Faking Life (36 page)

“
Sir, put the gun down
,” the disembodied voice echoed. Esther slowly turned her head. Three guns were trained on Nico, their barrels shining in the moonlight. She saw John flinch and raise his hand. She couldn't tell if Nico had heard them or not. His head rocked back and forth to a silent rhythm.

Like I was
.

“You're right. Like I was,” Nico said, his head jolting up, eyes wide and alive. “Maybe being nothing
is
better than this. Not a husband to my wife or a father to my son. Now not even a mentor in my work. Maybe you're right to deny this legacy.”

At first Esther thought he was yawning, but when he raised the gun and put it in his mouth, the reality of it hit her like a punch to the stomach. Nico was staring right at her, his finger tightening around the trigger.

“
No
!” she cried, leaping towards him. Before she reached Nico, John lunged and grabbed the gun. Just as he pulled it upwards, Nico's finger squeezed the trigger. A deafening shot rang out, illuminating the street. Esther covered her ears and screamed. The recoil sent John reeling to the ground. Nico still held the pistol. He pointed it at John, his arm ramrod straight.

“If I'm going to go, I might as well take my greatest work with me,” he said. Like the crack of lightning, another shot rang out. Esther blinked.

John was still kneeling, but Nico's body had wrenched forward. His leg jerked out from under him as he toppled to the street, a pitiful moan escaping his lips. The gun clattered to the ground as Nico slumped, clutching his leg and howling against the wind. A wisp of smoke trailed from a hole in his thigh.

Three policemen were on top of him in no time, kicking the gun away and pinning his arms behind his back. Another was on a radio phoning for an ambulance. A fifth was tending to John and checking his arm. Esther stood frozen, the moon bathing the scene in an eerie glow. The whole world crashing down on them. Nico's eyes still stared at her, pleading. She wanted to take his hand, to tell him that she would be honored to carry on his legacy.

As she stared at his quivering body, Esther noticed a smile spread over the lips of Nico Vanetti.

“My greatest work,” he whispered.

When Esther said she needed to talk about my book—scaring the bejesus out of me when she made a point to say “the whole book”—my first thought was that it had been cancelled. Perfect, I thought. What an ironic way for it to end, with the book collecting dust next to my abandoned Junior Varsity basketball trophies. But when she said my editor had a request that was solely up to my discretion, my jangling nerves calmed down. When she told me what it was, the request seemed so absurd that I knew it made perfect sense.

My editor, Jeremy Friedkin, is a godsend, and I truly feel this book wouldn't have been the same without him. I'd already turned in the final draft, revised the manuscript and approved the artwork when he made the suggestion. When he suggested I write about Nico Vanetti, I was taken aback.

Why write about him?
I asked.

Because otherwise it's not your real life,
Jeremy said.
It'll be your abbreviated memoir, and frankly I'd rather leave those for the athletes and musicians.

Although I met the request with substantial trepidation, I decided to think it through. I mean, how much did I honestly have to say about Nico Vanetti? And was any of it worth saying?

Now that I know the full story, the patches filled in through the help of Esther and her former colleague Frank Menegaro, I have an appreciation for Nico. The limp he'll carry the rest of his life and the years he'll lose are a more sufficient punishment than any grudge of mine will inflict. But the man did believe in me. And that's why I'm indebted to him. Sometimes you can't see something until someone else does first. You need a second pair of eyes to notice what you might miss. In a really fucked up way, Nico Vanetti believed in me.

I can't pass judgment. For that I would have to claim innocence, which I do not.
I
sent the letter to Nico in the first place, asking for his guidance. I was the one who kept the truth from Paul. Maybe in the end, I wanted to use Nico as much as he did me.

I find myself going back and poring over those first crinkled pages, adding notes and addendums, sprinkling more life into the words that hopefully many people, like you, will read. This is my real life, scabs and all, for better or for worse.

