‘Well, sure,’ Mort said, still casually. ‘I have to, you know. When two fellows show up with the same story, that’s serious.’
‘Serious,’ Shooter agreed in a deeply meditative tone of voice.
‘And the only way to sort a thing like that out,’ Mort continued, ‘to decide who copied from whom, is to find out who wrote the words first.’ He fixed Shooter’s faded blue eyes with his own dry and uncompromising gaze. Somewhere nearby a chickadee twittered self-importantly in a tangle of trees and was then quiet again. ‘Wouldn’t you say that’s true?’
‘I suppose I would,’ Shooter agreed. ‘I suppose that’s why I came all the way up here from Miss’ippi.’
Mort heard the rumble of an approaching vehicle. They both turned in that direction, and Tom Greenleafs Scout came over the nearest hill, pulling a little cyclone of fallen leaves behind it. Tom, a hale and healthy Tashmore native of seventy-something, was the caretaker for most of the places on this side of the lake that Greg Carstairs didn’t handle. Tom raised one hand in salute as he passed. Mort waved back. Shooter removed one hand from its resting place and tipped a finger at Tom in a friendly gesture which spoke in some obscure way of a great many years spent in the country, of the uncountable and unrecollected number of times he had saluted the passing drivers of passing trucks and tractors and tedders and balers in that exact same casual way. Then, as Tom’s Scout passed out of sight, he returned his hand to his ribcage so that his arms were crossed again. As the leaves rattled to rest on the road, his patient, unwavering, almost eternal gaze came back to Mort Rainey’s face once more. ‘Now what were we saying?’ he asked almost gently.
‘We were trying to establish provenance,’ Mort said. ‘That means -‘
‘I know what it means,’ Shooter said, favoring Mort with a glance which was both calm and mildly contemptuous. ‘I know I am wearing shitkicker clothes and driving a shitkicker car, and I come from a long line of shitkickers, and maybe that makes me a shitkicker myself, but it doesn’t necessarily make me a stupid shitkicker.’
‘No,’ Mort agreed. ‘I don’t guess it does. But being smart doesn’t necessarily make you honest, either. In fact, I think it’s more often apt to go the other way.’
‘I could figure that much out from you, had I not known it,’ Shooter said dryly, and Mort felt himself flush.
He didn’t like to be zinged and rarely was, but Shooter had just done it with the effortless ease of an experienced shotgunner popping a clay pigeon.
His hopes of trapping Shooter dropped. Not all the way to zero, but quite a considerable way. Smart and sharp were not the same things, but he now suspected that Shooter might be both. Still, there was no sense drawing this out. He didn’t want to be around the man any longer than he had to be. In some strange way he had looked forward to this confrontation, once he had become sure that another confrontation was inevitable – maybe only because it was a break in a routine which had already become dull and unpleasant.
Now he wanted it over. He was no longer sure John Shooter was crazy – not completely, anyway – but he thought the man could be dangerous. He was so goddam implacable. He decided to take his best shot and get it over with – no more dancing around.
‘When did you write your story, Mr Shooter?’
‘Maybe my name’s not Shooter,’ the man said, looking faintly amused. ‘Maybe that’s just a pen name.’
‘I see. What’s your real one?’
‘I didn’t say it wasn’t; I only said maybe. Either way, that’s not part of our business.’ He spoke serenely, appearing to be more interested in a cloud which was making its way slowly across the high blue sky and toward the westering sun.
‘Okay,’ Mort said, ‘but when you wrote that story is.’
‘I wrote it seven years ago,’ he said, still studying the cloud – it had touched the edge of the sun now and had acquired a gold fringe. ‘In 1982.’
Bingo, Mort thought. Wily old bastard or not, he stepped right into the trap after all. He got the story out of the collection, all right. And since Everybody Drops the Dime was published in 1983, he thought any date before then had to be safe. Should have read the copyright page, old son.
He waited for a feeling of triumph, but there was none. Only a muted sense of relief that this nut could be sent on his merry way with no further fuss or muss. Still, he was curious; it was the curse of the writing class. For instance, why that particular story, a story which was so out of his usual run, so downright atypical? And if the guy was going to accuse him of plagiarism, why settle for an obscure short story when he could have cobbled up the same sort of almost identical manuscript of a best-seller like The OrganGrinder’s Bay? That would have been juicy; this was almost a joke.
I suppose knocking off one of the novels would have been too much like work, Mort thought.
‘Why did you wait so long?’ he asked. ‘I mean, my book of short stories was published in 1983, and that’s six years ago. Going on seven now.’
‘Because I didn’t know,’ Shooter said. He removed his gaze from the cloud and studied Mort with that discomfiting look of faint contempt again. ‘A man like you, I suppose that kind of man just assumes that everyone in America, if not everyone in every country where his books are published, reads what he has written.’
‘I know better than that, I think,’ Mort said, and it was his turn to be dry.
‘But that’s not true,’ Shooter went on, ignoring what Mort had said in his scarily serene and utterly fixated way. ‘That is not true at all. I never saw that story until the middle of June. This June.’
Mort thought of saying: Well, guess what, Johnny-me-bay? I never saw my wife in bed with another man until the middle of May! Would it knock Shooter off his pace if he actually did say something like that out loud?
He looked into the man’s face and decided not. The serenity had burned out of those faded eyes the way mist burns off the hills on a day which is going to be a real scorcher. Now Shooter looked like a fundamentalist preacher about to ladle a large helping of fire and brimstone upon the trembling, downcast heads of his flock, and for the first time Mort Rainey felt really and personally afraid of the man. Yet he was also still angry. The thought he’d had near the end of his first encounter with ‘John Shooter’ now recurred: scared or not, he was damned if he was just going to stand here and take it while this man accused him of theft -especially now that the falsity had been revealed out of the man’s own mouth.
‘Let me guess,’ Mort said. ‘A guy like you is a little too picky about what he reads to bother with the sort of trash I write. You stick to guys like Marcel Proust and Thomas Hardy, right? At night, after the milking’s done, you like to fire up one of those honest country kerosene lamps, plunk it down on the kitchen table –
which is, of course, covered with a homey red-and-whitechecked tablecloth – and unwind with a little Tess or Remembrance of Things Past. Maybe on the weekend you let your hair down a little, get a little funky, and drag out some Erskine Caldwell or Annie Dillard. It was one of your friends who told you about how I’d copied your honestly wrought tale. Isn’t that how the story goes, Mr Shooter … or whatever your name is?’
His voice had taken on a rough edge, and he was surprised to find himself on the edge of real fury. But, he discovered, not totally surprised.
‘Nope. I don’t have any friends.’ Shooter spoke in the dry tone of a man who is only stating a fact. ‘No friends, no family, no wife. I’ve got a little place about twenty miles south of Perkinsburg, and I do have a checked tablecloth on my kitchen table – now that you mention it – but we got electric lights in our town. I only bring out the kerosenes when there’s a storm and the lines go down.’
‘Good for you,’ Mort said.
Shooter ignored the sarcasm. ‘I got the place from my father, and added to it with a little money that came to me from my gram. I do have a dairy herd, about twenty milkers, you were right about that, too, and in the evenings I write stories. I suppose you’ve got one of those fancy computers with a screen, but I make do with an old typewriter.’