“You look like a bag of shit!”

     I couldn’t help but smile at Mack.  Being greeted in such a way -- as fodder for ridicule -- immediately told me that I wasn’t in his bad books.

     Mack had a wry smile on his face as he looked up at me, his thin lips pressed tightly together beneath an even thinner dark moustache that looked more like it was drawn on than grown.  I’d always thought that with his thick brush-cut, dark around the ears, but blending into a soft grey at the top, he’d look better in a fuller, thicker moustache.  But I kept telling myself that would make him look more like the comic-book version of J. Jonah Jamieson from the Spider-Man comic books.

     I felt a huge knot of tension suddenly release in my shoulders and I let the glorious smells of various breakfast foods being cooked in the open-kitchen restaurant wash over me.  

     “What did you do?” Mack said, still sitting at the table and grinning at me as I approached.  “Sleep on the street last night?”

       “G’morning Mack.  So, can we order food now?”

     But he wasn’t finished.  “You decide to roll naked in a garbage dumpster on 34th street before meeting me this morning?”

     “Mack, I’m a little peckish this morning.”

     “What, you couldn’t find something good to eat in the dumpster?  Man, but you artistic types -- you never cease to surprise me with the way you dress out in public.”  He clasped his hands together while I sat, revealing that he was finished with his fun and ready to get down to business.  “I already ordered for both of us.  They’re cooking it now.”

     Of course he would have.  He’d never expect one of his clients to be late, or this was the last meeting he’d have with them.  Smiling again, I pulled out the chair across from him and sat down.

     “Promise me something,” Mack said.

     I nodded.  “Sure,”

     “Promise me you’ve got something else to wear for tonight’s spot on Letterman.”

     I just looked at him.

     “You heard me, didn’t you?”

     I nodded again.

     “I got the call last night.  They’d had another writer scheduled to appear on the show.  One of those self-help guru types, Andy Robinson, I think.  It was a last minute cancellation.  So, a phone call or two later and voila, Michael Andrews is on.

     “I’d been trying to get you on the show for promotion of the upcoming short fiction collection.  The timing couldn’t be better.”

     My last novel, Print of the Predator had been released about 4 months ago, but a collection of my previously published short fiction was due out in a few weeks time.  Mack and my publisher had been pushing me for the past couple of years to release something to keep my fans sated between the standard annual spring releases of my novels (and something to bring them in a substantial amount of cash).  A popular trend with many popular authors -- authors much more popular than I -- was the release of a novella length work around Christmas time.  But I didn’t want to do that to my fans.  It seemed like an obvious money grab, taking a single long short story and charging full price for it.

     Sure, I’m glad that I’m making enough money with my writing to keep me comfortably supported -- oh, who am I kidding, I’m well more than comfortably supported -- but I’ve never done this for the money.  It’s all about telling stories and having people read them.  I was thus eager to see the reaction to a collection of the more morbid writings of my early years -- stories that had originally appeared in small press magazines years before my name became known throughout the mystery field.

     Thus, the short story collection was born.  I’d fancied it would be as good as Jeffery Deaver’s incredible short story collection Twisted.  Hey, a man can dream, can’t he?

     And I’d be appearing on the Letterman show, just weeks before the release of my own collection.  Is there any wonder why I was desperate to hang onto Mack as my agent?

     “Letterman?” I said, as our breakfast arrived, two steaming plates of eggs, hash browns, ham, bacon and sausage.  A plate with a single stack of half a dozen pieces of toast sat in the middle of the tray beside two tall glasses of orange juice, two glass of milk and a large coffee for me.  Another thing about hanging around with Mack -- known in literary circles as “Mack the Knife” for his ability to get what he desired, no matter how difficult it might at first seem -- were the fringe benefits of being in his presence.  This Metro Market didn’t serve food to tables.  Despite their ability to cook virtually anything your heart desired it was standard counter service.  You ordered at the cash, paid up front, and carried the food on trays to your table.  But not with Mack.  No matter where he was or what he wanted, I’ve yet to see him be denied a request.  Gotta love him.

     Gotta love that he’s my agent.

     While I worked at adding ketchup to my plate, Mack immediately started shaking salt onto his plate, engaging in the act as if he were trying to bleed the shaker dry.  “You’ll be appearing,” he said, “alongside the hot new shock rock dude.  Knell.  I’m rather fond of that concept, because it might open you up to a whole new audience.  Given the likely attention span of his fans, it’s perfect that you’ll be there promoting your book of short stories.”  He turned his attention to the pepper now, shaking as vigorously as he had with the salt.  “You should try to work in a mention of the story about the serial killer who takes out concert groupies -- that oughta get their attention.”

