1

Guardian Lions

The giant stone lions outside the New York Public Library watched me walk down the great steps, my breath reaching out before me in the cold. They seemed to be there as my personal protection, looking out for me as I stood waiting for the bus.

I pulled my coat collar up against the freezing rain of the January evening and looked around to smile at the stone guardians, still and vigilant. But they didn't blink as the dark SUV swerved, jumped the curb and headed straight for me. I caught it out of the corner of my eye and rolled toward the great steps, notebooks flying.

A woman screamed and horns blared as I came to rest at the bottom step, sitting in a puddle of slush, my knees and elbows pulsing. The black monster, twice the size of a standard sedan, squealed, tires skidding and swung back onto the street. Four frightened pedestrians were also sitting on the sidewalk, thanking whatever deity protected them for their narrow escapes.

“Are you OK?” asked a man in a uniform. The patch indicated a private company. He was a hired security guard, possible for the library.

“I think so.” I took the offered hand and pulled myself up to my feet. “Shaken is all.” My notebooks were blowing across the intersection of Fifth Avenue and Forty-Second Street, ignored by the ever increasing number of cars filling the street.

“I'll help you gather up what we can,” said the guard.

“Thanks,” I replied, glad for the help.

It took us a quarter-hour to collect all we could without risk to life and limb. There were no injuries, no one hit; the incident was ignored by the passing police. An SUV jumps the curb a lot these days, so many people are on the phone, driving with one hand, while also drinking coffee and smoking a cigarette. It was dark when I finally gave up on the rest of my notes.

“Student?” asked the guard, handing me the remnants of a loose-leaf notebook.

“Novelist. I've got a pipe and a bottle of Jack Daniels at home to prove it.”

“Ah! Researching a story?”

“Yeah, my publisher wants something relevant.”

“Well, OK. Keep an eye out for wild SUVs.” He slapped me on the arm like a drinking buddy and turned to lope up the steps.

“Thanks,” I called after him. He waved a hand over his shoulder and was gone into the great hall of the library. The twin lions said nothing. Their protection was apparently at an end. From here out, I was on my own.

The bus pulled up, further soaking my pants cuffs. I got on, thinking of myself as lucky to have been missed by a run-away vehicle, unlucky for losing my notes in the slush. Maybe I was lucky to have lost no more than a few pieces of paper in a city with one of the highest crime rates in the country.

I didn't really care for New York, but it's where the agents and publishers are. And after all, I am a novelist. I have a laptop: cheap, reliable, and portable, containing a basic writing program and not much else. I didn't need anything else, I was a novelist and colorful as hell. That was what I reminded myself as I opened the door to my tiny apartment in the Village. “I'm a New York novelist and I'm colorful as hell!”

I threw my coat over the back of the couch and my notebooks down on the rug. I'd sort them out later and see if I had saved anything. Most of the concepts were in my head, but the details were on the paper.

I used to think that the trick of being a novelist is to make enough money to survive until you are dead and your novels and worth something. Now I see that it is a matter of staying alive until you finish your novel. If you are on the right track, you see, there are people you will meet along that track who want to kill you. I didn't think that at the time, the SUV might have been a fluke, an accident. No one was hurt, after all.

I moved to New York to be a novelist. My short stories had won a few competitions, appeared in a few presses and occasionally got printed in my home town mag, the Durham Scuttlebutt, just because I'm from there. I had three novels written: a murder mystery about a man unjustly accused, a sci-fi about alien invasions and an urban action book about the residents of a small, inner-city neighborhood. I got tired of sending, waiting and getting rejected by half of the publishers I approached, and ignored by the other half. A company tapping into the new technologies of print-on-demand, Lapazoo-dot-com, made me an offer I couldn't refuse – self-publish for free. I liked that last word – free. I put the first two on Lapazoo and sat back to wait for my millions to come in.

My third novel was still going around, getting the same responses so far. If I didn't make headway soon, I planned putting it out on my own through Lapazoo like I had the previous two. Do all the work, but keep all the money. There were only two things wrong with that thinking. One: there was no money coming in, and two: I would sure like to be a published novelist.

