Vernon Downs by Jaime Clarke Page A

it,” Vernon said.
    Charlie made a nervous joke about having gotten lost, even though he hadn’t.
    â€œThis is Jeremy Cyanin,” Vernon said, pointing.
    â€œHey,” Cyanin said coolly, scanning the room. “I suppose you’re mad at Vernon too.”
    Charlie smiled dumbly, unsure what the gibe meant, forcing Vernon to explain that he’d been spending time with some models as research for his next novel and had even participated in a photo shoot, but changed his mind about signing the release form. Apparently, everyone was angryabout it, much to Cyanin’s amusement. Charlie processed the information in the uncomfortable silence, which was broken by a woman dripping in gold lamé who squealed when she saw Vernon and Cyanin. “It
is
you,” the woman said, raising her arms to allow the writers to hug her. Cyanin obliged, while Vernon lifted his glass in the woman’s direction. “Hello, Vernon,” she said. “I haven’t seen you since your Christmas party. You never did say where you hired those elves from.”
    â€œThe elves were two years ago,” Cyanin said, laughing. He rocked back on his heels, unaware of the swaying.
    The woman’s expression changed. “Yes, I’m on some sort of blacklist, apparently.” Vernon shrugged and rattled the ice in his glass. A cloud settled over the woman, whose gold lamé dress appeared rusty in the red-lit room.
    Cyanin leaned into the bar, and Charlie passed the folded pages to Vernon, who slipped them into his suit jacket pocket with a half smile.
    â€œLooks like a rip-off of
Minus Numbers
,” Charlie said, indicating the blowup of the cover.
    â€œYou could say that,” Vernon laughed.
    The writer being celebrated appeared, a jaunty kid wearing a very authorial jacket, complete with elbow patches, and shook hands with Vernon as Cyanin emerged from the bar. Charlie exploited the seam created by Cyanin and reached out for the lip of the bar to pulley himself to the front of the crowd.
    â€œThat’s a slick move,” the man standing next to him said.
    â€œThanks,” Charlie replied.
    â€œIf you can get the bartender’s attention, you’ll really have done it.” He stuck out his hand. “Warren Thomas.”
    Charlie shook hands. “Your name sounds familiar,” he said, having recently realized this was the correct thing to say in writerly circles.
    â€œI write for
Esquire
,” he said. “With Josh.” He indicated the author whose book had brought them all together.
    â€œRight,” Charlie said, reaching into the recesses of his mind to seize the elusive strand that incorporated what he knew about Warren Thomas. The information bobbed up like a sunken piece of driftwood finally freed. “You wrote ‘The Case for Vernon David Downs,’” right?”
    Warren nodded. “Good recall.”
    Charlie gushed about how Warren’s piece about the
Vegetable King
controversy had clearly been written by someone with a cool head, not someone caught up in the rhetoric and the heated moment. “He’s here,” Charlie said.
    â€œYeah, I saw him.” Warren attempted to flag down the bartender, without success. “I heard he’s finally crawling out of his cave. Good for him. A shitty way to have to live. I’d stand in the corner too, though. You never know who’s out there.”
    â€œDo you think
The Vegetable King
is his best book? Or just the most famous?”
    Warren finally reeled in the bartender, who didn’t look up when Warren gave his order, then pointed at Charlie.
    â€œSame,” Charlie said.
    Warren turned to him. “Truthfully, I think he’s a sensationalist hack with a gift for self-promotion. That piece was assigned to me and I wrote it. But it was mental torture. I didn’t come up with the headline and never felt like I was making the case for anything, frankly. Just doing my job.