Ill-gotten

Clive sighed and leaned back in the chair, looking at the remains of his dinner on the plate. There was very little left, just some of the baked potato skin and a small pool of congealed butter which had run down the sides of the potato. The medium-rare fillet had been magnificent, and the Caesar salad perfect, not soggy. For dessert, he had ordered tiramisu, and it had been one of the best he’d had in quite some time. Not as good as Sonja’s Baked Goods, near his townhouse. Sonja’s, in his opinion, was the best bakery in the city.

He glanced up at the clock on the wall. There were about four hours to go until his appointment. He frowned and then chuckled to himself. He was known to be notoriously late for everything, but not this time. It was funny how fate had brought him to this place in time. Or was it greed? No, it wasn’t greed. It was pride and fear of failure. He had wanted just one more chance at success, and when it landed in his lap, he reached out and grabbed it with both hands. He closed his eyes, thinking back to that cold rainy day. What would have happened if he had waited for a cab instead of taking the subway?

A doctor’s appointment took Clive out of his home on that chilly October day. All morning the clouds had been threatening, and then precisely one hour before it was time to leave, they burst and drenched the city in a torrential downpour. He had almost canceled the appointment due to the rain, but his sleeping problems had worsened, so he decided to just go and get it over with.

After five minutes of standing in the rain, he gave up on a taxi and headed towards the subway. He was going to be, by his estimation, about ten minutes late, but what else was new? Fortunately, it was not rush hour, so the train wasn’t crowded, but the closer he got to downtown, it started to fill up. That’s when Mr. Black sat down next to him. Of course, that wasn’t his name. Clive had bequeathed it to him because of his appearance.

Mr. Black was an average middle-aged man that looked like he had just stepped out of a Hitchcock movie. He was wearing a black raincoat, buttoned and tied, a black fedora dripping rain, and carrying a black leather satchel. He carefully placed it on the floor in front of his feet, then stood and readjusted his raincoat until it lay perfectly. Amused, Clive watched him out of the corner of his eye. Mr. Black then reached into the satchel and pulled out a black notebook. Clive cocked his head slightly to get a closer look. It was a nice notebook and leather by the look of it. The paper looked high-grade and thicker than usual. He remembered thinking it was something he might have bought for himself. Mr. Black sat back, relaxed, and began reviewing what was written in the book.

For a while, the ride was uneventful, and then a chiming sound came from Mr. Black’s satchel. A cell phone. He seemed agitated that he was being interrupted and closed the book, placed it in the space between him and Clive, and retrieved his cell.

“No, that is impossible. I don’t have time today. Can’t we…?”

Clive stared out the window to avoid being suspected of eavesdropping. That’s when the train began to slow down.

“I am getting off now. We will discuss it later.”

The phone went back into the satchel, and Mr. Black gathered his belongings, vacated his seat, and made his way along with a line of people headed for the door. A few seconds later, Clive looked down and saw that Mr. Black had left his notebook. He picked it up and looked around, but it was too late. The doors had closed, and the train started to move forward. Well, Clive had thought, I’ll drop it in the lost and found. By the time the train pulled into his stop, he was already seven minutes late for his appointment, which meant he would have to move quickly. He decided to turn the book in on his way back and tucked it inside his carryall.

Clive’s appointment went as expected. Dr. Page came in with the same greeting he always did, “How’s my favorite author today?” Clive responded the same way. “I haven’t written anything in years Page.”

It was true. He had been in a writing slump for five years. An eternity. And now, to top it off, he hadn’t been sleeping well. After going through the cursory checks and questions, Dr. Page had his nurse draw some blood and then prescribed Estazolam which was called into the pharmacy.

By the time he left, the rain had stopped, and the sun was starting to peek through the clouds. Not wanting to endure another subway ride, he took a cab home. By seven, Clive had finished his dinner and was sitting in front of the fireplace with a glass of wine. His prescription delivery wouldn’t be until the following day. He knew his sleep troubles were due to his inability to write. He had written four best-selling novels along with numerous novellas and short stories. Then, five years ago, it just stopped. It was writer’s block like he had never experienced before. He would just stare at his laptop, unable to write. It was maddening. He even sought therapy and hypnosis, the latter was a waste of time, and the former told him he had father issues. That was when the tossing and turning started. Of course, not being able to use his passion to make a living was causing a mental strain.

