Read Online A Thousand Pardons by Jonathan Dee - Free Book Online Page A

don’t allow those conversations in here,” the bartender said, pointing to Hamilton’s phone. The man’s ring finger was bent at a bizarre angle; Hamilton had seen an injury like that on a football player once. His skin was cracked like leather. Beautiful, Hamilton thought. To wear your life like that.
    “I’m very sorry,” he said. “I didn’t see the sign.”
    “Ain’t no sign,” said the bartender.
    So Hamilton decided he’d better do the interview itself in the truck. Two more shots first: just to show there were no hard feelings, he shared a third one with the bartender, who drank it solemnly and did not so much as touch his hat. Hamilton could feel himself imitating the man’s slow gait as he squinted against the brutal sunlight in the parking lot. He got the truck up to speed, looked down at his sleeve, and dialed the number.
    “Hamilton!” the nasal East Coast voice said. “So glad to catch you. Thank you so much for taking the time. First of all, I loved the film, I thought you were amazing in it. Where are you right now?”
    Hamilton looked out the window. He didn’t really know. He’d never driven this far north of the ranch; also, that last drink with the bartender had opened a door, and he felt his mood shifting. Suddenly he had an idea. “I’m in upstate New York,” he said. “Visiting family.”
    “Really? That’s cool. Are you—can I ask you—are you in a car right now? Because I’m having a little trouble hearing you.”
    “Oh, right,” Hamilton said. “Hold on a second.” He rolled up the driver’s-side window, then leaned across the cab to roll up the other one, which didn’t quite necessitate letting go of the wheel but did mean that there were a few seconds when he was stretched too low across the seat to see over the dashboard. He felt and then heard the tires drift off the macadam, but he straightened up and steered backonto the road. Nothing out here but scrub anyway. No other cars. You might drift off the road and go for half a mile before you hit anything tall enough to break your axle. “Better?” Hamilton said. His voice sounded way too loud, now that the cab was quiet.
    “Much,” said the voice. “So I don’t actually need to take up a lot of your time—I just wanted to ask a question or two about what it was like working with Kevin Ortiz. It’s his first film, he’s a good deal younger than you. Did you ever sense any—”
    “Kevin is a fucking genius,” Hamilton said.
    The voice laughed. “No doubt,” it said. “But in the beginning, were there maybe—”
    “Why did you laugh, man?” Hamilton said.
    “Sorry?”
    “When I said he was a genius. Why did you laugh at that?”
    Sometimes Hamilton hated who he was to other people, but other times there was a kind of mercenary advantage in it; and he could tell that the change in the tone of his own voice had put the fear into this pasty, smug fuck from The New York Times , who had never taken a risk, who had never put himself on the line to try to birth something true into this world. “I apologize,” the voice said quietly. “I—well, truth be told, I laughed because I guess I thought you were kidding. I misunderstood.”
    “Why would I kid about something like that? About genius. About art. Do you think these things are a joke to me?” The sun was just singeing the top of the range; light pooled all along the uneven horizon. In another few minutes it would start to get dark and the temperature would fall faster than a stranger to this landscape might think possible.
    “No, Hamilton, I don’t. That’s certainly not your reputation. Again, I apologize. It was nervous laughter, really, because I was nervous about getting to talk to you at all. What do you say we just hit reset, so to speak, and start over?”
    “Maybe these things are a joke to you,” Hamilton said. There were no lights out here, no cars coming in either direction. On some level he’d known all along—ever since that