To truly be a published novelist, you had to have your ticket stamped by one of the bona-fide publishers of the world. A pat on the head and a writer's advance from a name publisher was what made you a writer. That's why I was in New York. But when the offer came it didn't come from New York, but from Canada.

2

Winslow Publishing Group

The call came a week after New Years. The phone woke me up from a mid-afternoon nap. I wasn't tired or exhausted from work, just bored and unable to do anything constructive other than nap. So the phone rang, I woke up and answered it.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Richmond?”

“Yes, this is Jack Richmond,” I said, sleepily.

“Robert Maynard of Winslow Publishing Group, Toronto. Am I calling at a bad time?”

“No, Mr. Maynard, this is a good time.” I rubbed my eyes, looked around, reminding myself what day it was, hoping I could get into present time fast enough to sound intelligent.

My mind went into overdrive as I plowed through the confusion of my desktop looking for a piece of blank paper and a pen that worked. I was trying to recall what I had sent to the Winslow Publishing Group. Was it a short story, query or full manuscript?

“Oh, good. I wanted to discuss your next novel with you.”

“My next novel? You mean the one I sent you?” I was bluffing, hoping I was actually in the conversation.

“No, no. You haven't actually sent us a novel, but we were able to download the text of two of your novels from the net. You have them on your site. Do you have another one going around?”

“Yes, my third novel, Hunting the Hunters. I thought perhaps I had sent you a query letter, or even a manuscript. I have one I can get off to you if you...”

“It isn't really what I want to discuss. Are you free for dinner tomorrow night?”

“Yes, I'm sure I can free up tomorrow evening.” My calendar was clear, but I tried to sound professional rather than having nothing going for me.

“Excellent! I'll be flying in and will call you to let you know where we'll meet. Until then, Mr. Richmond.”

“Uh, sure. Goodbye, then,” I said to a dead phone. He had already hung up. I stood there looking at the receiver, but it said nothing.

The following evening found me trying to quell my nerves in the The Renaissance Hotel near Times Square. The restaurant was a bit posh for my taste, but Mr. Maynard had called the dance. It was my hope he would also be paying the fiddler.

Robert Maynard sat down with a smile that belonged on a used car salesman. He put two manuscripts on the table in front of him, one thin, the other thick. He wore a brown suit that matched his hair. His collar was open and he had a rakish smile.

“Robert Maynard of Winslow Publishing Group,” he said, shoving a hand across the table. “I've been enjoying your work.” Maynard patted the two manuscripts.

“Did I send you manuscripts?” I said, trying to remember a Winslow Publishing Group in my collection of rejection letters.

“No, I downloaded these from Lapazoo-dot-com.” Maynard let that sink in, pretending to look at the passing desert cart. He had actually spent money, though just a few bucks, to download my manuscripts. He also flew from Toronto to see me. I was impressed. Perhaps my ship was coming in.

“'The Tamlin Accusation,'” said Maynard, shifting his gaze over to the top manuscript.

“Yes, that was my first book. Reggie Tamlin is falsely accused of murder. He is interviewed by the police and...”

“Yes, I read it. Interesting. Get any bites?” Maynard looked at me through his eyebrows without raising his head.

“Uh, no. That's why I put it on Lapazoo.”

“Any buyers?”

“A few,” I lied. If he had downloaded a copy of eacy, Lapazoo would be sending me a check at the end of the quarter. It would be my first.

“'Reggie Tamlin.' Not the best name for a hero. Is it based on a true story?”

“No, it's fiction.” I tilted my head, wondering where he was going with this.

A waiter stopped by the table. Maynard waved him away and opened his menu. When the waiter was gone, he closed the menu again.

“'Alien Influence,'” he said casually, lifting the corner of the top manuscript to reveal the second below.

“My foray into science fiction. An alien life form comes to Earth...”

“Yes, I read it. Interesting that you would choose these cities for your story, New York, Durham and Lisbon.” Maynard looked up at me, expecting an answer.

“I know these cities, that's why. I have been to Lisbon, I grew up in Durham and I now live in New York.”

