Making A Deal

It’s interesting, you often hear about how people make deals to gain power, fame, or skills. That deal might be with an agent or a publisher or the devil. People come to me when they’ve exercised every option they can think of, on Earth or under the Earth (metaphorically speaking). It’s not as easy as it’s made out to be to get in touch with the right person or extra-planar being. And believe me, it has to be the precisely right one. 

How do I do it? Well, for one thing, I have a Rolodex like you won’t believe. I know the right people to call and how to call them. Really, though, it’s about asking the right questions. I have to ask the right ones, and the people who come to me have to ask the right ones. I’ll give you an example. 

There I was, drinking the best cappuccino you can get in Manhattan - and no, it’s not where you think, and yes, I can tell you, but it will cost you a favor. I’m reading the Sunday paper and contemplating how to spend the afternoon. Then I hear someone clear their throat. 

“Are you Eddie?” 

I look up. This kid is a buck ninety centimeters and eighty kilos, dripping wet. He’s got coppery hair and blue eyes that women will one day swoon for. His teeth need a bit of work, but I know a gal. Heh. 

“I’m certainly AN Eddie,” I answer, not being in the mood to be overly helpful. He interrupted the best cappuccino in Manhattan after all. 

“I’m looking for someone who can get me a deal. Are you THAT Eddie?” His voice has a musical quality. There’s a slight Midwestern twang he’s tried to get rid of with some theatrical training. He’s older than twenty but younger than twenty-five. The clothes he’s wearing were in a thrift store earlier this week. 

What? I have an eye and a mind for detail. In my business, you have to.

I wave at the waitress and motion for her to bring me another cappuccino. “Sit, kid.” I sense this is going to be worth my time. 

He sits, a bit gangly, but that can be fixed with some basic martial arts training. “Thank you, sir.” 

I wave off the honorific. “I was ‘Eddie’ and now I’m ‘sir’? Please, let’s keep it casual. What’s your name, kid?” 

“Connor. Connor M-” He starts to tell me his last name, but I hold up a hand. 

“We’re not at a last name stage, yet. Tell me what you want, Connor. Tell me what you really want.” I lean forward and peer into his eyes. There’s nothing magical about this part of what I do. It’s years, a LOT of years, of experience. 

“I want to be a writer.” The earnestness in his face, his voice, his… everything is almost painful. He means it. Of course, that’s not what he wants underneath it all. The first thing they say is almost never what they desire. I see what he wants in his eyes. It’s always there, and in this case, it surprises me. A little. 

“I’m going to tell you something you already know, Connor. You’re already a writer. If you want me to help you make a deal, you need to tell me what you actually want. And I want to make something clear. First, I can’t offer you a deal or guarantee you one. There are no guarantees about what I do.” 

“But he told me…” 

“Don’t interrupt. It’s rude.” 

Maxine, the waitress, put the cappuccino in front of Connor. “There you go, baby.”   

“I didn’t order this.” Connor looks confused.

“Drink it while this man talks, and don’t interrupt him again. If you want to stand a chance of getting what you want, he’s the one you want to talk to.” Maxine smiled at me and walked away. 

She knew whereof she was speaking. She was north of a hundred and twenty-five years old and didn’t look a day over thirty. I helped broker that deal. 

“Now, I don’t care who ‘he’ is or what ‘he’ told you,” though I suspected his identity. But he would tell you this same thing Maxine just did. The second thing is - if you don’t tell me what it is you truly want after you finish your cappuccino, then there will be no help on my part. So, take your time and think about it.” 

I went back to my drink and paper and waited. To his credit, Connor did take his time. The coffee begged to be savored. I want to take credit for brokering the deal to give the barista the skill they had, but that was all on them. More often than not, the deals didn’t involve skill anyway. Robert Johnson had all the skill he needed, for example. He “sold his soul” for success, which, if you ask me, was a bd deal. I wish I had been involved in brokering that deal. But I was in China at the time. 

Connor smacked his lips and settled the cup back in its saucer. “That was transcendental.” 

“Right? I’d say I try to tell people, but I actually don’t. Keep this place to yourself, if you would.” I finished my own drink and folded the paper. “What do you have to tell me?” 

He considered the next words out of his mouth. “You’re right. I spoke too hastily when I said I want to be a writer. I’ve been one since I was ten. I sold my first short story when I was fifteen. I got my first publishing contract when I was in high school. I’ve had a small degree of fame as a result of that precociousness.” 