     I nodded enthusiastically at that point, because in the time it’d taken Mack to say that, I’d already stuffed several mouthfuls of food into my mouth.

Knell was definitely the latest hot commodity with young folks lately.  A young blonde rock star with a perpetual Billy Idol sneer, he came off like a cross between Eminem and Ozzy Osbourne.  His music was raunchy and hard hitting, with a definite rock beat, and his lyrics rolled off his tongue like he’d just chugged a cocktail of laxatives and hard liquor.

     His lyrics were controversial, his back-up band a group of talented musicians, and he was splashed all over the media, pushing Paris Hilton from the top spot of those celebrities the average person just loved to hate.  If it wasn’t a story about one or more of his songs being banned from play at school dances, it was a tale about his raunchy night club escapades.  Yet, his albums were an interesting compilation, because each of them (there’s only been two albums -- like most “stars” nowadays, he’d skyrocketed to success without a lot of preamble, and would likely tumble to obscurity within a few years, a fast dying ember) contained not only the hard-hitting raunchy songs with lyrics that pushed the envelope of taste and decency -- the kind of things that kids just loved to sing, shouting out their rebellion at the world -- but there were also at least two tracks that were clean enough for standard radio airplay.  That’s how I’d heard most of his music.  I’d also overheard some of the more raunchy songs from personal mp3 players while on public transit -- and you wouldn’t need my heightened sense of sound to pick up on those, let me tell you.  I started reminding myself of my father lately, thinking that the hearing-aid industry would likely be booming due to the volume with which young people blasted tunes into their heads.

     Mack was right.  It would be interesting to see if my appearance with Knell could capture a new type of audience.

     “Woah, slow down, there, Chester,” Mack said, taking a mouthful of coffee.  “I don’t plan on taking any of that food away from you.  I’ve got my own.”

     I just glared at him, shoveling another couple of mouthfuls in; now that I’d gotten a taste of the food, I was almost not able to meet the demands of my stomach and bring the food in fast enough.

     “Oh wait,” he said, pointing at my plate.  “I think I know what it is.  You’ve got so much ketchup piled on the plate, that you can’t even see the food.”  He took another chug of his coffee and grinned.  “That’s why you’re panicked -- you’re just trying to ensure that there is food under all that ketchup.”

     I thought it was funny that he’d make so much fun of me after he’d almost depleted the salt and pepper shakers of their contents for his own plate.  But Mack was like that.  If we were both sitting there with bird-shit in our hair, he’d be laughing his ass off at my predicament, completely unaware that he looked just as silly.

     Gotta love something about a man like that.

     “Okay,” the tone in his voice took on a seriousness that I could almost smell.  “One more business item to discuss so I can properly claim this meal as a business expense.

     “Your publisher called yesterday and they want to see progress on the next ‘Maxwell Bronte’ novel.  They want to see the first 5000 words or so to ensure it’s coming along.  I’ve held them off as long as possible, but you gotta start producing.”

     Maxwell Bronte was the hero in my mystery novels.  He worked in the antiquity field and usually solved mysteries surrounding the world of books and antiquing.  It was a good series, and Maxwell was a fun character to explore, but after 6 novels, (two of which had been turned into movies, one a feature length film and the other a made-for-television special that doubled as a pilot for a television series that never went anywhere), I wanted to explore other things in my writing.

     I guess I’d been experiencing what sometimes happens to writers who create a character who is both interesting, marketable and successful.  A Frankenstein monster of my own that I couldn’t escape from.

     That’s another reason why I liked the fact that my short story collection would be coming out -- it would be good to attract some new readers, readers who might not already be familiar with Maxwell Bronte, readers who enjoyed the dark and twisted turns my stories could take, and didn’t want just another antiquity mystery.

     But in the meantime, my contract stipulated that I had to produce 3 more Maxwell Bronte novels in the next 3 years.  Maybe after that I could explore other writing.

     The problem, recently, had been that while I had been writing, I hadn’t done much on the latest Maxwell Bronte novel.  All my writing had either been short story diversions, or notes towards a few supernatural thrillers.  I’d even started a series of humorous essays outlining what it was like to be a Canadian born in a Northern Ontario town and living in Manhattan.

     Maxwell Bronte was currently a fleeting character, just outside the range of my creative spark.  Sure, I’d been with him on some great adventures, but neither my mind nor my pen had been able to track him down and capture what he was up to.  I hadn’t let Mack know any of that, of course, because every time I mentioned working on other writing projects, he pointed out the contract -- which had paid quite nicely -- for the next 3 Maxwell Bronte novels.  He’d only let the release of the short stories out there because one of the tales included a mention of Bronte as a young man, before he became an antiquity dealer, and way before he’d solved any crimes.  Mack saw this as a wonderful teaser and was part of -- against my wishes -- ensuring that the publisher included a qualifier on the cover indicating a Maxwell Bronte adventure appeared in this book.  So while the short story collection might attract a new audience and increase my readership, the insertion of Maxwell Bronte into one of the tales and in the promotions for the book guaranteed that the regular Bronte fans would rush to the stores to buy it, just for another simple taste of their favorite long-running character.

