Zoe stood up. ‘Are you a conference attendee?’
‘I just signed up.’ He held up a nametag. The big letters read ‘Danny’ but I couldn’t see the rest.
‘The lady said I could be …’ Danny turned the tag around so he could read it, ‘Colonel Arbuthnot?’
Sean Connery played the role of the British Indian Army Officer in the movie. And this kid was no Sean Connery. Nor, I might add, did his real and assigned names alliterate.
But talk, he certainly could. ‘… so I was late. But I did pay for the conference.’
‘And this event?’ Zoe asked.
Danny nodded.
The conference organizer gestured toward the back. ‘Well, then, welcome aboard. You’ll have to stand for the time being, but there will be plenty of room on the train.’
‘Great, thanks.’ The kid made his way back as the bus began inching forward again.
‘So, Larry,’ Markus said from across the aisle. ‘This book you’re writing. Is it a novel?’
‘Mr Potter – you’re writing a novel, too?’ Danny/Col. Arbuthnot had stopped next to us. A studious-looking kid, his eyes were the color of unwrapped Hershey’s Kisses and about as readable. They were focused on Potter.
‘Perhaps,’ said the Great One, irritably. ‘But you’d be better served by my book on writing from a few years back.’
Potter’s tone was downright nasty, but you had to hand it to Danny, he seemed unfazed. In fact, the young man hunkered down in the aisle to talk earnestly across me to Potter. ‘I’d love to read your book. It would be tit-for-tat, since I already sent you mine.’
I could practically feel the steam coming off Potter. ‘What you sent, Master Danny, is a “manuscript.” Not a “novel.” If and when you get it published by a reputable trade house, I will be overjoyed to peruse it and tell the world exactly what I think.’
‘Gee, that would be really great,’ said the young man, either not getting or, at least, not reacting to Potter’s sarcasm. Danny straightened up and extended his hand past my face to Potter. ‘I’m going to hold you to that, sir.’
The reviewer looked at the hand before reluctantly shaking it. Then, with a guttural sound of disgust, he returned to his magazine.
Having apparently secured what he’d come for, Danny turned to me. ‘Are you an author, too?’
‘Nope. Coffeehouse owner.’
Weighing that, he must have decided there was no advantage to chatting up someone who couldn’t help him in his intended career. Mumbling, ‘Good to meet you,’ Danny rose and moved on to a man in a blue, yellow and red checkered sports jacket sitting behind me.
The boy introduced himself and the two chatted in low tones. So quiet, in fact, that I couldn’t hear them from just one row away, despite my best efforts. As I started to swivel back forward, I saw the seated man nod toward Potter’s back.
‘The kid’s got balls, I’ll give him that,’ Prudence said as the boy stood up and continued on, working his way toward the back of the bus. Every few seats he stopped to introduce himself. ‘And sending an unpublished manuscript to a reviewer? Talk about a death wish.’
‘I assume that’s not done?’ I asked.
The princess shrugged. ‘What’s the point? Unless, of course, you’re the type who gets a kick out of having your unborn child torn apart by jackals.’ She turned and glanced at the magazine held by the jackal in question. ‘No offense, Larry.’
‘None taken,’ Potter said mildly from behind it, seeming pleased by the comparison.
‘Please leave the boy – is it Danny? – alone.’ Grace, kindergarten teacher and apparent defender of the young, spoke up. ‘Who amongst us hasn’t deluded ourselves into thinking we’re the next Hemingway or Christie, just waiting to be discovered?’
A collective sigh – or maybe it was a whimper – came from the assorted aspiring writers seated around me.
I repressed a grin. ‘I suppose it would be logical to think that someone like Mr Potter would be just the person – in fact, that he could feel honored – to do just that.’
‘Not if you knew him,’ a voice behind us muttered.
‘So is the kid’s stuff any good, Larry?’ Prudence asked.
I saw Potter roll his eyes behind the magazine before he finally lowered it to address the question. ‘And how would I know that?’
‘This Danny sent you a manuscript, or so he said.’
‘And perhaps he truly did, but you can’t honestly begin to believe that I open and read what the vast unwashed mail me unsolicited, do you?’