I settled in. This had all the hallmarks of a prepared speech. I made a “go on” gesture.

“I’m relatively sure that if I continue on the career path I have in front of me, that I’ll do very well as a midlist author. I may even break through at some point into the bestseller ranks, for whatever good that will do me.” 

That last remark was interesting.

“I have a problem, though. I’m not going to live much longer. I have a rare heart condition.” There was a resignation in his voice. 

The best liars have spun their yarns to me. I’ve learned to spot a faker. This young man looked to be in the peak of physical health. I detected no subterfuge, though. And I offered no condolences, not yet. 

“I see.” 

“He told me you can help make deals that seem nearly supernatural. That, under the right circumstances, there’s almost nothing that’s out of bounds. Did I hear correctly?” 

I wanted to tell him that he could strike words like "nearly" and "almost" from his vocabulary as far as potential deals were concerned, but I didn’t want to get his hopes too high. Much depended on what he was willing to offer in exchange for what he asked. These sorts of deals were almost always quid pro quos. But I don’t have to tell you that. 

“Let’s say, for the sake of argument, you did. And don't forget what I said earlier about guarantees. What do you want?” 

“When I said I want to be a writer, imagine that I meant it in all capital letters. I have no illusions about my talents. I’m a good writer, a very good writer." I winced at the use of the word 'very'. "What I want is to write one or maybe two books that will change the world. I don’t have that level of talent. I know that about myself. Perhaps, if I lived a hundred years, I’d get there, but probably not.” He leaned back in his chair, a little deflated.

Now I could see it. I’ve told you I’ve been alive for a long time. I’ve hinted at my dealings with supernatural forces. I could see death in this young man’s near future. Nearer than he imagined, though not in the next year or even two. 

“Why not ask for a longer life, then?” It was a request I had heard a thousand times. 

“Honestly? There’s something in the pit of my soul that doesn’t want to live out the next thirty years, much less the next fifty or seventy-five.” 

I thought about my initial impression of how this young man could be - with the right preparations - a movie star or, these days, a social media star at the very least. Then I remembered people I’d met, like Dean or Poe or Byron. They were not long for this world. However, they had a quality that this man sought. Scholars would remember them for decades past their demise if not centuries. 

“I’ll do it. You’ll have what you want.” The words were out of my mouth before I had spared the thought. 

Surprise and wonder filled Connor’s eyes. “You said you don’t make promises?” 

“I don’t. But I have a few markers I can call in. You’re not asking for anything outlandish. Meet me at this address.” I produced a business card with a flourish that had taken a few sessions with Harry to learn. “Let’s say a week from today at nine in the morning. Sharp. I’ll have a representative from the concerned party with a contract for you to sign. I want you to remember what you’re asking for, and that there will be a price to pay. You’ll want to read the contract closely. I am not your barrister. You may bring one if you want.” He didn’t. “Then the deal will be done.” 

“Thank you, Eddie!” Connor extended a hand. 

I shook it firmly. “This handshake is my promise that I will broker the deal. Whether or not this will be a good deal and whether or not it will play out as you imagine… Well, I can make no such promise.” 

They almost never hear that part. 

“What do I owe you?” 

“I’ll get my cut from the contract you make with the concerned party.” I always take my part off of the back end. I don’t believe in charging if no deal gets made. “Do you have any questions for me?” 

“I can’t think of any.” Connor stood up.

He couldn't? I could think of a hundred off the top of my head, but too often these people think I’m working for them and looking out for their best interests. I’m not. No one looks out for you but you. 

He left happy, and I ordered another cappuccino. 

“Did he get what he wanted?” I hear you ask. 

Well, there’s a reason I’m not using his real first name. Let’s just say there was a book that came out shortly after that, which took the world by storm. You’ve heard of it. Hell, you probably read it. You know the one. The author’s brains were found dripping from the wall just above the completed first draft of the manuscript. Self-inflicted gunshot wound, they say. 

Of course, the way it was found and the author’s “suicide” contributed to its celebrity, but it was an incredible bit of meta-fiction. Critics and readers will no doubt be talking about it and dissecting its meaning for decades if not centuries. 

And sure, “Connor” didn’t live as long as he might have otherwise. He didn’t write as many books as he might have otherwise. Ultimately, though, he got what he wanted. Isn’t that what’s the most important thing? Shouldn’t we all get precisely what we want? I’m just trying to ask the right questions here. That’s something else we should all try to do, deal or no deal.