I'm a different person than I was a year ago, my future uncertain, when my clothes reeked of booze and cheap cologne. I'm currently sitting here next to a case of Andre—a gift from my agent—saddened to be writing the prologue to a finished work. And I have so many to thank…

To Esther, who no matter how much she argues to the contrary, helped dig me out of the hole I'd carved for myself. This episode surely would not have had the same impact it currently does with her love and mentoring.

I can still feel our first kiss, my body shaking when I fully gave in. You were bread to a starving man. I couldn't ask for more in both a lover and an agent. Your kindness inspires me and your hard work on my behalf has opened the gates. I only hope that when you lay your head on my chest at night that I provide you the same comfort you do me. For you, Esther, I am eternally grateful. You deserve all the love in the world I'm in honored to try and provide it.

And I think of Seamus. The last smile before he died. Seeing his body prone, watching his future flash before my eyes as if it were mine. I want to thank Seamus for saving me. Sometimes to know what you want, first you need to know what you don't. And Seamus, while as good a man as any, showed me a life I didn't want. His heart has helped steer me to a life I am happy with.

I have memories from Slappy's that will last a lifetime and friends who I hope never forget me. When I last saw Artie, I wished him well and meant it. I hope all the publicity due to this book will help his business and I hope to share a pint with him Slappy's Two someday. Last I heard, he leased space on the Upper East Side and has already begun construction. So by the time this book is released, I hope to have settled our differences over a fresh pint.

I don't want to say that this journey has been therapeutic, because that's what all artists seem to say. But I know I want to do more. Thanks to my editor, I'm contractually obligated to write one more book after this one. It's both fantastic and terrifying to know he has such faith in me. Don't laugh, but I'm thinking about a novel. I feel I have at least one good story to tell.

On another note, one that I find amusing every time I reread the correspondence, a television producer for one of the big three networks contacted Esther recently. Apparently they're developing a television series loosely based on my life at Slappy's—a
Cheers
for the new generation (their words, not mine). They pitched me a show about a twenty-something bartender in his search for life, love and a few good drinks (guess whose words again). They want to cast funny young actors—think
Friends
except in AA—and one of those earthily handsome men (i.e. homely. Those are my words) to play the bartender. I agreed, as long as they promise to cast someone from the original
Beverly Hills 90210
as Paul. He'd get a kick out of that. And they probably need the work.

Speaking of Paul, he recently sold his first story collection to a University press in Idaho. He didn't get much money and did it without an agent. I've never seen the man happier. He asked me to contribute a quote for his book jacket, which I promptly declined. I told him there were dozens of authors who would be thrilled to do so, and the last thing he needs is one from someone who used to complain about his snoring.

I'm writing the last of this prologue with a spec script of
Inside Sippy's
on my desk and copy of Paul's book next to it. The script arrived last night in a sealed envelope. I had to fax over a confidentiality agreement before reading it. Along with the script, the envelope included headshots of the actors and actresses tipped to play bartenders, waitresses and patrons. I don't know if they want my approval or are just showing how beautiful the people in my “real life” are, but part of me wants to laugh at the silliness of the whole thing. But then it strikes me, and I realize that everything has come full circle.

Last night, Esther at my side, I had to go over payment terms for the syndication rights to my fictional life. So I smile and take a deep breath, and then authorize my life for syndication.

An excerpt from

THE MARK

Available everywhere in both print and ebook

Right as I was about to die, I realized that none of the myths about death were true. There was no white light at the end of a tunnel. My life didn't flash before my eyes. There were no singing angels, no thousand virgins, and my soul didn't hover and admire my body from above. I was only aware of one thing, and that was how much I wanted to live.

I watched the shotgun, moonlight glinting off its oily black barrel. The stench of death was thick. The air smelled of cordite, ripe and strong, blood and rot choking the room as everything grew dark around me. My panicked eyes leapt to the body at my feet, and I saw the spent shells scattered in a spreading pool of rich, red blood. My blood.

