Relentless. Dean Koontz
me. I’ve already let it go.”
“He’s a strange man. He always makes his reservation in the name Edmund Wilson.”
Surprised, surveying the room, I said, “He comes here?”
“Seldom dinner. More often lunch.”
“How about that.”
“He’s always alone, pays cash.”
“You’re sure it’s him? Nobody seems to know what he looks like.”
“Twice he was short of cash,” Hamal said. “He used a credit card. Shearman Waxx. He’s a very strange man.”
“Well, rest assured, if he had a reservation for tonight and I were to run into him, there wouldn’t be a scene. Criticism doesn’t bother me.”
“In fact, he has a twelve-thirty lunch reservation tomorrow,” said Hamal.
“Criticism comes with the territory.”
“He’s a damned strange man.”
“A review is only one person’s opinion.”
Hamal said, “He creeps me out a little.”
“I’ve already let it go. You know what it’s like. The restaurant gets a bad review—c’est la vie. You just keep on keepin’ on.”
“We’ve never had a bad review,” Hamal said.
Embarrassed by the assumption I had made, I said, “Why would you? This place is perfection.”
“Do you get many bad reviews?”
“I don’t keep track. Maybe ten percent aren’t good. Maybe twelve percent. My third book—that was like fourteen percent. I don’t dwell on the negative. Ninety percent good reviews is gratifying.”
“Eighty-six percent,” said Hamal.
“That was only for my third book. Some critics didn’t think the dwarf was necessary.”
“I like dwarfs. I have a cousin in Armenia, he’s a dwarf.”
“Even if you use a dwarf as your hero, you have to call him a ‘little person.’ The word dwarf just incenses some critics.”
“This critic of yours, he always reminds me of my cousin.”
“You mean Shearman Waxx is a dwarf?”
“No. He’s about five feet eight. But he’s stumpy.”
The front door opened, a party of four entered, and Hamal went to greet them.
A moment later, Penny returned from the lavatory. Settling in her chair, she said, “I’m going to finish this delightful wine before deciding on dessert.”
“That reminds me—Hud wants to buy our wine this evening. He says send him the receipt.”
“That would be wasting a perfectly good stamp.”
“He might pay for half the bottle. He sent us champagne that time.”
“It wasn’t champagne. It was sparkling cider. Anyway, why would he suddenly want to buy our wine?”
“To celebrate the Waxx review.”
“The man is criminally obtuse.”
“He’s not that bad. Just clueless.”
“I don’t like how he’s always pushing to be my agent, too.”
“He negotiates killer deals,” I said.
“But he doesn’t know squat about children’s books.”
“He has to know something. He was a child at one time.”
“I doubt that very much. I said something about Dr. Seuss once, and Hud thought I was talking about a physician.”
“A misunderstanding. He was concerned about you.”
“I mention Dr. Seuss and somehow Hud gets the idea I’ve got a terminal disease.”
Being defense attorney for Hud Jacklight is a thankless job. I gave it up.
Penny said, “He happened to have lunch in the same restaurant as my editor, so he asked her—does she know how long I’ve got to live. The man is a total—”
“Flying furnal?” I suggested.
“I wish a furnal would fly up his—”
“Buckaboody?” I suggested, inventing a word of my own.
“Exactly,” Penny said. “This wine is lovely. I’m not going to ruin the memory of it by having to pester Hud for reimbursement.”
As far as I can remember, in ten years I had never kept secret from Penny anything that occurred in my daily life. At that moment, I could not have explained why I failed to share with her that Shearman Waxx sometimes ate at Roxie’s Bistro. Later, I figured it out.
“Are you thinking about the Waxx review again?” she asked.
“No. Not exactly. Maybe a little. Sort of.”
“Let it go,” she said.
“I am. I’m letting it go.”
“No. You’re dwelling on it. Distract yourself.”
“With what?”
“With life. Take me home and make love to me.”
“I thought we were getting dessert.”
“Aren’t I sweet enough for you?”
“There it is,” I said.
“What?”
“That crooked little smile you get sometimes. I love that crooked little smile.”
“Then take me home and do something with it, big boy.”
Having gotten up at three in the morning to do thirty radio interviews, I had no difficulty falling asleep that Tuesday night.
I endured one of my lost-and-alone dreams. Sometimes it is set in a deserted department store, sometimes in a vacant amusement park or in a train terminal where no trains depart and none arrive.
This time, I roamed a vast and dimly lighted library, where the shelves soared high overhead. The intersecting aisles were not perpendicular to one another, but serpentine, as if reflecting the manner in which one area of knowledge can lead circuitously and unexpectedly to a seemingly unrelated field of inquiry.
This library of the slumbering mind was buried in a silence as solid and as sinuous as the drifted sands of Egypt. No step I took produced a sound.
The wandering passageways were catacombs without the mummified remains, harboring instead lives and the work of lifetimes set down on paper, bound with glue and signature thread.
As always in a lost-and-alone dream, I remained anxious but not afraid. I proceeded in expectation of a momentous discovery, a thing of wonder and delight, although the possibility of terror remained.
When the dream is in a labyrinthine train station, the silence is sometimes broken by footsteps that lure me before they fade. In a department store, I hear a faraway feminine laugh that draws me from kitchenware through bed-and-bath and down a frozen escalator.
In this library, the thrall of silence allowed a single crisp sound now and then, as if someone in an adjacent aisle was paging through a book. Searching, I found neither a patron nor a librarian.
An urgency gripped me. I walked faster, ran, turned a corner into what might