Under the Lake Read Free Page A

nothing.
    “Four years from November I’m going to be electedthe next President of the United States of America,” Pitts said, with absolute confidence.
    Howell let his breath out as slowly as possible to keep from bursting out laughing and worked at fixing his face in an interested expression.
    “I guess that’s left you pretty much speechless,” Pitts said after a moment.
    “Pretty much,” Howell agreed. Pitts was not only eccentric, he was crazy. If the American people wouldn’t elect a peanut farmer President, why a chicken farmer?
    “Well, let me tell you, I’m not going about fulfilling this ambition haphazardly. Some of the finest minds in this country are signing on to help me realize it.”
    “Anybody I know?”
    Pitts held up a hand. “Too soon to talk about that right now. What I want to talk about right now is you.”
    “Me?” Here it comes, he thought. He wondered how long Denham White had been planning this.
    “I want you to write my autobiography.”
    Howell was so entertained by the contradiction in that statement that he forgot to reply.
    “What do you think of that?” Pitts asked.
    “Well, it’s very kind of you to think of me for something as . . . important as that, Mr. Pitts . . .”
    “Lurton.”
    “Lurton. But I’m pretty wrapped up in my own work at the moment.” That was a bald-faced lie; half a dozen publishers had already rejected his attempt at a novel, and he didn’t have an idea in his head.
    “Yes, Denham White told me that you were writing for yourself at the moment. Of course, you understand that I would expect to meet your usual fee for writing a book.Excuse me if I get personal for just a minute, John, but how much did the Pulitzer Prize pay you?”
    “A thousand dollars.”
    “And how much did you make on the book when that came out?”
    “About sixty thousand, I guess.”
    “Then I would expect to pay you sixty thousand dollars to write my book.”
    Howell was speechless again, but not in danger of laughing. He was astonished at what the mention of that sum was doing to his insides.
    Pitts rose, walked to a credenza, and picked up a cheap plastic briefcase. He set it down in front of Howell. “Tell you what,” he said. “This contains twelve reels of recording tape. I’ve spoken everything I can remember about my life onto those tapes. You take them home and listen to some of them, then call me back and tell me if you think you can make a book out of them.”
    Howell got to his feet. “Well, I’ll be happy to give you my opinion, Lurton, but I don’t know . . .”
    “Just listen to them, John. I think you’ll realize what a story my life has been. Call me in a few days.”
    “All right.” Howell picked up the briefcase and held out his hand.
    “There’s just two things I ask of you,” Pitts said. “First, nobody must ever know that I didn’t write the book myself. Wouldn’t look good.”
    That suited Howell. He would never be able to hold up his head again if anybody he knew thought he had even considered ghostwriting a book for Lurton Pitts.
    “Second, I’d ask you to do it in three months.”
    “I’ll listen to the tapes first, Lurton, then we’ll talk.”
    “We mustn’t meet again, John. Security, you know.”
    That suited Howell too. He walked the two blocks to his lunch date, sweating in the August Atlanta heat, trying not to think about this. He wanted to hear what Denham White had to say first.
    •   •   •
    He stepped gratefully into the air-conditioned lobby, took the elevator to the fourteenth floor, and stepped out into the foyer of the Commerce Club. As he entered the large dining room, he could see his brother-in-law across the room at his usual table. Howell picked his way through the elegant room full of Atlanta’s most important bankers, businessmen, and lawyers, shaking a hand or tossing a wave here and there. He had known these people from a distance as a journalist, and now he knew them closer up