Unraveling Eli Read online

  Unraveling Eli

  By Jake Irons

  Prologue

  Three years ago

  Tootie’s was recently named the hottest restaurant in Brooklyn. As recently as last week, and named so by The Watcher, the online news magazine I own and run. I didn’t crown it hottest; that was Laney Wombler, our EATS! editor. And the distinction barely qualifies as one. There will be a new “hottest” next week.

  Tootie’s “cuisine” is “Southern-Afro-French fusion.” That means it’s the kind of place that charges $31 for chicken and waffles with béchamel gravy.

  The interior—bare brick walls, cement floors, square and circle tables under white tablecloths—doesn’t remind me of home, or France, or Africa. The walls are punctuated by a collection of art that’s trying too hard: oils of Parisian scenes painted onto old guitars (the waiter proudly told us they were commissioned just for the restaurant). There’s live music, too, played by a local trio. The kindest way to describe the banjo picking is “tepid.”

  I ordered the shrimp and grits, because it’s pretty hard to fuck up shrimp and grits—and, to Tootie’s credit, they didn’t. Izzy, my agent, ordered the same. She’s the leggy brunette sitting directly to my right at our round table.

  Next to Izzy is Patrick, my editor, and next to Patrick is his wife, Gina, a real-estate attorney. Patty ordered the aforementioned $31 chicken and waffles, and Gina got the wine-fried duck, which I spent most of dinner wishing I had ordered. Next to Gina is April, the head or marketing at Sam Noble Books; she got the T-bone. Next to April is Oscar, the silver-haired vice president of SNB; he ordered the beer-battered catfish. Finally, next to Oscar and sitting in the seat to my left, is Daisy Dores, my date for the evening. She ordered the pap en vleis.

  You might have heard of Daisy. She’s Izzy’s client and one of SNB’s up and comers. (Those were the two reasons Izzy gave me for setting us up.) Daisy’s debut book, “Shoutin’ at the Stars,” a collection of essays mostly about growing up the smart girl in a small Iowa farm town, took the women’s blogosphere by storm.

  Daisy is hot—kind of slender, but with huge tits and even bigger green eyes. She also has a pleasant demeanor, and she shows a real interest in people. Which is great. I don’t think there’s much of a future between us, though, because Daisy calls herself “a writer’s writer." I think she means she studied creative writing in college, and writes about writing, and thinks about writing, and, I don’t know, reads about writing, I guess?

  It’s mostly how she talks about writing. Like earlier this evening, she said: “I don’t know if the value of writing, the true value of writing, can be gotten at as easily as people think. And that’s because there’s this illusion that writing is a craft, you know? ‘Oh, anyone can learn to omit needless words, or follow the rules of commas created by some dead man’, you know? Or in poetry—there has to be this certain meter; or for a news story, there’s the inverted pyramid. I’m not saying those things aren’t important. But I’m interested in the pure art of writing, you know? The use of words in ways that don’t necessarily fit into this pre-conceived notion of how they should be used, or even what ‘words’ are, you know?”

  I smiled and nodded.

  But Daisy’s been mostly good company, and she’s definitely down to fuck. She keeps putting her hand on my leg when she laughs at my jokes. I am, of course, also down to fuck, and it’s always fun to fuck smart girls. I like that moment when I push inside them, and all their deep thoughts turn to grunts.

  I feel a smile stretch across my face as I imagine Daisy face down and ass up. She’s wearing a gray linen dress that’s sort of loose, one of those designer things that doesn’t look like much but costs something obscene. Later on, I’m going to bunch it around her throat and use it as reigns.

  “I think he’s laughing at us,” someone says. I can feel the attention of the entire table. And yep, everyone is looking at me. I think it was Gina who said the thing about laughing. I’m trying to remember what they were talking about.

  “He was daydreaming,” Izzy says. “I’ve been in enough meetings with him at this point that I know when he isn’t paying attention.”

  “I was paying attention,” I protest. Half-heartedly.

