Part 52: Bobby

Bobby was pacing the hallway of the hotel, pretending to be on the phone, when that-fucking-guy spotted him. The phone had been quick thinking. His other option was ducking back into his room, but then the damned journalist might have knocked at the door and followed him in, which would have imprisoned him. This way, he could keep the asshole (he was running out of synonyms) at arm’s length for a while, and there was a chance that he would get bored and leave.

His mistake had been leaving his room. But there was only so much business you could conduct through a Blackberry. Xander was still a precarious situation, and he had never gotten around to confronting Helen about the other night, and he couldn’t just sit in a room and do nothing. He went crazy without stimulation, without the whirl and energy of other people, without at least someone to compare himself to.

But even stir-crazy cabin fever was better than talking to - Bobby delved into his mind for the name as the toothbrush-mustached man approached him - Cicero.

“Yes, of course, you’re absolutely right,” he said into the phone, pretending he was talking to Britttni (who had been mysteriously MIA for the past few days. Had she disobeyed him and checked into rehab?) “But there are other things we’ve got to consider . . .” He put up one finger to Cicero and shook his head. The journalist recoiled as if physically shocked, settling about six feet away from Bobby, hands behinds his back. “You’ve got to think about your image, you know, the way that you’re going to be perceived in the external world, you can’t assume that they’re going to see what you see . . .” These phrases were natural, automatic. He had said them so many times that they flowed out of him like platitudes.

“Yes, but . . .” He mimed listening for a while. “I hear what you’re saying, I just think . . .” Here the person on the other end interrupted him. As long as his phone didn’t actually ring,  he could keep up the charade forever. It was actually fun.

Cicero continued to lurk, every once in a while looking as if he was about to jump in, but being too cowardly to get out more than an “uh, er-” The fucker actually said “er,” like he was a Jane Austen character or some shit. “Okay, okay, okay, I can tell you’re upset, and I hear you, and I’m just thinking maybe let’s go back to the beginning, some of the pieces are getting a little lost in translation here.”

Christ, if that didn’t get rid of him, if that wasn’t a clear signal that he wasn’t available . . . Bobby took the phone away from his ear and turned to Cicero. “Hey, look, I’m sorry but . . .”

“Oh, is this not a convenient hour?” Cicero said, somehow sounding rehearsed and surprised at once. “I could certainly return. I serve only at your pleasure, Mr. Melrose.”

“No, you know what, it’s fine,” Bobby said, pressing a random button on his phone and shoving it into his pocket. “I’ll call her back. She’s only in the throes of a mental breakdown, a quarter-life crisis, being super-optimistic there, it’s no big deal.”

“No, no, no, I would not dare to intrude. Surely you’d rather be enjoying that young woman’s company that conversing with such an utter bore as I?”

“Oh, no, of course not.” Why did he let himself fall into this trap every time? Maybe Xander had been on to something when he complained about leading questions. “It’s just, she’s a very important client of mine, so it’s business really, I’d much rather be talking to you, of course, but I do have to get back to her relatively soon, so can we get to the question part of this please.”

“Ah, Mr. Melrose, you are too kind to make time for this poor, portly peddler of . . . this poor, portly peddler,” Cicero said. He was stick-thin. “But I must confess you do infer correctly that my visit to you is not purely one of pleasure. I am conducting business as well. As you well know, my business lies in gossip and rumors. ‘Tis not the noblest way to make a living, and yet . . .”

“You’re here to ask about The Letter.”

“Oh?” Cicero once again feigned surprise. “You have anticipated this?”

“Well, yeah, it’s the only new thing that’s happened around here lately. But I can’t believe you flew from LA to Philly just for this.”

“A good journalist always chases his story, and we lesser ones must follow in their footfalls, I fear. Now, having spoken of chases, allow me to cut to mine, so to speak. I come to you on this occasion with a humble request. A request for an interview. An interview with . . . Xander Cross.” He stage-whispered Xander’s name, as if he were some ancient deity he wanted to summon using a forbidden ritual.

“Oh, sorry, Cic, no can do,” Bobby replied, pulling his phone back out of his pocket. He opened his text message inbox and showed Cicero his most recent conversation with Xander. “Xan’s booked tonight, he’s got a meet-and-greet with fans, important part of the job, you see. If I’ve got to choose between fans and journalists . . . well, you understand, of course, don’t you. Without the fans none of us have got jobs, right.”

Another stroke of brilliance on his part, putting the request in writing, when he first heard whispers that Cicero had come to Philadelphia. The things I do for you, he thought at Xander, as Cicero took an annoyingly long time to decipher what was really a pretty simple exchange. Of course, keeping Xander away from Cicero was in his self-interest as well, but that was the beauty of a capitalist world: how often your own self-interest dovetailed with that of others.

“Ah, well,” the journalist said eventually, letting out a melodramatic sigh. “I can’t deny a degree of disappointment. However!” He put up a single finger.

“Yes?”

Cicero leaned in conspiratorially. “Are you aware, Mr. Melrose, of the rumors that have begun to eddy and swirl in the more remote waters of the Internet? Concerning the true authorship of The Letter?”

“Well, obviously. These kids aren’t the brightest in the world - this is off the record, that goes without saying - but they’re not that stupid, no one’s that stupid. No surprise a few of them made the Aleksandr-Xander connection.”

“Ah, nay, nay, nay!” The fucker was clearly relishing this, knowing more than Bobby did. “I speak not of those rumors. I speak of things more arcane. There are those in the deeper corners of the discourse who dare to suspect that the true author of The Letter . . . is you.”

“Me? Oh, Jesus Christ, Xander,” Bobby muttered.

“What was that?” Cicero cupped his hand to his ear.

“Nothing, nothing. I didn’t write it. And that can be on the record. In fact I’d like it to be, spread your journalistic wings far and wide on this one, you’ve got my full and complete blessing. Jesus Christ. Let them fight about if he wrote it or not, that’s all part of the game, but don’t go dragging my name into the mix. That’s not just coloring outside the lines, that’s coloring off the page, that’s not just not being on the same page, that’s not even being in the same book, that’s . . .”

“This is all on the record?” Cicero confirmed, pulling out a notepad.

“Christ, what? No. Yes. I don’t care, whatever. Just, I didn’t write it. Make sure that’s the main thing they take away, whatever you end up writing, go ahead and decorate the edges with whatever purple flowery shit you like, just really hammer that home. I didn’t write it. I mean, I really, honest-to-God didn’t write it.”

And Bobby disappeared before Cicero had a chance to ask if he could take this last phrase to signify that Bobby believed in God.