The treatment I'd read, Trafficant's. Title stolen from a dead man's novel. For the petty thrill? The allure of crime had never left him.
"I thought," App was saying, "with a few changes- more character arc- it had potential. If Terry hadn't disappeared, I probably would have produced it."
"Hooray for Hollywood," said Bleichert. "So far I don't know much more than when I came in."
App wore a meditative look.
MacIlhenny handed his client water, and App sipped delicately.
Putting the glass down, he said, "The key to all of it is Lowell's creative block. He went into a massive block years ago- thirty years ago. Just couldn't break out of it, maybe because of his drinking or maybe he'd just said all he had to say. But Trafficant didn't know that. He spent most of his youth in prison, found Lowell's old stuff, and read it, had no idea what was going on in the outside world. Then he ended up in some sort of creative writing program the prison was experimenting with and got the idea he could write. So he wrote to Lowell, stroked Lowell's ego, the two of them started a correspondence. Trafficant started writing poems and keeping a diary. He sent it to Lowell. Lowell was impressed and started working for Trafficant's parole."
Pausing.
"That's the part the public knows. The truth is, Lowell and Trafficant cut a deal, back when Trafficant was still in prison. Lowell hatched the whole thing, telling Trafficant poetry was a financial loser in the book business, it was almost impossible to get published. Except for a few famous poets like him. Lowell promised to agitate until Trafficant got early parole; meanwhile he'd also be editing Trafficant's poems, then submit them for publication under his own name. Trafficant would get the money and Lowell would also get the diary published under Trafficant's name."
"And Trafficant went along with this?"
"What did he have to bargain with, a loser behind bars? Lowell was offering him freedom, lots of money, possible fame if the diary hit big. So he wouldn't get credit for the poems; he could live with that. He was a con, used to deals."
"How much money did Lowell get for the poems?"
"A hundred and fifty thousand advance against royalties. Lowell took fifty for himself, Lowell's agent got fifteen. The retreat- Sanctum- was started as a way to transfer the rest of the eighty-five thou to Trafficant."
"Sounds like you were in on it from the beginning," said Bleichert.
"I helped finance the retreat because I believed in Lowell."
"Idealism."
"That's right."
Bleichert said to MacIlhenny, "So far the tone of this is very self-serving."
MacIlhenny said, "Be frank, Curt. This old nose tells me they're operating in good faith."
App hesitated.
MacIlhenny patted him.
"All right," the producer said. "I used the retreat too. To launder money. Nothing big. Some friends of mine- kids, people in the industry- were bringing marijuana up from Mexico. We didn't consider it really a drug, back then. Everyone smoked."
He picked something out of his sweater.
Bleichert moved his head impatiently. "I hope there's more."
"Plenty," said App. "Lowell was hoping the poems he stole from Trafficant would put him back in the spotlight. They did, but in the wrong way. All the critics hated them and the book bombed. Meanwhile, Trafficant's book became a fu- a best-seller." He chuckled, wanting everyone else to join in. No one did.
I remembered the enraged letter Trafficant had written to the Village Voice in support of Lowell. Mustering the only real passion a psychopath can ever develop: self-defense.
"What made Lowell think Trafficant would keep quiet about the deal?"
"Lowell was desperate. And naive- most arty types are. I've dealt with them for thirty years; take my word for it. And the fact that the book failed protected Lowell. Why would Trafficant want to claim authorship of a turkey, especially with his other book doing so well? But Lowell wasn't even thinking in those terms at the beginning. He was obsessed with his place in history, freaking out that his reputation was rotting. He used to sit in that cabin on his property all day, trying to produce, but nothing came. He kept drinking and doping to forget, and it only made matters worse."
"How'd the failure of the poetry book affect him?"
"He drank himself unconscious, then came out of it saying it was Terry's work anyway, Terry had no talent, was just a slick criminal who'd taken advantage of him. Meanwhile, Terry's doing interviews with The New York Times and selling a thousand books a week. Lowell stopped talking to him, and Terry knew it was only a matter of time before he'd be leaving Sanctum. That's when he transferred his royalties to me for safekeeping. For all his tough talk, he was still a con, had no idea how to cope with the world, so he came to me."
"And you taped him."
"For his protection."
Bleichert grunted.
"Irony," said App. "It's the key to a good story line. Lowell's name on that book of poems was supposed to buy success but it didn't. Trafficant became the darling of the literary set. You could package it as a comedy and sell it to cable."
Bleichert said, "So Trafficant spilled his guts to you because he was worried about making it in the outside world."
"That, and he wanted to talk. Cons always do. No self-control. Never met one yet who could keep a secret."
"Know lots of cons, do you?"
App folded his hands across his sweater. "I meet all sorts of people."
"I still haven't heard any details about murder," said Bleichert.
App smiled. "Lowell killed Terry. Two days after the Best girl's accident. Things finally came to a head, because Lowell was shaken up by what had happened, ready to close down the retreat. And still pissed at Terry. He ordered Terry off the premises. Terry cursed him out and threatened to go public with the whole book scam. When Terry turned his back, Lowell hit him on the head with a whisky bottle, kept hitting him. Then he panicked, called me, blubbering. I went over and we buried Trafficant."
Clapping his hands once.
"And with that," said Bleichert, "you were able to buy Lowell's secrecy on Karen Best forever."
"Keeping quiet about that was in Lowell's interest, too. His reputation was lousy enough without someone dying at his party."
"Where's Trafficant buried?"
"Right underneath Lowell's writing cabin- Inspiration he called it. That's where he killed him. The floor was dirt; they just dug down."
"Who's they?"
"Lowell, Denny Mellors, Chris Graydon-Jones."
"Why Mellors?"
"He was a weeny- and I'd say that if he was white. He hated being black, as a matter of fact. Denied it. He thought if he just kept writing and kissing ass, he'd be rich and famous. Anyway, that's where Terry is. I don't know if the cabin's still standing, but I can find the spot- right near the pond."
"Not far from Karen Best," said Bleichert.
App didn't answer.
"Any other bodies we should know about?"
"Not to my knowledge. You'd have to ask Lowell. He's the creative one. Did you know that he published his first book while in college? Everyone told him he was a genius. Fatal error."
"What was?"
"Believing his own reviews. Now can we get the ball rolling on transferring me to a decent place?"
"So you've been collecting Mr. Trafficant's royalties all these years."
"After the first few years it was chicken feed. Nothing's come in for the last five."
"How much chicken feed?"
"I'd have to check. Probably not more than a hundred and fifty thousand, all told."
"And Mr. Trafficant's advance payment for his book?"
"Seven thousand dollars. He blew it all in a crap game the same day he cashed the check. That's why he was so uptight when Lowell threatened to kick him out. Here he was a best-seller, eighty-five g's dropped in his bank account, and he had no idea how to handle it. Now can you get me to a decent place?"