Someone was inside his home. This has nothing to do with strange coincidences. Facts present themselves as evidence, which are then catalogued and filed away for the case file labeled: Henry Richmond Pendel. He has lived in this Greenwich Village apartment for seven of the 12 years he has worked as a literary agent. Like the industry he reigns over as one of its most reputable and well-known agents and tastemakers, he knows where everything is, and knows when a room thought to be safe might have been tampered with. It could be a book on a shelf slightly askew, a volume swapped or swiped, the scent of another body, yet even as he scans his countless bookshelves, and checks every corner, he can’t help but think about who has been here. Even if he hasn’t, it’s only a matter of time.
Alexander Moyer, where are you?
A name, thought to be an email containing a query and eventual author rejection, has become something more. Much more. Pendel has received a steady stream of emails, communications that started off as professional yet over the last week or so, have become odder than Pendel would like to admit. The fact that Moyer has mentioned personal details, particularly the casual namedrop of the building he lives in, has caused more than a little suspicion. This could be an omen, a warning of things to come.
He has been in contact with his lawyer. The proof he has isn’t much, but it’s something. But there will need to be more. A restraining order was mentioned, and it only goes so far. This isn’t the first time he’s been under threat of a bitter author, one hurt by his rejection, yet something about this is different.
Last night he fell asleep at his desk. When he woke up, the mug that had been next to him was moved. A tense overview of every room revealed its new location, casually “left” next to the bathroom sink. Pendel shrugs it off, maybe just too preoccupied to remember that he brought it with him into the bathroom. No big deal. It’s in the arrangement of his bookshelves that reveals something definite, proof of something amiss.
He notices an entire six-volume set of sci-fi classics, a gift from one of his clients, missing, a gap where they had been sat alphabetized among other genre offerings. He looks for them everywhere, already late to the office, a meeting likely missed.
When he checks his inbox, perhaps expecting that familiar name—Moyer—instead he sees no new emails. He should have new emails. Every time he hits refresh, there should be new queries. There might not be a lot that an agent can count on, but they can definitely count on another flurry of queries aiming to overwhelm an inbox.
How odd, he thinks.
Instead of checking the router and discovering that it has been unplugged, seeing yet another piece of evidence, clearly tampered with, he stares at the shelves. Maybe he’s already letting it get to him. This private invasion, one dealt with in a manner that is so manipulative it’s difficult to understand if it’s real or all in his head.
“Not like Hendrix is answering my emails anyway,” he says.
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Could it be that there is something more to this person, perhaps more than a mere querying author, someone he had known, someone from his past? What are the chances that Pendel has mishandled some aspect of their interactions? The chances are high, part of Pendel’s ironclad reputation being his cutthroat nature, complete with a temper that intimidates and often limits people’s willingness to negotiate.
It’s all circumstantial, he decides, and proceeds to move on with his day. Maybe some of the morning might still be salvageable. The facts, they always rise to the top.
An agent finds reason in every conversation, even if it means not getting the best deal. In those inceptive steps—shower, shave, what to wear—Pendel finds temporary solace in fantasy, a vacation, wipe the slate clean. Just leave all this stress behind for a little while. Maybe this Moyer will move on to the next agent, the next person to personalize. Nobody talks about all the stalkers that orbit a public figure. Maybe he should take matters into his own hands. Forget the lawyer and seek the help of authorities. This is another writer who has let the worst of this industry warp their mind. It could be that Moyer thinks it’s he who is preventing him from becoming a published author. Pendel, the one with absolute power. Say the word and they become a household literary name. That’s something he couldn’t give any client. Sure, he can set a path, but it’s up to the author to prove that they have what it takes to be a bestseller.
They got to be willing to play.
To play, you have to give up something.
When he’s finished showering and is about to head out, he has no time to wait for the train, so he’ll have to call a car. Never mind the ride apps; Pendel prefers this car service. A relic of a different city, you still have to call them up. They pick you up in a black luxury vehicle, complete with a driver in a suit.
Pendel walks into the back room where he left his phone on a charger. That’s when he sees it: the router unplugged. Once it’s powered back up, a quick reset and in minutes, his apartment’s internet connection restored, his inbox comes to life.
After calling the car service, he emails his assistant.
A note-to-self that gets lost minutes after he makes it: Tell Marina what happened. Also, make sure to show your appreciation for all that she does. What would Pendel do without his tireless assistant?
He’s got a voicemail. While waiting in the lobby for his driver, he goes through the messages. They’re nothing at first. White noise. And then white noise becomes breath. Breath becomes heavy breathing. The heavy breathing becomes a hint of something far more malicious. Or maybe he’s just expecting Moyer’s call.
It’s him. Pendel’s imagination is so livid and overactive it might as well be fact. Jump forward to the act two climax, where he is being manipulated by a psychopathic would-be author, complete with a list of demands and a false sense of power.
The messages blend together. Some are from friends and acquaintances he has no intention of ever reciprocating. Let every bond wither away to nothing. Working so much, it’s easy to do. Pendel may even prefer his aloneness. It starts to get a little difficult to know when each voicemail was left and when—except for the one. It’s the one that further confirms that it’s not all his imagination. It was Alexander Moyer. It could only be Alexander Moyer.
The message in plain went something like this:
“Why do you have three copies of Infinite Jest? You know you’ve never read it.”
Beep. It doesn’t seem like much, but it’s enough to send a message. But then the car pulls up and he is Henry Richmond Pendel, renowned literary agent at Cooper Willis Endeavor, late and lately worried about his client list. You see, he’s not used to selling, wheeling and dealing the best possible deal for his author list. He’s not used to this dry spell, nearly a month of nothing, every editor deferring just enough to remain professional yet clear enough that nobody’s finished reading any submission, and nobody is keen to make any big moves anytime soon. It’s alarming, a possible sign of things to come. Last time something like this happened, the trade publishing industry suffered massive layoffs and restructuring. The whole system changed, seemingly overnight. But he’s Henry Richmond Pendel, and he has no reason to be concerned, given his reputation and position. Still, it’s enough of a bother to let all this concern about a vengeful author get pushed, yet again, to the corners of his consciousness. Nearly forgotten, at least for now, Pendel gets in the car and is already drafting an email response to Marina, explaining his tardiness, offering a little white lie in hopes that this meeting he’s over a half hour late for is not yet lost. And when he tells her to say that “I’m willing to talk about the possibility of also selling audio rights,” he knows it’ll buy him more time, calming the editor in wait down long enough for him to get to the office. And just in case, Pendel adds a little something extra:
“You can tell him, no matter what, we’ll make it happen.” It’s the least he can do. The editor agreed to meet at the agency office. Besides, an agent is only as good as their word.
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