brother, Boyd, had overcome the less-than-stellar reputation he had realized in high school. President of a refuse collection company, he had become very successful in part because of his willingness, indeed his eagerness, to do business with the mafia.
“My brother dumps his garbage on the public, and I haul it off,” Boyd liked to say, criticizing his brother’s elitist way of making a living.
Dawson knew that Boyd was very jealous of him. Dawson had risen above his brother’s shadow and sibling competition to sibling victory. And he believed, sincerely, that it had become almost a Cain and Abel rivalry, a theme of good versus evil.
Some literary critics had actually pointed that out as a continuing theme in his novels. A New York Times reviewer wrote:
Though elements of the picaresque color the major players of this author’s books, there seems to be in each of them a theme of sibling rivalry, sometimes satirical and overplayed, sometimes as subtle as the base note of a quality perfume. And, as the notes in a perfume produce the final, blended scent, so too, do the “notes” of Rask’s novels combine in such a way as to produce a satisfying read.
The reviews, as well as the sales of all three of his books had been outstanding, and his agent wanted him to release the rights to his first two books to make them Hollywood blockbusters.
Dawson said he would agree, as long as he maintained creative control over the storyline. He simply didn’t need the money to sell out his vision.
He told his agent: “If I had a son and a daughter, named Mike and Emily, I wouldn’t allow a complete stranger to pay me a million dollars for each so he could call them Mark and Carrie!”
* * *
It was too early to use any of the hotel’s valet services, so Dawson ironed his own pants and shirt, got dressed, then looked at the clock. The glowing red digital clock said that it was 6:30 A.M . He picked up the phone.
“Good morning, Mr. Rask,” the man at the front desk said.
Dawson smiled. He almost expected the man to say, “Throw a shrimp on the barbie.”
“Yes, is my driver here yet?”
“He is indeed, sir, sitting in the lobby as we speak.”
“Good, tell him I’ll be right down.”
Dawson had not yet met his driver, as arrangements had been made by his publisher and publicist. But when he stepped from the elevator, there was little doubt that the tall man wearing a blue blazer, tan slacks, and what Dawson would describe as a Greek fisherman’s hat was his driver. His suspicion was corroborated when the tall man stepped toward him.
“Would you be Mr. Rask, by chance?”
“Not by chance,” Dawson replied. “I worked hard to get here.”
The driver laughed politely. “Your car is out front, sir.”
The black stretch Mercedes was parked under the porte cochere on the other side of the drive in the area reserved for VIPs. The driver held the door open for him, which always made Dawson feel a little self-conscious. The steering wheel was on the right, and even though he knew they drove on the left side of the road here in Australia, it was still a little jarring.
On the way to his first interview, on a national radio show, he experienced an anxious feeling. Why? he wondered. He was certainly well seasoned by now—he had done hundreds of these things over the last three years.
A few seconds later, he felt clammy and nauseous—not carsick nauseous, just nauseous—and he actually thought for a moment that he might need to vomit. As he rolled the window down to get a breath of fresh air, he saw a large statue of a lion. But it wasn’t an ordinary statue, because this one seemed to be moving.
That’s not possible, he thought.
“We are here, Mr. Rask,” the driver said. “I will be waiting for you in the car park, reading your novel. If you need anything, call me on my mobile. Here’s my card … Jack Ransom.”
Dawson happened to look down on the passenger’s side of the front seat and
“My brother dumps his garbage on the public, and I haul it off,” Boyd liked to say, criticizing his brother’s elitist way of making a living.
Dawson knew that Boyd was very jealous of him. Dawson had risen above his brother’s shadow and sibling competition to sibling victory. And he believed, sincerely, that it had become almost a Cain and Abel rivalry, a theme of good versus evil.
Some literary critics had actually pointed that out as a continuing theme in his novels. A New York Times reviewer wrote:
Though elements of the picaresque color the major players of this author’s books, there seems to be in each of them a theme of sibling rivalry, sometimes satirical and overplayed, sometimes as subtle as the base note of a quality perfume. And, as the notes in a perfume produce the final, blended scent, so too, do the “notes” of Rask’s novels combine in such a way as to produce a satisfying read.
The reviews, as well as the sales of all three of his books had been outstanding, and his agent wanted him to release the rights to his first two books to make them Hollywood blockbusters.
Dawson said he would agree, as long as he maintained creative control over the storyline. He simply didn’t need the money to sell out his vision.
He told his agent: “If I had a son and a daughter, named Mike and Emily, I wouldn’t allow a complete stranger to pay me a million dollars for each so he could call them Mark and Carrie!”
* * *
It was too early to use any of the hotel’s valet services, so Dawson ironed his own pants and shirt, got dressed, then looked at the clock. The glowing red digital clock said that it was 6:30 A.M . He picked up the phone.
“Good morning, Mr. Rask,” the man at the front desk said.
Dawson smiled. He almost expected the man to say, “Throw a shrimp on the barbie.”
“Yes, is my driver here yet?”
“He is indeed, sir, sitting in the lobby as we speak.”
“Good, tell him I’ll be right down.”
Dawson had not yet met his driver, as arrangements had been made by his publisher and publicist. But when he stepped from the elevator, there was little doubt that the tall man wearing a blue blazer, tan slacks, and what Dawson would describe as a Greek fisherman’s hat was his driver. His suspicion was corroborated when the tall man stepped toward him.
“Would you be Mr. Rask, by chance?”
“Not by chance,” Dawson replied. “I worked hard to get here.”
The driver laughed politely. “Your car is out front, sir.”
The black stretch Mercedes was parked under the porte cochere on the other side of the drive in the area reserved for VIPs. The driver held the door open for him, which always made Dawson feel a little self-conscious. The steering wheel was on the right, and even though he knew they drove on the left side of the road here in Australia, it was still a little jarring.
On the way to his first interview, on a national radio show, he experienced an anxious feeling. Why? he wondered. He was certainly well seasoned by now—he had done hundreds of these things over the last three years.
A few seconds later, he felt clammy and nauseous—not carsick nauseous, just nauseous—and he actually thought for a moment that he might need to vomit. As he rolled the window down to get a breath of fresh air, he saw a large statue of a lion. But it wasn’t an ordinary statue, because this one seemed to be moving.
That’s not possible, he thought.
“We are here, Mr. Rask,” the driver said. “I will be waiting for you in the car park, reading your novel. If you need anything, call me on my mobile. Here’s my card … Jack Ransom.”
Dawson happened to look down on the passenger’s side of the front seat and
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