Mike Nelson's Death Rat! by Michael J. Nelson Page A

write. He held up his finger in a “hang on a second” gesture and was standing up when Jack yanked him back down.
    â€œWould you just tell me the amount, Ponty? I just don’t remember the amount.”
    Ponty whispered in Jack’s ear.
    â€œStop spitting. I can’t hear you.”
    Ponty tried again.
    â€œYes, exactly. That was the amount, exactly. I signed the contract a few days ago,” Jack said. “Fetters took his share and cut me a check yesterday. And don’t forget the back end!”
    â€œYes!” said Ponty triumphantly.
    They celebrated again in a more muted fashion, Jack more so than Ponty because he was now slightly frightened by both the elder man’s behavior and his tight-fitting trucker’s outfit.When they’d settled down again, Jack gave Ponty a look of distaste mixed with pity.
    â€œPonty, what is this? The jeans and the ‘Earl’ and the mustache? What’s happened to you? You’re not line-dancing are you?”
    â€œIt’s nothing. I’m just trying to be careful. My picture was in the paper after my . . . accident, so I’m known all over town. And besides, these past few weeks I’ve had dreams. I never have dreams.”
    â€œI agree—we do have to be careful, but there have got to be better ways to go about it than dressing up like Richard Farnsworth.”
    â€œYou laugh. Go get a rack, will you, before we start to look conspicuous.”
    Jack returned with a tray of balls and racked them. Ponty broke, the cue ball glancing off the side of the rack gently, freeing up exactly two balls.
    Looking at the floor Ponty half mumbled, “Oh, I’m going to need a few percentages of your share to buy off my roommates. It’s in our best interest.”
    â€œWhat?” said Jack, standing up straight. “You told them about this?”
    â€œWell, they know enough about the plot that when it comes out, they’ll know I wrote it. It won’t take much. They’re good guys. They understand the drill, and they’re not going to get in our way. I just need to give them a good-faith bribe.”
    â€œI can’t believe you told them about it.”
    â€œI didn’t know at the time that you were going to be its author. It’s just two percent.”
    â€œMan,” said Jack, “I liked my percentage the way it was. Itwas so symmetrical. It hadn’t been pecked at by roommates.” He waved away the issue with his hand. “Fine. Have your stinkin’ little two percent back.”
    â€œYou’re a pal. Okay, so tell me how it went down.”
    â€œWell,” said Jack, expertly sinking one of the freed balls, taking the cue ball off the railing, and breaking up the rack, “there’s not much to tell. Fetters took it right away, and, like I told you, there was interest within the week.” He sank another while simultaneously looking over his shoulder at Ponty, “He told me he sold it at auction.”
    â€œAuction? Hm, sounds a little farm implement–y to me. But whatever works.”
    â€œYup. Can’t argue with the results,” Jack agreed, using the bridge to put one in the side and one in the corner with one shot. “He said they were all blown away by the fact that it was a true story. He warned that with a nonfiction book like this we have to be pretty hush-hush to the press, because another publisher can pay some other hack journalist to whip one up, and they’ll rush into print before we get ours out.” He sank a long rail shot and pointed at it in a playfully self-satisfied manner.
    Ponty blacked out for an instant, and when he woke, he was in the exact same spot watching Jack line up a shot. He shook his head.
    â€œJack, what are you talking about?” he said, his voice trembling.
    â€œYeah, I guess it can happen. There was another book about that moose deal—you remember that?—but it got to market a little