Steve’s shorts: The Interview…
The Interview
Copyright 2017, Steven M. Moore
From his screened-in porch, Adam Hart heard the grinding gears. Someone wasn’t skilled in driving stick, but the driver was coming along the windy, gravel road leading to his cabin. He went inside, unlocked his gun case, and took the shotgun back to the porch and propped it up by the chair he had been sitting in. Nothing like disturbing my peace and quiet!
He’d been enjoying the bird calls, the sound of a woodpecker off in the distance, and an intimate dialogue with the rushing waters from a nearby brook. His sanctuary from the Upper West Side had allowed him to produce thirty-two books, most featuring his irascible detective Leo Goretti and his cop partner, Emily Durnin. Adam’s laptop sat beside him on the table, open and ready for action. It wasn’t connected to wi-fi—there was no internet service within miles. He liked it that way.
He soon saw the jeep was a rental with New York plates. The muddy entrance road had done its job of making the vehicle’s color indeterminate. A woman was driving. She stopped in front of the porch and stepped down, a tall, angular figure, and a younger version of his agent who had spent many years badgering him about publishing deadlines. He never met them. Never intended to do so.
Nowadays he’d prefer a comfortable small press or going indie where he’d represent more than substantial paychecks for editorial support staff and his agent. The big traditional publishers milked their big names all they could. He could still make money writing, but he knew a lot of new or less established writers couldn’t hope for that. When he used to give lectures to newbies, he’d always recommend never to leave their day-jobs until they won the lottery of having a bestseller.
“Adam Hart?” said the woman.
“Wrong cabin,” said Hart. “The roads are confusing in these parts. Bet you were using GPS. They regrade the road differently after every winter because the spring runoff does a number on them.”
The woman eyed the shotgun. “I just want to talk. Can I come up on the porch?”
“I’m telling you you’re wasting your time, but come on up. Door’s on the side there. Clean the mud off your boots and watch your step.”
Hart watched her go through the motions, ending by putting her large purse on the table and taking the chair opposite him, a wicker rocker that had seen better days but managed her thin build easily enough.
“Nice place,” she said.
“I like it. Peaceful and far away from the madding crowd. I can get skunked without anyone caring. Speaking of which, can I offer you a drink?”
“It’s midmorning.”
“And you’ll probably be driving. Suit yourself. Bar’s inside, frige’s underneath. Bring me two fingers of Jameson neat and get what you want.”
She nodded. She’s easy to train, thought Hart. I wish my agent was. The woman returned with his whiskey and a beer for herself.
“Budweiser. And I figured you for an IPA man, or some other micro-brewery product.”
“You don’t know me from Adam,” he said, enjoying the private joke. “I’m a frugal man. What’s your business with Mr. Hart, Denise?”
Raised eyebrows. “I’m flattered you’ve heard of me.”
He shook his head. “Your driver’s license says Denise Lefurgey. Unless it’s fake, that’s your name. If it’s fake, I’m sticking with it, and hoping you’re not some mafia assassin. You didn’t answer my question.” He took a sip of his whiskey and eyed her.
“I want to interview Adam Hart.”
“You’re a reporter? Magazine or newspaper?”
“Neither. I freelance. I sell my stories to the highest bidder. Sometimes other outlets pick them up.”
“You live from story to story then. That’s like a novel writer. Maybe Hart could teach you a few things.”
“I take it you know him well.”
“Not that well. He’s a good friend, though.” She’s playing the game well. “What would you ask Mr. Hart?”
***
Hart thought he might have seen her in the village. It was a typical New England out-of-the-way place consisting of post office, service station, general store, diner, fire station, and church. It had more tourists in all seasons than inhabitants if you didn’t count the recluses like Hart living in the area who used it to maintain some degree of contact with civilization. He knew all the locals.
“Slow morning?” he said to the owner of a general store as he placed his few purchases on the counter.
“Forecast is for snow. Good for the ski resorts, but weekend skiers will often go right through in their desire to hit the slopes early.”
“The woman I saw doesn’t look like a skier.”
“I’ve seen eighty-year-olds go through here with skis, Leo. Guess you can break a leg at any age.”
“Guess she could be renting her skis. Once I liked ski resorts, but more for the roaring fire and drinks.”
“I’m a skater myself. When the grandkids come up from Jersey, we go skating.”
“Ice is too thin right now,” said Hart with a growl. “I wouldn’t want to trust the volunteers in the fire department to save my ass.”
