Venom and the River Read Free Page A

again. “Sorry. I should have asked before.”
    “I’m fine, actually. I really just wanted to talk for a minute,” Leigh said. “He almost dropped the baby, Geneva. He drifted away and forgot he had him, and Tucker nearly fell off his lap.”
    The young woman took her son from Leigh and rested her head on his. She closed her eyes briefly. “Okay,” Geneva whispered. “It’s good you told me.”
    Her host didn’t seem to notice when Leigh entered the study. He stood before a massive bookcase that covered a long wall. He pulled out a book and then lowered himself stiffly into a worn easy chair that was clearly the center of his nest. Leigh grimaced as he settled uneasily. Not that many years had passed since his picture would occasionally appear in magazines—a photograph almost always taken on tennis courts or in a rugged outdoor setting with a movie star or model a third his age at his side.
    Damn, she thought, noticing the book in his hand. “Mr. Vice President—”
    “None of that, Leigh,” he said. “By the time we’re done you’ll know everything about me from the names of my lovers to the smell of my farts. I think that calls for first names, don’t you? Mine’s Terry. And this book you ghosted for my old pal,” he said as he held it aloft, “is a splendid pack of lies.”
    It’s what I now do best, she thought.
    “Marvelous, every bit of it. Like I said, we don’t want lies in mine, of course. Well, except for the big one: that you’re the writer, not me.”
    “You will do the writing, Mr. Vice President. I’ll just—”
    He pointed at a chair and she sat down.
    “You’ll just what? Channel me?” He shook his head. “When I read this leather-bound load of shit I knew old George Simmons had found himself a first-rate writer to do his lying. It sounds just like him! It was an even better job than what you did with Timmy’s autobiography.”
    “I guess I have a way.”
    “With rich old men and their egos?” He set the book on a small table beside the chair. “So why do you do it, Leigh?”
    Breath and blood ceased to flow for a moment until she realized he’d spoken in present tense. Not, Why did you do it? “Money and security, I guess. I’m a freelance writer; we can’t be too choosy.”
    “So you ghost self-published autobiographies for vain old men. There’s nothing better out there?”
    He leaned forward, intent, waiting. Suddenly she knew why those models and actresses had looked so happy at his side: The man listened.
    “Last month I grossed four thousand, Terry. That’s a really good month for me. I sold the same sermon to thirteen lazy ministers, four knock-off children’s books on national parks I’ve never visited, and three thousand words on the virtues of some bogus food supplements for an online newsletter. That’s what’s out there.” She looked down at her hands. “I enjoy the vain old men I’ve worked with. And now those books have led me here. Your memoir is a real job. One I’ll be proud of.”
    “Even if your name isn’t on it?”
    We should both hope my name is never anywhere near it, she thought, otherwise your publisher won’t touch it. She said, “Meaningful work and decent money is more than enough for me. It’s time I buy a house. I need a place my daughter will want to visit. She lives with her father.” Leigh closed her eyes. “Stop it,” she whispered under her breath. Giving away too much.
    “Won’t come to see you, hey? Don’t be ashamed about having issues with a child. I have them, three times over. We’ll address all my domestic affairs in the book, of course, but, perhaps elliptically, don’t you think? No need to go into my kids’ lives.”
    “It’s a political memoir,” Leigh said.
    He nodded. “Exactly. They’re worried, though. You should know that and know that they might give you trouble. I told them I hired a ghost this time, and they’re afraid you won’t have scruples about trampling on their privacy. I