“Of course. That makes sense. And your third novel?”

“'Hunting the Hunters,'” I said, pulling the manuscript from my book bag. “It's about a group of average citizens who decide to take over their neighborhood from the criminal element that has made it a dangerous place to live.”

“Sounds good. I'd like to read it,” said Maynard, with a tilt of his head.

I shoved the manuscript to the middle of the table. Maynard looked at it, then at me. He made no effort to reach for the manuscript.

“But it is your next novel that interests me, Mr. Richmond. You show some talent, a particular knack for fiction. A little strengthening in the areas of title and character naming and you could turn into a novelist. I'd like you to write a book.”

“For you?” I was not quite sure what he was asking.

“Well, you write the book and I'll publish it. Of course, I'll have a few suggestions and I would expect you to take them and run with them. There are things I'll mention and you would be wise to pick up on them. One thing in particular right off the bat. Are you up for it?”

“What's the one thing?”

“Relevance!” He looked at me and I looked back, for several seconds a staring contest was held at the small table.

“Relevance,” I repeated, hoping doing so would let him know that I understood. Also hoping I would understand by the repetition of the word.

“Yes, Mr. Richmond, relevance. A novel today has to be relevant. You can write about theft or murder, they are timeless, but if you put it as a theft of a relevant piece of information regarding a terrorist group or the murder of a presidential candidate, you are relevant. People will read it because it has to do with their lives, with what's happening right now on the news. Your next novel will concern itself with national security versus the individual's right to privacy, which is much in our thoughts today.”

He sat quietly, letting that sink in. Personal privacy was an issue, slipping away since Nine-Eleven. We had traded privacy for security in the wake of the attack on the World Trade Center. A couple of years before I had heard someone say that when Americans lose their freedoms, they won't be ripped away or stolen, but the public will request, even demand, that they be taken away. Sure enough, that is just what happened. We demanded higher security, all under the heading of locking the door after the horse was gone. Higher security did us little good; identity theft was the fastest growing crime of the new millennium. Personal privacy had been traded for public safety, in the process, we had lost our right to our own selves.

It hadn't occurred to me to put these facts into a novel. I write fiction. Fiction isn't about what happens, it's about what doesn't happen.

“So you want a novel that has loss of personal privacy as the main issue.”

“Yes. We are trying to guard who we are, and want to be safe, but to do so, we have to have cameras everywhere, enter our personal information on a daily basis and expose ourselves to inspection at every turn. It's no wonder our personal information gets stolen and misused on a daily basis. It's what's happening, it's today. Write a story about that. Put your hero in the middle of it and see where it goes. It will take research.”

“And you will publish my novel?”

“If it's good. I'm taking you under my wing, so to speak. You have talent, it shows.” He patted the manuscripts under his hand. “I'd like to see you write something that reflects what is happening today. In the meantime, I'll read,” he looked at the title page of the third manuscript, sounding the words out, “'Hunting the Hunters.'”

3

The First Novel

Adam Hanson sat at his computer tapping his finger gently on the mouse. He had accepted the assignment from his publisher before he realized the hornets nest he was getting into. He had taken it without thinking, mainly because he had experienced identity theft himself, last year when he found a couple of thousand dollars charged to his card for things he had purchased in Barbados. He had never been to Barbados.

It took him a couple of months and a lot of proof on his side to convince the credit card company to remove the charges from his bill. When they did, they also gave him several late charges for the months the higher amount was not paid and raised his interest rate. He canceled the card and the balance came due immediately. It was a credit nightmare.

“Are you going to be wanting lunch, Adam?” asked Kim, the copy girl, as she passed his desk.

“No, Kim. Thanks. Not hungry.”

“Okey-dokey!” Kim continued down the row of desks, each with a computer terminal, each piled with papers and post-its.

That's where I stopped. My journalist hero was also stumped. He didn't know how to begin with identity theft and how it balanced with privacy invasion anymore than I did. Recipe for a Scandal was halted before the first ingredient could be sifted.