     In the back of my mind, I knew it was likely that many of these fans would buy the book and only read the tale with Bronte in it, overlooking the rest.

     That hurt.  I know, I know, as a relatively successful writer, I should be thankful that my books are selling at all -- hell, that they’re even being published.  But I needed more as a writer than just a huge fan base waiting for the next in a seemingly endless mystery series.

     I needed to explore the human condition in so many other ways than a single character’s exploits could take me -- sure, there were supporting characters and new people who moved in and out of Bronte’s life.  But I never got a chance to simply follow one of them along and see where their story took me.

     The blur of graffiti from the alley walls as I rushed past them, the echo of the high-low wail of a siren, and ahead of me, maintaining its lead, another wolf.

     The flashback didn’t take me by surprise -- they rarely did any more -- but when I’m having them, I do pause, my eyes go glassy, and I sometimes loose track of the conversation.  At times both Max and a now ex girlfriend used to suggest I go for a brain scan to see if perhaps I suffered from a mild form of epilepsy, something perhaps like petite mal seizures.  Max was in the middle of saying something when I was able to again focus on the conversation.

     “. . . remind you that you’re under contract and already two months behind schedule,” he was saying.  “And mostly because they and I allowed you a small grace period so you could get that little short story collection worked out of your system.”

     I stabbed the last few hash browns and glanced back up at Mack while I lifted the fork to my mouth.  “I’ll have something to you by the end of the week,” I said around a mouthful.

     “No,” Mack said bluntly.  His words, eyes, and his very scent were like a face-full of cold water thrown in my face.  He had a way of inserting his entire being into a statement, a moment.  His heart even paused and beat a single strong pulse at the exact right time, as if offering an exclamation point to his word.  I know that my heightened senses picked up on many of these things, but I was convinced that they also came across, quite clearly to the average person when Mack spoke.  In a sense, he spoke with his whole being, his character, his desire came through clearly.  Sure, he had only uttered a single word, a single syllable, but there was no denying the impact it could have.  “You’ll have me 5000 words by the time you’re ready to be on Letterman tonight.”

     “But Mack . . .”

     “Don’t hand me that bull, Andrews.  This is a walk in the freakin’ park for you.  You can shit out 500 perfectly crafted words by the time it takes me to finish my breakfast.  You’ve got the entire day.  What else is on your schedule?”  He paused, then added with a bemused smirk.  “Besides perhaps a much needed shower and wardrobe change?”

     I thought about that other werewolf, about trying to unravel what had happened to my alter ego the night before, about the murder, about the shooting.  Shouldn’t I be looking into that?  But how?

     “Nothing,” I said.

     “Don’t give me that -- I can see in your eyes that you’ve got these big plans.  What are you doing, working on those non-Bronte pieces?  Dammit, Michael, haven’t I come through for you on all angles?  Didn’t I let you do the short fiction collection as a way of stretching your wings a little?  For at least I year I had to put up with you jumping around, a strained look on your face as you gestured for me to pull your damn finger so you could get this fart that had been building in your system out.  Well, I pulled your damn finger -- relieved you of that fart.  Can’t you at least do me the favor of getting your ass in front of your computer and pounding out 5000 simple words in the next Bronte adventure?”

     The conversation was over at that point.  Sure, there were small words to be exchanged, the bill to be paid, arrangements for how I was going to get the next 5000 words to him later that day.  But it was over.  Mack’s heartbeat suddenly relaxed, his mood shifted from urgent work back to a state of relaxation.  He’d stated his case, won.  Victory was his, and he wasted no time relaxing and enjoying it.

     “Fine,” I said.

     “Two o’clock,” his words weren’t punctuated with the sudden single throb of his heart.  This was merely a casual add-on for him to a life-time of bargaining and winning.  No matter what he won, what he got, he always pushed for more.  It was like breathing to him I guess.

     I glanced over at a clock on the wall.  It was 8:35.  By the time I got to my place and showered, I’d likely have 4 and a half hours.

     It was only 5000 words after all.  I had to stop being a big baby about this.  5000 words was nothing -- a couple of hours work perhaps.  Maybe a single hour if I was really into it.

     “Fine,” I said again.

     Mack smiled at me as he lit a cigar across the table from me, striking his match against the flat plastic no-smoking placard attached to the surface of the table.