. Thus far, police have been unable to . . . " 
 
"Bestsellers Guaranteed" was originally published in Espionage Magazine. It later appeared in Bestsellers Guaranteed, a collection of Lansdale’s short stories published by Ace Books. It is currently available in Bumper Crop, a collection published 2004 by Golden Gryphon Press. "Bestsellers Guaranteed" © 1985 Joe R. Lansdale.