Dead Writers

By PK Rossetti

Before Woody Allen’s MIDNIGHT IN PARIS, there was P.K. Rossetti’s DEAD WRITERS...

It is summer in Paris and Quincy Rollins is drunk the first time he meets Ernest Hemingway. On his way back from a late night at Gertrude Stein’s salon, the soon-to-be famous author knocks on Quincy’s door to introduce himself. Quincy is also drunk when he meets F. Scott Fitzgerald a few days later, but so is Fitzgerald—he shows up in his living room without ever bothering to knock. During that fateful summer, the three men forge a strange and complicated relationship—at least that is how Quincy would describe it.

When he is not drinking with Hemingway and Fitzgerald, Quincy avoids working on his novel by idling away afternoons in the Montparnasse cafés, recovering from hangovers, and trying to be witty with an odd collection of lesser-known writers and the fashion models they date. Tormented by his greedy landlady and her suicidal poodle, plagiarized by an unscrupulous Englishman, terrorized by a pair of unsavory North Africans, and wanted by the French police, Quincy’s life spirals out of control in dramatic fashion.

Is Quincy Rollins a lost member of the “lost generation” or just a lost cause? Comically absurd and heartbreakingly tragic, DEAD WRITERS is the story of a young writer’s free-fall in a foreign land and a must read for fans of Ernest Hemingway and F. Scott Fitzgerald.

What dead writers are saying about Dead Writers:

"In bull-fighting they speak of the terrain of the bull and the terrain of the bull-fighter. As long as a bull-fighter stays in his own terrain he is comparatively safe. Each time he enters into the terrain of the bull he is in great danger. Rossetti, at his best, works like a rodeo clown, always in the terrain of the bull. This way he gives Dead Writers the sensation of coming tragedy and comedy."
- Ernest Hemingway, American author and journalist, winner of the 1954 Nobel Prize in Literature

“Most of the big publishing places are closed now and there are hardly any lights in the office buildings except the shadowy, moving green glow of an iPad across a dormant hall. Rossetti believes in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded him then, but that’s no matter—tomorrow Rossetti will write faster, stretch out his arms farther... And one fine morning... So we read on, like T. Quincy Rollins against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”
- F. Scott Fitzgerald, American author of novels and short stories

“Truth is stranger than fiction, but it is because fiction is obliged to stick to the possibilities; truth isn’t. Unless, of course, that fiction is written by P.K. Rossetti – I can’t think of anything stranger than that.”
- Mark Twain, American author and humorist

• Language: English
• Publisher: PK Rossetti
• Release date: Apr 3, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476039435

PK Rossetti

P.K. Rossetti was born last century in the northeast and has spent this century on the west coast. A writer for many years, DEAD WRITERS is the author's first published novel.

Book preview

Paris—July 21st

The knock at the door was unexpected. Other than his landlady Quincy never had visitors, but her knock was different—softer, more persistent and usually accompanied by a caterwaul in broken English regarding overdue rent. This knock was masculine and more polite. Quincy’s glass clanked into the door as he sidled up to the peephole. He cursed, shaking the wasted splash of alcohol from his bare foot. Standing on the other side, distorted by a fisheye lens, was a young man he did not recognize. When asked, he gave a name that was very familiar—so familiar that Quincy thought it was a joke. Because he was drunk and liked jokes, he opened the door.

Ernest Hemingway, the man stated again, greeting him with a bone-crushing handshake and eager smile. Playing along, Quincy invited the namesake into his humble pigsty with an extravagant gesture of his now throbbing hand. Hemingway smiled and pushed back a stubborn lock of thick, black hair as he brushed past.

Quincy cleared a pile of debris from a decrepit couch and offered a seat, prompting Hemingway to apologize for stopping by unannounced. He explained that he had been on his way back from a visit with Gertrude Stein when he happened upon Quincy’s street. Feigning nonchalance, Quincy kicked an empty beer bottle under his bar/desk and held up a half-empty bottle of Pernod. He was relieved when his guest said, with water would be swell. Pernod and tap water were the only beverage options available. He mixed the greenish liquor with water and the last two ice cubes in the freezer, fighting the urge to impolitely ask what Ernest Hemingway was doing in his apartment.

Hemingway took the tumbler gratefully and made a toast. A vôtre santé, he announced with a Midwestern assault of the French language. It was a fitting toast—this was Quincy’s sixth or tenth drink of the evening and health was about the last thing he saw in his not too distant future, imagining yet another morning of vomit and diarrhea.

Suspending disbelief with the assistance of alcohol, Quincy listened, nodding like a bobblehead, for what seemed like hours as Hemingway extolled the virtues of Ms. Stein and her expatriate circle. When Hemingway finally paused to take a drink, Quincy blurted out the question that had been nagging him like an unattended car alarm. How did you find me?

Hearing that his name had come up during a conversation with Scott Fitzgerald, Quincy gazed at Hemingway like someone with Graves’ disease ogling a winning lottery ticket. That he had been a topic of a conversation between F. Scott Fitzgerald and Ernest Hemingway was simply incredible—he was a total unknown with only one published short story to his name. Quincy didn’t remember what was discussed after this revelation, but he recalled a toast to Scott’s liver, which they both agreed he was doing a fine job destroying. Glancing at his pocket watch, Hemingway refused another refill, muttering something about his wife being sore. After another knuckle-cracking handshake, the two said goodnight.