It was while he was thinking of his inability to put word to page that he remembered Mr. Black’s notebook. Clive had cursed himself. He meant to drop it off at the lost and found. He reached for his carryall. Might as well see what Mr. Black’s about. As he ran his hands over the pebbled surface of the book, he smiled appreciatively. He was right; it was leather. There was a ‘This Book Belongs To’ page, but it was not filled out. On the book’s pages were meticulously printed words in what else, black ink. There were several pages of to-do lists, appointments without names, and notes on some sort of meeting. Then Clive spotted something in the back, on the last couple of pages. It looked like the outline of a story. He poured himself another glass of wine and settled in. It didn’t take long before he realized that it was a murder. Mr. Black was writing a murder story! It looked similar to how Clive would map out his stories.

There was a street name that he recognized as being about five miles from his townhouse, an outline of the plan, and a list of items the character would need. That’s when he saw a familiar word. A word that before today would have meant nothing. Estazolam. That was what Page had prescribed him. He sat staring at the pages for a few minutes, and then by some miracle, he began to feel a story taking shape in his mind. Inspired by another man’s story. Was it ethical? Well, it’s not like he stole the notebook. He grabbed his laptop from the desk. An idea was definitely starting to take shape. It wasn’t long before he could be heard typing furiously.

Percy, Clive’s literary agent, could not stop gushing about the first five chapters. Before long, his publisher was calling, and within six months of signing a contract, he was holding an advance check for $20,000 in his hand. A year later, Clive was on the New York Times Best Seller list. He was riding high again!

Sometimes, Clive thought wistfully, when you’re at the top, you forget about how you got there. He had conveniently forgotten all about Mr. Black’s notebook and how he came up with the idea for his triumph. That is, until the police came knocking. Detectives Stevens and Harper. Clive immediately thought of Starsky & Hutch, not that they resembled. They wanted to talk to him about his book and a murder that seemed to be connected. He immediately thought that someone had used his book to commit a murder. It wasn’t long before he realized he was actually the suspect in the murder of a young woman. He spent the next two weeks being questioned.

“We found Estazolam in your medicine cabinet.”

“I told you my doctor prescribed that. Dr. Page.”

“Yes, a month before the murder, is that right?”

“I don’t know the details of the murder.”

“Interesting, because they are all in your book, including information not released.”

“That is a coincidence!”

“The belt, the ziplock bag, the flowers, and Estazolam? All a coincidence? You were also seen by several people on the bench across the street from where the murder took place.”

“I told you before I was taking notes on what the street looked like, the buildings. I was researching for the book!”

Clive had been reluctant to say anything about Mr. Black and his black notebook. It didn’t take long before he realized, horrified, that Mr. Black wasn’t writing a story. He planned a murder and committed the crime that Clive was now accused of. How could he have been so stupid?

Being arrested is what broke him. He no longer cared about his reputation. That’s when he finally told them about Mr. Black. A mysterious man dressed in all black left a notebook next to Clive on the subway. This was the source of all his information for the book.

“You have no idea what this man looked like other than he was wearing all black?”

“No, just ordinary looking. Average height is all I remember. I didn’t even see what color his eyes were.”

It even sounded outrageous to him once he repeated it. Book sales had increased exponentially after he had been arrested. Some people! The $20,000 advance went to procuring an attorney, and the book’s proceeds kept them working on his behalf.

It had been 6 years since he was sentenced. He probably could have gone longer with appeals, but he was tired and wanted it to be over. He called what was about to happen to him an appointment. It was easier to think of it that way - the last appointment he would ever have.

He looked up at the sound of a metal door swinging open. From inside his cell, he could hear multiple footsteps coming closer. It was time.