  I was definitely not paying attention, but no one at the table seems bothered. We’re gathered here to celebrate me, after all. My novel, Mikey’s Boys, was just nominated for a National Book Award. I have mixed feelings about this, but I’m trying to act happy, which is how I assume other writers nominated for a major literary award act.

  “I was saying that I wouldn’t even count Mikey as a main character,” Gina says. “I think he’s too removed from the narrative.”

  “Other than being the narrator?” Rachel asks.

  “Fine, but he was just the narrator. Ninety percent of the conflict in the book involved other characters.”

  “But Mikey was the catalyst,” Rachel insists.

  “I agree with Gina,” Patty says. He always agrees with Gina in public, and swears that’s the key to a happy marriage. He’s on his third, and I’m not sure if that fact should be counted for or against his relationship advice. “I feel like Mikey was more of a Greek Chorus than an actual character.”

  “If only we had the author handy. To pick his brain,” Izzy muses.

  “I imagine he’d continue to maintain his reasoned silence,” I say, earning a few laughs.

  “Is that what you call it?” Izzy asks. She and I butted heads quite a few times when it came to handling press for this release. Izzy and Rachel were of the mind that we should talk to anyone who would listen. I felt more like I didn’t want to give any interviews.

  “Does it really matter what I think?” I ask. I think conversations about writing are super boring, so this is my way to opt out. “As a reader, I’ve always preferred to reach my own conclusions.”

  “You don’t think it’s important to understand what a writer means?” Daisy asks.

  I shrug. “For a new story, sure. For a work of fiction, I don’t know. Actually, I do know: I think if there is something to be understood, it will be.”

  Izzy laughs. “You’re not being a very good ambassador for your brand, Eli.”

  “I thought our marketing strategy was Basic Bitch.”

  Everyone laughs. Rachel called her strategy “Basic Book,” by which she meant marketing Mikey’s Boys as a “new crime classic” but “firmly rooted in the best conventions of the genre,” and also written by someone who, despite being crowned one of New York City’s media princes just last year, doesn’t care all that much for media.

  “I still think Mikey is the most relatable,” Rachel says.

  “I can’t count the number of times I’ve attacked my employees with a cactus,” Oscar jokes. “We’ve all been there, right?”

  “That’s how I discipline the kids,” Patrick quips.

  “Is that scene real?” asks Gina. She quickly corrects herself. “I mean, can you really kill somebody with a cactus?”

  The cactus scene has gotten a lot of attention, which makes me uneasy.

  “Certain species of cacti are robust enough to kill someone.”

  Gina shudders. “How do you know?”

  “That’s what happened to Kent Need,” I say, and everyone laughs. Kent was The Watcher’s first all-star reporter. He left the site in a storm about a year ago, claiming he was the only reason we were getting any traffic. He sort of dropped off the radar after that.

  “So the whole book is a workplace metaphor,” Rachel says. “I always thought so.”

  I shake my head. “Like the first page of the book says: any resemblance to real people living or dead is purely coincidental.”

  “But that’s boring,” Gina complains.

  �
�Maybe his next book can follow Jake into witness protection,” Patty suggests, and I try not to roll my eyes. Both he and Oscar have been “subtly” and not-so-subtly asking about my next project for weeks.

  “If there is a next book,” I say, to groans from Izzy.

  Oscar decides to cut the bullshit. “Let’s cut the bullshit. What’s your next project?”

  “I don’t know,” I scratch the short beard growing on my face. “Maybe a kids’ book.”

  Izzy rolls her eyes and Patty snorts. “You know you can’t get alliterative with the word ‘fuck’ in a kids’ book, right.”

  “What about Middle Grade?”

  That earns a few laughs, and I spend the next half-hour plotting a book on the spot. The working title is Jessie Jenkins. She’s an eleven-year-old detective with a nose that can sniff out secrets.

  Izzy doesn’t fall for it, though, and eventually, to the SNB crew’s relief, I admit I’m bullshitting. “I don’t know what I’ll write next, to be honest,” I lie.

  “And that’s okay,” Izzy tells me. “As long as you’re thinking about it.”

