The Salinger Contract by Adam Langer Read Free Book Online Page B

latter of whom were hoping that someday Conner’s books would be worth more than they were right now. He took his time signing; he had plenty of it. The only items left on his schedule were a ride to his hotel, sleep, then a six a.m. trip to the airport. He would catch his flight to LaGuardia. He would pick up his car and drive it back to the Pokes, where he would have a serious conversation with Angie about selling the house.
    Conner capped his Sharpie and was getting ready to leave when he saw another man waiting for him to sign his book. He hadn’t noticed the man during the reading, and felt fairly sure he must have shown up long after it had begun because, given his leathery face and imposing presence, he certainly would have remembered him.
    â€œWas he anyone you recognized?” I asked.
    â€œNo,” said Conner.
    â€œWho was he?”
    â€œHe said his name was Pavel.”

8
    P avel wore sunglasses. He was a bulky man in a mothballed tweed jacket, black shirt, and dark pants, all of which seemed a little tight for him, and he had a demeanor and sense of personal space that would have indicated he was Eastern European even before he opened his mouth and revealed his accent. Conner said he looked as if he might once have worked on a security detail for Vladimir Putin. He was hulking over the signing table, thumbing through a copy of Ice Locker when Conner caught his attention and asked if he wanted him to sign the book. The man nodded with a slightly sardonic smile that suggested a sly sense of humor at work beneath the thuggish presence, the bullish posture, and the shades. There was a bulge near one of his shoulders that made it look like he might have been carrying a weapon.
    The man proffered his copy of Ice Locker . “If you plizz ,” he said.
    Conner took the book from the man, who told him how much he had enjoyed it. Odd—the man didn’t give off the impression of being much of a reader, and Conner was further surprised when he told him how accurate his novels always were, how much specific detail they provided about forensics and police procedures.
    â€œYou know my work,” said Conner.
    â€œI do.”
    â€œSo,” Conner asked. “Who should I make it out to? The signature?”
    â€œMake it ‘To Dex.’”
    â€œSure.” Conner signed and dated the book, at which point Pavel slid a stack of about a dozen books across the table and placed them in front of Conner.
    â€œAll these too,” Pavel said.
    â€œSignatures on all of them?” Conner asked.
    â€œYes. And make them all ‘To Dex,’” said Pavel.
    â€œYou must be quite a fan,” said Conner.
    â€œDex is, yes.”
    Conner stopped in the act of signing. “You’re not Dex?”
    â€œThat I am not. But he would like to meet you.”
    â€œWho? Dex? Is he here?” Conner continued to sign the books that Pavel was placing before him.
    â€œNo, but I can take you to him whenever you like.”
    â€œI don’t think so, buddy; I don’t swing that way,” said Conner.
    â€œNeither does Dex.” Pavel took off his sunglasses and looked directly into Conner’s eyes. The man reminded Conner of that coyote he had seen at the Lincoln Park Zoo—searching, scheming, alone.
    â€œIt would be worth your while. I guarantee this,” Pavel said, and after Conner asked him what he meant, Pavel told him Dex wanted to make Conner “a sort of proposal.”
    The proposals Conner tended to get from strangers at readings were usually either bizarre or depressing, most often some combination of the two. Sometimes, a writer wanted Conner’s opinion on a manuscript or a recommendation for an agent or editor. Once in a while, there was a woman, usually unhappily married—she would want to know how long Conner was staying in town and if he had time for a drink. Conner always kept his responses polite yet guarded. He gave the writers