The storekeeper laughed, but Hart hadn’t meant it as a joke. “Guess you’ll make it home before the snow.”
“Debating a late breakfast. Your wife makes good Belgian waffles and offers real maple syrup.” He patted his midriff. “Hard to cut back with good New England food available.”
“Think of my problem. I get free meals in her restaurant.”
“You’re still paying for them. Have a good day.”
***
The freelancer considered Hart’s question. “I’m not interested in the bookish things. Leo Goretti and Emily Durnin are pop icons by now. Their cases are complex and satisfying, so Hollywood will probably never turn them into movies.”
“Hollywood tends to destroy good storytelling,” said Hart. “I’ve heard Hart say that. What are you interested in then?”
“The man Adam Hart. What makes him tick? Is the complex Goretti similar to Hart? What was Hart’s childhood like? His loves, his disappointments, his view of the world. Those kinds of things. Hart’s a mystery to many who want to know the man behind the books.”
“In my opinion, authors are like actors. There isn’t too much to them besides what’s found in their characters. Most are pretty shallow.” He smiled. “Human sensibility and depth probably apply more to female authors. Women always have more interesting personalities. You’re driven, for example, but there’s much more to you than any man. I bet you had a lot of male siblings and strove to be better than them.”
“Three older brothers, if it’s any of your business.” He nodded. “Hart seems to know the female psyche fairly well. His Durnin is more complex than Goretti, isn’t she?”
“Goretti needs Durnin like he needs his Glock, but she does keep him on the straight and narrow. I’ve read some of Hart’s books. They’re complex because human beings are complex. They have complex themes too. Not that I’m an expert literary critic. Far from it. I’m just a Vermont woodsman.”
The game continued until Hart saw on his watch that it was time for lunch.
“I have some leftover lasagna. I can heat it up and we’ll have it with a glass of white wine. Interested?”
She smiled. “I brought lunch—two corned beef on homemade rye, dills, and Ruffles. Two Macintoshes for dessert. Someone told me Hart likes corned beef. I wouldn’t want it to go to waste. Interested?”
He shrugged and laughed. “Sure. Why not? I can always do the lasagna for dinner. I have some spicy mustard that will dress up the sandwiches a bit.”
***
“Do you know Adam Hart well enough to talk about his life before writing?”
She sucked on a dill and awaited his answer. He tried to ignore the twinkle in her eye as she bit off the end of the pickle. This is a live one!
“Don’t know him that well, but we’ve talked about it. He wasn’t very focused until mid-twenties, working in many jobs until he became a reporter in Philly.”
“People think of him as a New Yorker.”
“People get sucked into that city. It’s like one of those black holes. Hawking should study the phenomenon. Have a few chats with De Niro. The Big Apple’s where most of the agents and publishers are, of course. I don’t think Hart had any intentions of becoming their slave, though. He just loves to write. Or, so he says. He’s mostly a cynical SOB. In that sense, he’s like Goretti.”
They put plates and glasses in the sink, returned to the porch, and talked of many things. At one point, Hart put an index finger to his lips and pointed. She saw the stag.
“He’s so conceited he doesn’t follow the rules of appearing only at dawn and dusk,” said Hart in a whisper. “Always bragging about his harem. I’ve counted five does. Must have big balls, don’t you think? Goes with the conceit, I suppose. I’m always worried about hunters. As progressive as this state is, there are still hunters around.”
“He’s beautiful. Who could shoot such a handsome fellow?”
“Hunters of all kinds. Guns, crossbows, bows and arrows. Lots of ways to commit murder, Denise.”
She nodded. “You have guns.”
“My grandfather’s. I keep them for protection. Living alone here, I get paranoid at times. And those same hunters could mistake me for a deer when I go for walks. Maybe I’d shoot back.”
“And where do you walk?”
“You passed the turnoff to a meadow coming in. That old stag and his harem graze there. Walking around the meadow’s about five miles. Good exercise. There’s a brook nearby with a trail too. All natural. No manicured and artificial parks like in New York. Of course, I’d probably have more chances for getting murdered in Central Park than here. Can’t carry a shotgun there either.”
“Are you a member of the NRA?”
“Heavens no! Don’t be insulting. If I shoot animals, it’s with a camera. All black and white too. I have a cache of old film. Nothing like sepia tints to add character to a photo. Matthew Brady knew that.”
“Who’s Matthew Brady?”
“The greatest photographer who ever lived,” said Hart. “Look him up. Ansel Adams was pretty good too. All black and white, shadows and light, making the photograph an artwork.”
