AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Draco’s comments give The Ultimate Position a nice boost—34 copies the first day, 112 within a week. A handful of readers complain in comments that the book is too highbrow to count as a real thriller, but the majority of people who weigh in on iAgatha. com seem to like it, and several salute the psychological depth of the characters. One person, commenting under the handle hotpants911, makes the point, “Alice Upshaw shows that sex can be as mysterious and scary as murder!”
Out of curiosity, Lincoln searches out the bona fides of Draco DiVergilio, that condescending asshole and discerning critic. A little work on the Internet yields the secret that he is really Edmund Hermanson, U of C ’82, BA English. God bless the old alma mater, Lincoln thinks.
Around that time, Lincoln visits the iAgatha offices, and Jimmy pulls him aside. “I was getting ready to pay Alice Upshaw her first royalties, and I saw that all the contact information is for you,” he tells Lincoln quietly. “What gives?”
Lincoln has planned for this contingency. As far as he knows, aside from Amy and him, the only people who saw the manuscript of The Ultimate Position were Duddleston, Gregor, the elderly copy editor, and Amy’s mother. Mrs. O’Malley would never out her daughter as author. Gregor, the original cover designer, never reads a manuscript; he just works from what the editor tells him. The copy editor has subsequently moved to Arizona. And Duddleston? Even if, through a huge coincidence, he were to come upon the published book, Mr. Personal Discretion would never volunteer the secret—at least not without checking with Amy.
“Alice wanted it all to go through me,” Lincoln explains to Jimmy. “I told you, she’s neurotically private, and she didn’t want to risk any detection.”
“But the checks?”
“You can send them to me, and I will pass them on. I’ll get a receipt from her to prove that I made the payment.”
Jimmy cocks his head and carefully considers Lincoln. Over the course of working at iAgatha, Lincoln has come to realize that for all his mussed hair and youthful enthusiasm, Jimmy is quite shrewd and protective of the tiny publishing empire he has helped build. Plus, he’s the son of a cop.
Lincoln adds, “There’s not that much money at stake, anyway. If there’s any kind of a problem, I’ll make good on it.”
“Whatever,” says Jimmy, and he walks away.
Half an hour later, as Lincoln is leaving, Jimmy follows him into the hall, where they are alone. “So,” he says, suppressing a smirk, “are you Alice Upshaw? Did you write that book?”
“God, no,” says Lincoln, who has prepared for this question, too. “It’s all Alice. Well, I gave her editing advice, but it’s her book. Do you think I could write from a woman’s point of view like that?”
“I suppose not,” says Jimmy, amused by the situation. “But you know, there are some pretty weird people in Wicker Park.”
“Not me,” says Lincoln, adding after a silly laugh, “at least, not in that way. I’m just honoring the promise I gave Alice.”
“Your secret is safe with me,” Jimmy assures.
Lincoln considers alerting Amy to the uptick in her book’s fortunes but chooses against it. She’d sounded so settled, so confident in her decision to move on in her life that he’s wary of intruding. He feels a bit like an unwanted suitor. Besides, he suspects she’s logged in to see what’s going on, and she hasn’t called to talk about it. He mails her a check for royalties with the simple note attached, “Buy yourself a bottle of good Scotch!”
He’s been reluctant to press the book on Flam, but Flam asks about it several times, so—with Draco’s nod bolstering Lincoln’s confidence—he finally prints out a copy and sends it over to his friend at the Tribune. Then he hears nothing for a week. Finally, Flam calls: he’s been too busy with book review work to read it, but he’s about to go on a cruise up the Nile and he’ll pack the manuscript.
“A cruise?” Lincoln asks, startled.
“Yes. A deal came up, and I’ve always been interested in Egyptology.”
“You’re going by yourself?”
“Why not?” Flam asks defensively. “I don’t need a companion to certify my pleasure.” Then he pauses and lets his guard down. “Besides, a cruise may not be a bad place to stir some romance—you know, meet a mature single woman traveling with her mother.”
“Maybe in a nineteenth-century novel.”
“You’re too callow,” Flam says. “You miss the transcendent verities.”
“Send me a postcard,” Lincoln tells his friend.
Ten days later, a postcard arrives. On one side is a photograph from 1887 showing two men—they must be English—in khaki traveling suits and pith helmets standing in front of the Great Sphinx at Giza. The men are tall, slender, slightly stooped—in shape and aspect, both are dead ringers for Flam himself. The note on the other side is brief: “Trip a delight. Ship infested with eligible spinster daughters, many trailing fat dowries. You may never see me again. Enjoying The Ultimate Position. Strong start. Eager to get to the sex parts. F.”
By then, it’s early May. With Draco’s help, the book has sold 325 copies, but sales have tailed off. It’s been more than a week since anyone has posted a comment. Lincoln understands the dynamic: The Ultimate Position has enjoyed a modest, brief run, and now the world has moved on. When he thinks back on the expectations he once built around the book, he feels slightly chagrined, as if at the end of a play he had stood to applaud noisily, urging the actors to repeat their bows, while the rest of the audience only tapped their palms together politely and shot him sullen stares from their seats, already worrying about getting their cars out of the garage, racing home to tuck in the kids, having a drink before bed. Still, he senses that he’s learned something, even if he can’t put it into words. In a small way, Lincoln’s ordeal has eased. His arm doesn’t ache as often.
28
LINCOLN TURNS THIRTY-FOUR on a Saturday by himself. His sister sends a card. His parents call. (His father, not unkindly: “By thirty-four, the die is pretty well cast. If you’re going to change direction, it had better be soon.”) Nothing from Mary. That morning, as usual, he tunes in WBEZ, the local NPR station, while he does the dishes and gets dressed. In the shower, he goes over his plans for the day—he’ll do a few hours of work on an iAgatha manuscript from a lady in Lodi, California, and then take a bike ride up along the lake, past Evanston and on through the bejeweled towns of the North Shore. No real destination, just good exercise.
When Lincoln steps out of the shower, someone he knows is talking in the living room. Startled and anxious, Lincoln wraps himself in a towel and hurries out to see who’s there. It’s Tony Buford, being interviewed on BEZ. Apparently, Pistakee has published Buford’s book of poems after all—Duddleston must have decided that publication was easier and cheaper than dealing with a lawsuit. Now the book is doing well by poetry’s standards—Buford mentions casually that Pistakee already has gone back for a second printing.
How could Lincoln have been so wrong? He’d been embarrassed by the book and dreaded publishing it. Contemplating his monumental misjudgments, Lincoln stands dripping on the hardwood floor and grips the back of the sofa to steady himself.