  I assure her I’m wracking my brain, and the gang continues to toast my success. I smile politely. Words leave my mouth when they’re supposed to. This is all part of the experience, I guess. I’ve been to dozens of dinners and “events” since the book started picking up steam, and this is the least painful so far. Maybe I can get used to this.

  ****

  Oscar insists on desert—“They’d don’t let me use the company card every night!”—and we gorge on bread pudding and chocolate banana crepes before stumbling out of the restaurant after closing. The night is cool for May, and the street is quiet.

  “What Watcher articles will my friends be e-mailing me tomorrow?” Izzy asks as we wait for taxis.

  I try to remember. The biggest story we’ve got in the chute right now is an exposé on a dozen or so state senators and their trip to the Turks and Caicos, all expenses paid by a lobbying firm representing the hospitality industry. Not super sexy, but we’ve got to do real journalism occasionally.

  “Hmmmm, I’m not sure about tomorrow. We’ve got a strong story ready for Friday. All about New York lawmakers in the pockets of the hotel industry.”

  “Sounds juicy,” Izzy says. She puts her hand on my shoulder and leads me a few paces from the rest of our group. “I do want to make sure you’re thinking about your next project.”

  “Always.”

  Izzy narrows her eyes. “But are you really?”

  I laugh as I wave goodbye to Oscar. “Yes. I am. I’ve even got a first chapter.”

  Izzy’s eyes light up. “What can you tell me about it?”

  “Well, the story begins on a dark and stormy night.”

  Izzy rolls her eyes. “I’m serious.”

  “Maybe not stormy. But it begins on a cool night, on a dark-ish, well-gentrified street in The Village That Never Sleeps.”

  “Eli—”

  “A young man still bursting with youth but already successful beyond his wildest dreams—”

  “At least I know it’s fiction.”

  “Successful beyond anyone’s wildest dreams, this young man,” I insist, “and after a delicious dinner at the tavern—”

  “Tavern?”

  “It’s set in a fantasy world.”

  “Ah.”

  “So this young, extremely attractive and successful—”

  “And hung?”

  “This guy’s got a fucking tyrannosaurs dick. And he’s just left this tavern after a big celebration in his honor. There’s an artsy wench he’s about to take home and bed, but his agent is drunk and cock-blocking him.”

  Izzy frowns. “I don’t get it”. I bend my head toward Daisy, who is waiting about ten feet behind us, just outside Tootie’s door. Oscar, Rachel, Patty and Gina have already caught their taxis. Izzy’s eyes widen.

  “Shit. My bad. Be sure to wear protection. And hey,” she leans in and lowers her voice—which is still quite loud because she’s drunk, “don’t fuck with that girl’s head.”

  “That’s not how I roll, and I’m hurt that you felt the need to warn me.”

  Izzy pokes my chest with her finger. “Watch yourself,” she mutters, before leading me back to the young woman she set me up with. “Daisy, I need an update on your next project, too.”

  “I’ll call you tomorrow,” Daisy says.

  “Let me call you,” Izzy counters. “What do you, ah, have going on?” Izzy shoots me a significant look, and I swear if she cock-blocks me, I’m getting a new agent.

  “Not much. I’ll be free after ten.”

  “Okay, I’ll call you after that. Maybe closer to noon. Will you be free then? Yes? Great.” Izzy steps to the curb and holds out her hand out for a taxi. “Don’t stay out too late,” she says as she gets into her cab.

  When her door shuts, Daisy grins. “I thought she’d never leave.”

  I grin back. “My place?”

  Daisy licks her lips. “I’m closer.”

  ****

  I pull out and come on Daisy’s ass as she lets out a final moan. She pants and whimpers and recovers from her orgasm while I milk every last bit of cum from my dick. I smack my head on her ass a few times then hop off the bed to get some toilet paper.

  “That was great,” Daisy sighs as I clean her up.

  “Yeah.” I throw the toilet paper in the trash and collapse on her bed. “Man I could really go for a cigarette right now.”

  “Check the bedside table. Top drawer.”

