Free Vernon Downs by Jaime Clarke

his hands. To his eternal amusement, he had been declared dead andread his own obituary in a café in Venice, a fact he often mentioned in interviews.
    â€œAnother,” he said to the bartender.
    â€œOne sec,” the bartender said, holding up a finger as she turned to rummage through the cardboard boxes of unopened bottles of gin, tequila, vodka, whiskey, and rum.
    Charlie grasped for something to say to Cyanin, but his thoughts were hijacked by the memory of Vernon referring to Cyanin as obsequious when Charlie tried to initiate small talk while waiting for the elevator. “He’s still an obsequious presence at nightclubs.” Vernon had meant “ubiquitous.” The malapropism had plagued him, a catch in his throat that surfaced as he stood side by side with Cyanin. To his relief, Cyanin paid him no attention, staring straight ahead until a murderous shriek broke his trance. A woman grabbed Cyanin and kissed him on the lips. Cyanin pulled back, pretending offense.
    â€œIs that a promise or a reprimand?” he asked, oozing a phony charm.
    The woman hiccupped loudly and then proceeded not to be embarrassed when it was discovered that she’d mistaken Cyanin for her ex-husband, a bond trader for Salomon Brothers. “You actually don’t look a thing like him,” she said.
    â€œHe’s a very lucky man,” Cyanin said, swiping his fresh drink from the bar without breaking conversation. Charlie grabbed his vodka tonic as well, pointedly thanking the bartender, and turned away from Cyanin to face a platoon of thirsty partygoers impatiently questing for another drink.
    â€œI loved your book,” a bespectacled man said.
    â€œExcuse me?” Charlie said. The vodka began massaging his brain.
    â€œI said I loved your book,” the man repeated, the scent of whiskey on his breath. Charlie noticed the man teetering slightly in his tasseled loafers. “I thought the characterizations were … real and the story … believable,” the man said.
    Charlie smiled, nodding as the man continued to praise whatever book he was referring to.
    â€œIs it hard to write a book like that?” the man asked.
    â€œYes,” Charlie said. “Very hard. Harder than you’d think.”
    â€œI’m Peter Kline,” the man said. “I’m with the
Times
.”
    Charlie suspected Kline wouldn’t remember the conversation and indulged him, grateful for someone to talk to.
    â€œWhat I really liked was the way you couldn’t tell if the main character—what was his name again?” Kline exhaled a stream of sour breath as he fumbled.
    â€œI’m sorry,” Charlie said. “I’m deaf in one ear. What did you say?”
    â€œThe main character in
The Vegetable King
,” Kline said. “His name is escaping me.”
    â€œNick Banks,” Charlie said.
    â€œI liked the way you couldn’t tell if Nick Banks was really doing those murders, or if they were all just his imagination,” Kline said.
    Charlie sipped his drink, annoyed. “You couldn’t tell? Thought it was obvious.”
    Kline didn’t register the barb. “This is some party,” he said. “Lots of celebs. Saw you with Jeremy Cyanin over there by the bar. Your partner in crime, eh?” Kline winked conspiratorially. “He says you don’t like your picture taken.”
    Charlie smiled sheepishly. “Just doesn’t seem like a good idea,” he said. The cadence of Vernon’s speech had been indelibly recorded in Charlie’s brain, and he contorted his mouth to imitate the smirk he’d seen Vernon employ when he’d asked him the same question.
    Kline winked again, making a gun with his fingers. “Gotcha. Lots of nut jobs out there.” The commotion around a handstand by an attractive woman whose dress gathered down around her shoulders obscured Kline’s good-bye as he joined the tributary of people