The discussion continued until the shadows started to swallow the mud-spattered jeep.
“I should be getting back to my hotel.”
Hart pointed skyward. “Looks like snow. You wouldn’t make it out to the main highway before it hits. Better stay here the night. Where were you planning to bunk?”
“There’s an inn in the little village. They’re expecting me.”
“Better just waste the money and not show up than skid off the entrance road into a tree, which is easy to do when it’s covered in snow and you can’t see where it goes. I’m inviting you to dinner. You can bunk down on the sofa bed in the living room. It has clean sheets.”
“What’s for dinner? Leftover lasagna?”
“I was thinking about complementing it with apples, cheese, and wine. How does that sound?”
At the first flakes heralding wind and falling temperatures, they went inside. Hart offered Denise one of the stools at the lunch counter again.
“You probably noticed that I don’t have a real dining table. Just a desk.” He’d brought in the laptop, sat it on that desk, and went to the refrigerator. She put the two apples on the counter. He found the cheese and crackers and put them on a cutting board. He made her jump by stabbing a large knife into the board. “Slice some cheese while I open a new bottle. The knife’s sharp.”
“This will be a very French dinner.”
“The French do it in reverse—fruit and cheese afterward. But you’re French, whether you know it or not. Lasagna’s hardly French, by the way, but I’ve had good lasagna in France in the Latin Quarter. They sell fresh whole wheat pasta in the village. I’ve taken a liking to it.”
She studied the wine bottle. “The wine’s French.”
“Lots of places make good wine these days. You can find a good bottle of white for $15 and red for $20 at the village general store—Australian, Californian, French, New Zealand—doesn’t make any difference to me, but I try to remember the ones I like.”
“Durnin likes wine.”
“I think Durnin’s modeled after Hart’s mother. She grew up in California wine country, I think. Or close to it. California’s a lot warmer than here.” He waved at the gas fireplace. “No need for that in a California fall.”
“It’s interesting it’s gas.”
“You’re welcome to chop some firewood tomorrow. I’m into comfort. Everything’s propane. I get deliveries or shop in the village. What are you going to do tomorrow? Keep looking to bother Mr. Hart?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe I’ll chop some firewood.”
***
Hart set Denise up with the sofa bed. She’d brought in a bag like the carry-ons people take on planes.
“Do you snore?”
“I don’t know.”
“My bedroom has no door. But I can use earplugs.” He saw the arched eyebrow. “Don’t get the idea that I have a girlfriend in the village. The birds start at about four-thirty. Nice once in a while, but not conducive to sleeping in. They keep going through most of the morning, so I figure I’m not missing much.”
“Shall we flip a coin for first in the bathroom?”
“I’m fast. I’ll go first so you can have all the time you want.”
After the pre-nocturnal absolutions, they said their goodnights. Hart immediately noticed that some of his dresser drawers were open a bit. He looked toward the living room. Revenge for snooping in her purse? He smiled and opened the third drawer. The bra and running shorts were still there but the shorts weren’t folded the same way. He picked them up and refolded them, winking at the initials ED on their waistband.
***
Hart awoke to the smell of frying bacon. He put on his slippers, hitched up his checkered flannel pajamas, and went into the main area of the cabin that included the galley kitchen.
“You can cook,” he said as he watched Denise make like a short-order chef. She’d be great in the village diner. “Bacon and eggs yet. Make my eggs over-easy.”
They picked up where they left off the night before. At ten or so, Denise looked at her watch.
“I have to go.”
“The main road will be plowed. Go slow on the entrance road, especially around the meadow, where snow melt can ice up. At least you can see where you’re going. Stay in first or second.” Why do I care? OK, she’s nice.
He accompanied her to her jeep. After warming it up, she leaned out the window.
“I guess it’s goodbye,” she said, extending a hand. “Say, I never did catch your name.”
“It’s Leo Goretti, of course.”
***
Coming soon! Gaia and the Goliaths. Climate control and environmental issues are on everyone’s mind right now. They’re on Chen and Castilblanco’s minds too when they’re called in to solve the murder of an environmental activist. A Big Apple case soon becomes national and international, though, with Russia and an old nemesis of the detectives become involved in a multi-country hunt for the activist’s boyfriend. This is #7 in the “Detectives Chen and Castilblanco Series.” It will be available in all ebook formats, as are the first six books in the series. Don’t miss it.
In libris libertas…