  I open the drawer and find a pack of Camels. “You smoke Camels?”

  Daisy sits up. She covers herself up to her waist with a crisp, white sheet, but her huge tits are just hanging there, distracting me. “Yeah. So?” She sounds defensive, and why does she sound defensive?

  “No, it’s cool. I’m just surprised. I thought serious writers smoked like French imports or something.”

  Daisy smirks. “Serious writers? Didn’t we just enjoy a delicious meal on the company dime at a fancy restaurant to celebrate your book award?”

  “Nomination, and that doesn’t mean I’m serious. Just successful. And that restaurant was more smancy than fancy.” I shake a cigarette out and hold it up to my nose. I take a deep whiff. I quit a year ago, as a test of will, but what that really means is I quit buying packs a year ago. I’m probably the biggest cigarette bummer in New York City.

  “I’m guessing you won’t let me smoke in bed.”

  “Nope,” she says. “And you can’t smoke on the deck either.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yeah. It’s against the rules. Believe me, I wish it wasn’t.”

  I sigh heavily and roll out of bed. “You want to join me on the street?”

  “Maybe in a minute.”

  It takes me a few minutes to find my clothes, and when I leave, Daisy is in the bathroom.

  She’s only three floors up, so the walk down isn’t terrible. She lives near Prospect Heights, on a street that’s up and coming, but up and come’d enough that I’m surprised she can afford it; there must be more money in memoirs than I thought.

  I push through one of the building’s front doors, lean my back against the cool brownstone, and light up. I take a deep drag, and oh that shit is good. So good.

  Nothing like a cigarette after a good fuck. I’m hoping Daisy will bring the pack when she comes, because this isn’t my last. I take another long, sweet drag, and turn to look at her building. Her unit faces the street, and I’m pretty sure—there. I think that’s her open window. I cup my hands over my mouth, “Daisy!” I call. “Daisy!”

  I take another drag and wait. She doesn’t pop her head out, so I try again.

  “Daisy!”

  “You better be quiet,” a deep voice warns. I spin and see two guys approaching me from across the street. “You don’t want to wake up the neighbors.” The guy who just spoke is an inch or two shorter than me, but much thicker. And there’s something about him… He�
��s familiar. His friend is taller, slightly older, and dead behind the eyes.

  “I hope not,” I say, taking a reflexive step toward the door to Daisy’s building.

  “Me too. This neighborhood still isn’t so great, you know?”

  “Yeah.” I look away, hoping they’ll keep walking, but the shorter guy stops beside me. “Hey buddy, you mind if I bum a smoke?”

  I leave my cigarette in my mouth and pat my pockets to show they’re empty. “Sorry. Left them upstairs.”

  The man waves a meaty hand. “Don’t worry about it. I just remembered that my buddy here has a pack. You do have a pack, don’t you Peter?”

  “Peter” hands his “buddy” a smoke, and the two light up. I pinch my cherry off, put it out with my shoe, and toss the butt in the trash. “Take it easy,” I say as I turn toward the door.

  “Hold on one second,” the first guy says. He sort of squints at me. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t think so.”

  “No, I do,” he insists. “Are you famous or something?”

  “I wish.”

  “No, you are. You’re an actor, right?”

  “No.” I have no idea what this guys is trying to prove, but I’m not interested in sticking around to find out. “Now I’ve got to—”

  “Help me out, Pete. Where have I seen this guy before?”

  “He writes books,” Peter says, his flat voice in sharp contrast to his friend’s faux conviviality.

  “That’s right. You’re…hey, you’re Eli Murphy, right? The author?”

  Years of practice at lying kick in, and I shake my head automatically. “‘Fraid not.”

  Dude is not to be deterred. “No, but, you are. You’re the writer. You wrote that book—it was just nominated for an award, wasn’t it, Pete?”

  Peter nods. “A National Book Award. That’s one of the big ones, right Borys?”

  Borys, the shorter one, nods, seeming pleased with Peter’s response, and my blood runs cold. Borys. I know why I recognize him.

  “Sorry, guys, that’s not me. I gotta go.”