We had given up lots of privacy in the name of National Security. The government was listening to our phone calls in case we say words like “Taliban.” We're strip-searched at airports and asked for several pieces of ID at every turn. I knew about the absurdities of airport security, considering it a conspiracy to get us to take the train.

“Tap-tap-tap.” It was Teri's knock, timid and non-invasive. I got up to go to the door, checking to make sure I was fully in my pajamas.

Not that it mattered; Teri and I were special friends. Not “friends with benefits” or lovers, but friends who forgave being in your PJs and having bead-head.

And a good thing, too. Teri looked like the Wreck of the Hesperus. I opened the door to find her in her housecoat, no makeup and her hair resembling a sea anemone.

“Got any coffee?” Teri asked.

“Yeah, c'mon in.” I stood aside as Teri walked into my place, clashing in blue fuzzy slippers and pink housecoat.

“Great. Got any pancakes?”

“Yeah, them too. Have a seat, I'll make some.”

“No, you were working, I'll do it.” Teri gave me a touch on the chest and slumped to the kitchenette.

“I wasn't really, I was stumped. I know very little about the current state of affairs regarding our loss of privacy and how that relates to identity theft. Are the two really connected?”

“Oh yeah!” Teri seemed to know more about it than I did.

Teresa Delainey was a transplant from upstate New York who caught the acting bug in college. She quit in her third year and moved to the city. She had been here five years and we had been friends for that long. And we were fast-friends. We had both had dates, but neither of us have had stay-over lovers. If we had, the other would have been the first to know.

“In England,” said Teri, “there's over four million surveillance camera, some of them fitted with loudspeakers. If you drop your gum wrapper, a voice shouts, 'Put that in the bin, please.'”

“Big Brother at work,” I said, sitting down at the kitchen table.

As I did, a feeling of being incomplete came over me. I felt as if I should have a pad and pencil, taking notes as Teri went about straightening the kitchenette.

“Well, people don't mind because besides crime being down, fights have been broken up, litterbugs have been scolded and skateboarders have stopped rolling through traffic. In most cases a warning will do. After all, a word to the wise is sufficient.”

“What if it doesn't and it's a real crime.”

“Then the video becomes evidence for when an arrest is made.”

“Sounds scary.” I was interested, but more interested in coffee. Now that it had been mentioned, I wished I had made it first thing.

“Probably, I don't know. But the people seem to be fine with it. Well, except those who have been arrested for minor offenses they considered not worth thinking about.”

“But other than that, they're cool with it?”

“Not everyone, of course. There's Privacy International, who's against what it calls psychological warfare on the public. I mean, it is a bit '1984.'”

“Not to mention that there are those who would gladly throw a park bench at a camera when told to pick up that gum wrapper.”

“Still, most people weigh the intrusion into their privacy against the freedom to go out and feel safe. I mean,” Teri turned to me with a spatula in her hand, an oven mitt on the other, “most people behave pretty good, it's only a few who have no respect for the rules. Sometimes I wish we had cameras at the theater, so we could see who's putting their cigarettes out on the stage floor.”

Teri turned around to attend to the pancakes.

“I mean,” she continued, “most people get more upset when their night out is spoiled by a small percentage of people who misbehave, are drunk or are a gang looking for someone to victimize.”

“OK, OK, so the prediction is coming true, people will ask for their freedoms to taken away, in fact, demand it. Are there people asking 'Hey, when do we get a camera and a loudspeaker in our neighborhood?'”

“I don't know, I just read an article. I take a magazine to an audition and read it twice before they get to me.”

I pictured Teri at an audition, dressed to the nines, full makeup, a little exaggerated for stage effect, hair done up, nail polish, heels, all pressed and neat. Few got to see her as I did. I felt special.

“I think I need that article. Research.”

“I'll see if I can find it. I might still have it. Ah! Coffee.”

The smell of fresh brewed coffee filled the air and the controversial camera and loudspeakers of England were soon forgotten. I knew that citizens of Israel were used to being searched as they go in and out of shopping malls. They consider it a small price to pay for an extra level of safety against a bomb being smuggled in.