There were two other men alive in this room. I'd met them each once before. Five minutes ago I thought I had the story figured out. I knew these men both wanted me dead, knew their reasons for desiring my death were vastly different.On one man's face burned a hatred so personal, just looking at him felt like the grim reaper had come for me. The other man held other a cold, blank, businesslike stare, as though my life was merely a timecard waiting to be punched. And I couldn't help but think…

Human emotion was formerly an obsession of mine. Guilt. Passion. Love. Courage.Lust.And fear. In my twenty-four years of life, I'd experienced them all time and time again. Everything but fear. And over the last three days, all the fear I owed the house had been paid back in spades. Traversing the black and white of human emotion was my passion, finding the gray between was my calling. Seeking out man's limits and limitations and conveying them to the masses, it was my insulin. I moved to New York because I was given the chance to experience these emotions on a grander scale than I ever imagined. Here I had a chance to uncover the greatest stories never told.

The bullet in my chest sent cold sparks rippling down my spine. The right side of my body was numb, every breath felt like I was sipping mud through a crushed straw. When the slug entered me, tearing through my flesh, my body sent flying like a broken puppet, I expected to feel a blinding pain. White searing heat. Waves of agony that crashed against my body like vengeful surf. But the pain didn't come. Instead I was left with the terrifying sensation that there was no sensation at all.

As I lay dying, I tried to imagine the precious moments I might lose if that black muzzle fired again, its orange flame illuminating the darkness, death traveling so fast my world would end before the realization even hit me.Was I meant to have a family? A bigger apartment than the shitty, overpriced rental, now with crime scene tape crossing the door? Was I meant to have children? A boy or a girl? Maybe both? Would I raise them in the city, where I so eagerly arrived just a few months ago? Maybe I'd grow old and get sick, die of natural causes. Maybe I'd step out from the curb in front of Radio City Music Hall and get hit by a double-decker bus filled with tourists, digital cameras snapping pictures of my mangled body as a bicycle cop directed traffic around my chalk outline.

But no. Here I was, Henry Parker, twenty four years old, weary beyond rational thought, a bullet mere inches from shattering a life that had seemingly just begun. And if the truth dies with me tonight, I know many more will die as well, lives that could have been saved, if only….

I can't run. Running is all I've done the past 72 hours. And it all ends tonight.

My body shakes, every twitch involuntary. The man in black, his face etched in granite, grips the shotgun and says two words. And I know I'm about to die.

“For Anne.”

I don't know Anne. But I'm about to die for her. And for the first time since it began three days ago, I have nowhere to run.

I want my life back. I want to find Amanda. Please, let it end. I'm tired of running. Tired of knowing the truth and not being able to tell it. Just give me the chance to tell the story, and I promise it will be worth it.

I watched my reflection in the doors as the elevator rose to the twelfth floor. My suit had been steamed, pressed and tailored. My tie, shoes and belt matched perfectly. I nervously eyed Wallace Langston, the older man standing next to me. My brown hair was neatly combed, the posture on my sixone frame ramrod straight. I'd bought a book on prepping for your first day at a new job. On the cover was an attractive twenty-something whose dentistry probably cost more than my college tuition.

Security downstairs had given me a temporary ID. Not yet a member of the fraternity, still a pledge who had to prove his worth.

“Make sure you have your picture taken before the week's up,” the husky security guard with huge, red-rimmed glasses and a personality-enhancing cheek mole told me. “If you don't, I gotta run you through the system every day. And I have better things to do than run it through the system every goddamn day. You get me?”

I nodded, assured her I'd have the photo taken as soon as I got upstairs. And I meant it. I wanted my face on a
Gazette
ID as fast as the lab could develop it. I'd take it to Kinkos myself if they were backed up.

When the doors opened, Wallace led me across a foyer with beige carpeting, pasta secretary's desk with the words
New York Gazette
in big, bold letters mounted on the wall. I showed her my temporary ID. She smiled with an open mouth and chewed her gum.