Chapter One
"You know she doesn't care to talk to you James," said Lucia. The tiny Dominican woman who cleaned his Mother's house spoke softly, but in a voice tinged with reproach. He shouldn't be calling; the unspoken message was clear.
"I know that," James replied, lighting a new cigarette from the smouldering end of the one he had just finished. "I wouldn't call unless it was important. Can you tell her that?"
"I'll tell her," Lucia confirmed. "When she wakes up, I surely will."
James thanked her and hung up. He had not expected the call to go differently, but frustration still boiled up inside him. It was nine years since he had spoken to his mother, and it could easily be nine more until they spoke again.
Although that's not really an option any more, is it? This thought popped into his mind, unbidden, and he drew hard on his cigarette.
He resisted the urge to read it again, no longer sure that the words would magically rearrange themselves, as he had been the first thirty or forty times he read it; that the letter was the key prop in a cosmic practical joke that had now worn thin.
The second call he made was to his agent, announcing his retirement.
At first the voice on the other end was amused, then incredulous, then, as James explained what had happened, simultaneously furious and upset.
"What are you going to do?" asked the voice, which belonged to a small, balding middle-aged man called Jacob Renstein.
James told him he didn't know. But he did; he had known since finishing reading the letter for the first time. Had known immediately.
"What am I going to do?"
James said he didn't know that, either, and this time he was telling the truth.
"I'm going to have to tell everyone you've worked with in the last six months. There's going to be panic. There's no way I can keep this out of the papers."
"I know that."
"You're going to be a pariah."
"Thanks for that. Really."
"It's important that you realise how bad this is going to be. It's my job to make sure you do. Was my job, at least."
Tears welled up in the corners of James' eyes for the first time since he had opened the letter, more than an hour earlier.
"I'll do what I can," he continued. "I'll manage this as much as possible."
"I know you will," James said, around a lump in his throat. "Thanks for everything, Jacob. I'm going to go now. OK?"
"Take care James," said his agent. His voice was thick, and it sounded as though he too was struggling to keep his emotions in check. "Take care of yourself."
There was a click, and the line went dead.
The third call was to his landlord, giving his notice on the quiet apartment he had lived in for the last three years. The small complex sat between Ocean and Neilson, three rows of duplexes around a long, narrow pool. He had liked living there; the apartment was one of the few things he was going to miss.
He packed a small bag of clothes, a spare pair of trainers, and the small wooden box he kept in his bedside table. The clothes he threw into the bag, not caring if they were folded, or even whether they were dirty or clean, but the box he placed in carefully, wrapped in an old USAF T-shirt.
James stood on the mat outside his apartment and locked the front door behind him. He walked quickly past the pool and to the small parking lot in front of the complex, opened the trunk of his battered Mustang, threw the bag inside, then opened the door and slid behind the wheel. He turned the ignition and the engine grumbled into life. Through the rear-view mirror he stole a last look at his home, then put the car into drive and rolled out onto Ocean Avenue.
Two hours later he was on I-40, heading east.
Chapter 2 will follow at some point.
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