Papa Jack Chapter 6

"Letter came for you," Jack announces to Richard as the younger man stomps Spring snow off his feet before entering their apartment.

"From Black Pawn?" Richard inquires, hurriedly doffing his heavy coat.

"Uh-huh."

"I don't suppose you used any of your spy tricks to see what's in it," Richard says.

Frowning, Jack shakes his head. "I've been inactive again since that whole Volkov mess. You know that. Anyway, I wouldn't snoop on you. I never have."

"Except when you found out Veronica was playing tonsil hockey with Jeff Morrison."

"That was for you, not on you. And it was an accident. I was taking the train coming back from Hill and Schwartz, and I saw Veronica making out with someone in the next car. I only saw the back of him, and for a moment, I thought it was you. Then I realized he was two inches shorter than you are with narrower shoulders. What does she see in him, anyway?"

"Maybe the trust fund he comes into when he turns 22. He wasn't shy about spreading that news around when we were all in high school," Richard recalls.

Jack snorts. "Well, if that was the attraction, you're lucky you're rid of her." He points to an envelope lying on the table near the door. "Aren't you going to open that?"

"I'm almost afraid to," Richard admits. "Black Pawn's the 20th publisher I submitted Rogue Revenge to."

"So maybe 20 is the charm," Jack offers. "You won't know until you open it."

Blowing out a deep breath, Richard picks up the envelope and tears open the stubborn flap. Silently, he stares at the enclosed letter.

"So?" Jack prompts.

"They want to publish it, but they want me to meet with their editor about some changes."

"Son, I can tell you from my time at Hill and Schwartz that publishers want their editors to mess with everything. And some editors actually make the stories better, or they prod the authors to make them better. And you never know. Black Pawn might have a cute intern or two. You haven't dated anyone since Veronica."

"Between school and working on my next book, I haven't had much opportunity," Richard protests. "And the meeting is going to cut into my writing time."

Jack puts his arm around his son's shoulders. "But you'll find the time. You should always find the time for what really matters."

Richard has always enjoyed browsing in The Strand, New York's landmark bookstore. The books, especially some of the used ones, introduced ideas that had yet to penetrate the young man's consciousness. Today, however, is different. Instead of people scattered among the shelves, quietly nosing through volumes old and new, long lines of his readers snake through the aisles, waiting to get an autograph and perhaps exchange a word or two. He's already exhausted two Sharpie markers.

To avoid confusion with another Richard Hunt, Richard is now writing as Richard Castle. As instructed by Black Pawn's publicist, he tries his best to keep displaying a welcoming smile. Still, the press of humanity increasingly unnerves him. Checking the wall clock, he sees that he's obligated to keep signing for another half hour. Dad's always told him that a person can get through anything as long as he knows it's going to end. Still, when Richard pushed his father for examples, the older man demurred. Of course, he did. Even after explaining about Anna Volkov, clamming up about any details of his missions is still a reflex. Richard, has, however, seen some of the scars. Compared to what his father must have suffered through, dealing with a bit of enochlophobia should be a walk in the park. Too bad his sweat glands refuse to get the message.

Opening Sunday's Ledger, Richard quickly flips to the Arts section. A page over, bestsellers are grouped by genre and format. He doesn't have to look hard to find Rogue Revenge. It occupies the highest position under thrillers. He'd received a call from Black Pawn's PR department saying that would be the case, but he needed to see it for himself. He tries to mentally estimate how much the sales figures will mean to him in royalties, but his math skills are still nothing to write home about. After grabbing a calculator out of his desk drawer, he enters the numbers. A gasp explodes from his mouth. God! He can not only make a living as a writer, but if this keeps up, he could actually be rich. Professor Mayne's warnings immediately echo in his brain. Rich writers are rare, and one book that connects with the public can be a fluke. Still, at least he can afford a car – assuming that he wants one. He really doesn't need one in the city, and he gets some of his best ideas for characters while peoplewatching on the subway. But he's sure what he really wants: a VIP ticket that will allow him to meet the stars at a charity performance of Chekhov's "The Seagull" and attend the dinner with them that follows. Martha Rodgers will be playing the self-absorbed diva, Madame Arkadina. As Richard Castle he can find out if that shoe actually fits without revealing their true relationship.

Richard surveys the setup in the restaurant banquet room down the street from the theatre. He counts ten tables, each seating eight. According to the brochure describing the event, each star will spend 20 minutes at each table. He figures he won't have a chance to ask Martha more than one question – two at most – but at least he'll be able to get some feeling for what she's like offstage. His gut is twisting at the thought of even that much interaction with the woman who gave birth to him, but he's not about to turn tail. He's waited and wondered too long.

The play ran two hours and 44 minutes, including intermission. Martha had a refitting of her costume and a meeting with the staff of Support for Starving Actors before that, and she's tired. Nevertheless, she intends to talk to each and every contributor. She remembers her own near starvation, especially as her pregnancy began to show, and she's all for supporting the young actors trying desperately to make it in the theater now. She's scheduled to start at table one, at the front of the room, and work her way through the tables in order until she finishes with the last one in the back. The dinner buffet not only saves on serving staff, but it also enables her to eat only what she can stomach at this time of night and take her plate with her as she moves.

With increasing apprehension, Richard watches as Martha makes her rounds, getting closer to where he's seated. He asks a few questions of the other cast members who come to his table and, weirdly, agrees to sign a paperback copy of Rogue Revenge for one of them. He wouldn't have thought of the Broadway actors as his readers, but he did write a bestseller.

Finally, Martha takes her seat at his table. Two other diners jump in ahead of him, but Richard finally gets to ask his question. "Ms. Rodgers, were you ever a starving actor?"

"Mr. Castle, is it?" she inquires.

Richard nods.

"Mr. Castle, you have no idea. I remember a time when six of us had to put our money together to buy one pizza. And sometimes, when I couldn't get a job waiting tables or giving out samples at the market, I would buy one drink – the cheapest one, and sit with it for hours at a bar so I could eat the peanuts or pretzels. I had to rotate bars to keep the bartenders from getting suspicious." Pausing to take a breath, Martha stares at Richard. "There's something about you that feels familiar. Have we met before?"

Below the table, Richard's fingers curl into tight fists. "Not that I can remember."

Martha sweeps her hand through the air. "Ah, well, perhaps not. Most people who meet me remember it."

Richard nods. "Yes, I imagine they do."