Murder Boy. Bryon Quertermous

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      “Because I’ve got something going that I don’t want stymied. She needs to think you and I are really working on this new project of yours.”

      “Even though we won’t be.”

      “But if you tell her we are and act like we are, I’ll try to get you an extension and maybe we’ll get your thesis signed and get you out of here next year.”

      “If you would have signed my thesis form the first time around, I wouldn’t—”

      “If I signed off on that literary swill we’d both be ruined.”

      “What am I supposed to do for a whole goddam year? I have a fellowship in New York with money and a teaching job now.”

      “Shhhhh. We’re in a library. I can maybe get you something in the writing center to hold you.”

      “Maybe? Maybe? No maybe. Sign my fucking thesis or I’ll go to the Dean about you and Posey.”

      “I’m a man of letters, a man of taste, a man of education,” Farmington said in a pompous voice as though he were addressing a jury. “How many times have you been on academic probation again?”

      I knew he was right. While I’d been able to overcome the bulk of my personality issues that resulted in my spectacular flameout from a top-tier writing program, I still wasn’t a very good student and spent more time writing and reading what I wanted instead of what was assigned. But even if I couldn’t tell the Dean about Farmington’s relationship and get him fired, there was one other person I could tell. While complaining about how badly she wanted to have sex in Parker Farmington’s house and comforting me on my plummeting career prospects, Posey Wade also talked about her psychotic bounty hunter brother and how much he hated the men she was involved with.

      If I could get Posey’s brother in the same room with Farmington, maybe we could strong arm Farmington into signing the thesis approval form.

      “You’re smiling,” Farmington said. “It’s kind of creepy. Are you on board?”

      “Yeah. Yes. Yes. I’m on board.”

      

      MY PLAN seemed simple enough: harness the rage of Posey Wade’s crazy bounty hunter brother to scare Farmington into signing my thesis approval form. But the more I thought about it, the more opportunity I saw to add insult to injury. I was also going to teach Farmington a lesson.

      I envisioned dragging Farmington around to the nastiest parts of Detroit to show him the impact of crime on society. It would open his eyes beyond the little suburban realism stories he was so fond of. And a bounty hunter would give me the courage to visit some of the places I’d written about—or wanted to write about—but never felt safe enough to visit alone.

      A quick Google search gave me an address for Wade Bail and Recovery in downtown Detroit across from the courthouse. It only took fifteen minutes to get down to the office, but after parking in a fenced off lot a couple blocks down the street, I sat in the car for another 30 minutes contemplating what I was about to do. It didn’t take long for it all to overwhelm me again, but instead of leaving, I pushed it to the back of my brain, dug into my storehouse of petty resentment, and loaded up on Hostess orange cupcakes and Red Bull.

      Titus Wade’s office was unlocked and I entered feeling confident and lightheaded from the sugar rush. A door off to the side swung open and a hulking bald man stomped out, holding a bloody shirt to his forearm.

      “Who are you?”

      “Are you Titus Wade?”

      “Get out of here,” the man said.

      “If we could just talk for a minute, I’m kind of in a bad place and need help.”

      Wade ignored me and went back out through the side door. I followed. It wasn’t a bathroom as I’d expected, rather a storage room with three safes and two file cabinets. There was a closed door I figured was a maintenance closet or link to another office, and an open door that led outside where I found Wade wiping down the inside of a large black pickup truck. My confidence in my plan was rapidly fading.

      “I’m in a workshop with your sister; I’m a writer, and the professor hates me.”

      Wade stopped wiping the truck and looked at me. I knew he hated Farmington as much as I did but I didn’t want to set him off yet.

      “I need somebody to show him the nasty places in the city, scare him a little, but—”

      “I find people, I chase people, and occasionally I shoot people—”

      “Oh God, don’t shoot him.”

      “If he owes you money, I can get it out of him for you,” Wade said. “If all you want me to do is drive him around town, then get yourself a goddam cab.”

      I hung my shoulders in defeat, but didn’t move from my spot in front of Wade’s truck. I wasn’t selling my plan well enough. This is why I was a writer. I was never very good with words in person, but I could make them dance on the page. I could find just the right rhythm and combination and word choice to make even the most complicated idea or situation seem manageable. But Titus Wade didn’t seem like the sort of fellow who would read a note explaining why he should join me on a quest to capture his sister’s fornication partner. So I went with the skill of last resort: unfiltered rage.

      “This guy is fucking your sister,” I said, “and he’s fucking with my career. We need to take him down.”

      There was enough of a pause in Wade’s movement that I thought maybe I got to him. But the shields came almost immediately back up and he gave me the brush.

      “Sorry,” Wade said. “Call me if you ever need bail.”

      I LEFT Wade’s office flipping between anger and depression. I’d swear and punch things, then cry a little and wonder if I’d be able to find anything interesting to write about while working as a fast food clerk. My pain threshold eventually exceeded my anger and I stopped punching things, but I couldn’t shake the depression. I’d spent the entire year focused only on getting my thesis finished and approved for the fellowship to New York. So much so that I neglected almost everything else in my life.

      I let my car payments slide (I wouldn’t need a car in New York City), hadn’t paid rent in more than six months, (housing is included as part of the fellowship), allowed my cell phone to be disconnected (the only people who called were collection agents and my mother) and I’d neglected every personal and professional relationship once my letters of recommendations had been secured. The only person I had been more interested in than myself over the past year was Parker Farmington.

      I tolerated his jokes, snide comments, the inane revision requests; I’d vaulted through every petty hoop Farmington had thrown in my path, all to please the only person who could stand in the way of my dream. Some of it had actually made my manuscript better, and early on we shared some nice conversations about our favorite crime writers, but as the year wore on and I talked more about New York, Farmington increased his intimidation and foolishness. It wasn’t much of a reach to suspect Farmington didn’t want my success interfering with his.

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