Teri flopped down on the chair across from me with a plate of pancakes. She passed a plate to me and went for the strawberry jam. I knew I had to hit the Internet for some research, as well as my favorite hiding place, the New York Public Library.

4

Toronto Publishing Office

“Why Jack Richmond?” asked Tony Gillespie, the tall man thumbing through the stack of folders.

Robert Maynard was looking out at the snow that covered the Toronto cityscape. Snow removal equipment was just moving out onto the streets, making way for the oncoming rush of traffic as people made their way to work. Maynard had been in his office for hours already.

“He's a good researcher. Once he gets rolling, he'll delve into places where we wouldn't think of going. He's only a fair writer, but he does find things. If he can write them into his book, he could be an information source for us. Besides, I like traveling to New York; it makes me appreciate Toronto.”

“We have a number of good potentials here in these files, good writers, some in places that are warm. Why can't we approach them?”

“I like this one. He's raw, has talent. Let the others approach them.” Maynard waved his hand at the door and the many similar offices with similar people doing similar work on the other side of it.

Theirs had been a medium sized publishing firm until a few months before when they took on a strange client with a strange request. Since then, the staff had doubled, readers became assistants, meetings to choose which books to publish and which to leave in the slush pile had ceased. Nothing had been released in that time and what scant promotion they did on the books they had released stopped cold. Maynard was not happy with the change, but embraced it as a new challenge and he did enjoy the increase in pay offered by the new administration.

He had researched and rejected several writers before finding Jack Richmond. The instructions were to avoid journalists, find authors; have them research their subjects and submit their manuscripts. Beyond that, well, it was a most unusual request. Maynard spent much of his time pondering it.

The parent company that bought Winslow Publishing Group in early fall was called Dunning Research. Their purpose, as stated in their brochure, was the testing of public opinion. Dunning had their finger on the pulse beat of the nation's feelings about this, that and the other. From Anchorage to Key West, including Canada in the major cities, novel writers were putting their current projects down in favor of new works with a single idea as their core concept. Maynard was given Privacy Invasion, from mini-mart cameras to government surveillance. How did the public feel about having their every move watched, monitored and evaluated as to it's rightness or wrongness?

The publishing company was not the only angle Dunning was getting on public opinion. At their main location on the outskirts of Toronto was a room full of people reading newspapers and magazines, letters to the editors and so on. Maynard had seen it on his orientation visit to the company. Another room held rows of computers manned by colorful young people who looked like they should still be in school, or had just been thrown out for dress-code violations. They spent their days in chat rooms, blogs and instant messaging to the end of determining what their peers thought on certain subjects.

“Our 'drop-out lounge,'” said the girl who was showing Maynard to the conference room. “They were admonished for those activities when in school, so they dropped out and came to work here where their talents are appreciated. Most of them are on their phones and Blackberries at the same time.” The girl smiled and continued down the hall.

Maynard thought it was a strange – and expensive – way of gathering information. At the orientation briefing, he gleaned the reason: Dunning didn't want anyone to know what they were doing or why. It was advertising research and the information was highly prized in the marketing world. Other companies would do everything including illegal activities to gain the knowledge as to what toothpaste would be popular next year. In the case of Winslow Publishing Group, subjects such as personal security discs, home security systems and the like were on their list. The concept of using hundreds of starry-eyed writers to research books that would never get printed never struck Dunning as wrong and if Maynard wanted to keep his job, he had better not consider it either.

Now, sitting in his office, pondering his new travel expenses package and nearly doubled income, Maynard didn't consider it. Research was a good thing for writers. To do so with incentive is a good thing. Robert Maynard reminded himself of this daily.

“He hasn't done much research for his first three novels,” said Gillespie, thumbing through the manuscript of Hunting the Hunters. “This stuff is out of his head. He never left his chair at the local coffee shop.”

“He's energetic. He's a quick study. He'll learn,” said Maynard.

“You have a magic 8-ball you're looking into?” asked Gillespie.

“The force is strong with him. Happy?” Maynard got up, grabbed his coat, hat, scarf and gloves and went out of the door. The conversation was over.

Please log in or sign up to review this excerpt.