The next day Quincy would wonder if it had been a dream.

Chapter 2

An American in Paris

The throbbing headache puzzled Quincy. He usually recovered from hangovers by noon, but it was after five o’clock and the agony continued. Judging by the scrawl in his notepad, he knew he had overindulged, though it was a mystery when conventional intoxication had surrendered to drunken stupor. Like a hopelessly lost driver trying to figure out which wrong turn was responsible for his predicament, Quincy retraced each drink. He had finished a cheap bottle of chardonnay with a canned soup and baguette dinner. A whiskey was poured when he sat down to write, followed by another, which killed the bottle so he switched to Pernod. The drinks following his second Pernod were lost in the blur of the evening. If it hadn’t been for his notes, he would have completely forgotten about Ernest Hemingway. He shook his head in disbelief.

Despite the pounding in his head, Quincy decided to venture out. If he hurried he could still catch the gang at La Rotonde. A bright flash of light scorched his retinas when he opened the front door. Clenching his eyes shut, he lashed for his sunglasses and groaned when they were not in their customary breast pocket. He must have lost them—his third pair since he arrived. He contemplated going back inside until nightfall, but cabin fever was setting in—it would be the first time he had been out of his dank apartment in three days. With each step down the stairs, the heat of the afternoon became more and more overwhelming.

A flurry of brown and black across the street caught his attention. Squinting from the glare of the sun, he discerned two dogs fornicating under a tree. Mesmerized by the jackhammer movement of the male dog, he stopped on the stairway to maintain his vantage point over the parked cars. For reasons he did not care to examine, he couldn’t look away.

The dog days of summer, he thought as a hot breeze rustled the verdant canopy shading the canine lovers. An ode began to percolate in his brain. Clearing his throat, a slippery string of mucus slid onto his tongue. He spit, narrowly missing a grizzled old man on the sidewalk who wheeled and snarled something Quincy didn’t understand. The French expression for I’m sorry escaped him so Quincy held up both hands in what he hoped was the international gesture of apology.

Once the man had shuffled out of earshot, Quincy turned back to the dogs. "Ode to a Summer’s Day, by T. Quincy Rollins," he announced.

"Watching a bitch in heat;

Get mounted in the street;

Fornicating dogs are not vile;

Nothing wrong with doggie—"

Interrupted by a sudden jolt to his shoulder, Quincy screamed as a mysterious waterfall crashed to the pavement around him. Looking up, he saw his landlady’s plump arm dangling a dark blue flower vase out the window. Soon her heavily painted, impassive fat face was peering down upon him.

"Oh la la! I am sorry dahling, she purred innocently, though she had been waiting three days to dump the rancid water on Quincy. Je ne vois pas toi."

One would never know it by looking at her, but thirty years and a hundred pounds ago Madame LaFavre had been a stunning cabaret dancer. She was a favorite of numerous deep pocketed right bankers and they took very good care of her. She invested in real estate with the hard-earned proceeds. As her weight grew, her interest in maintenance diminished and the last building in her crumbling real estate empire was a metaphor for her life—a former beauty who had aged badly.

Any man oblivious to the fawning attention she had grown accustomed to in thinner days was treated with contempt. Since he usually owed her money and dodged her whenever possible, Quincy was especially despised.

Quincy examined his tweed coat, now dripping wet, and sniffed his shoulder. Nearly retching from the stench, he looked up at one of her chins in dismay. "Please tell me your toilet is working!"

Madame Lafavre smiled and nodded her head, though she wasn’t listening. Her elementary understanding of English and Quincy’s rapid delivery caused Madame Lafavre to ignore most everything Quincy said. She dismissed him with a wave of her pudgy hand. "You give me money dahling."

Quincy bristled at the thought of paying the two-month’s rent he owed. His hot water was sporadic at best and a mysterious water leak made his apartment smell like a mushroom factory. I’ll give you the money when I get back! I’m on my way to the bank now! Quincy’s neck began to stiffen from looking up. Would you like to come with me, or can you wait till I get back?

"Give me money, dahling," she repeated.

I’ll have it for you when I get back, he said over his shoulder as escaped down the street. From behind, growing fainter with each step, he heard Madame Lafavre’s strained chant, "Give me money, dahling! Give me money!"

Wringing out his sleeve as he made his way down Boulevard Raspail, Quincy debated going back to change, but decided against it—his slumlord would certainly be lying in wait. Holding up the blazer, he decided the stain was barely noticeable and would probably disappear once it dried. Such was the beauty of tweed. Comparing the odors of the wet and dry sleeves, he decided that the new stench of swamp water was no worse than the old stench of stale beer, cigarette smoke, and body odor. His mood improved at the prospect of avoiding costly dry-cleaning when another sudden jolt sent his body and disposition adrift. He stumbled, regaining his balance after wrapping his diaphragm around one of the metal bollards lining the sidewalk. As he gasped for breath, he saw a teenage boy with a cell phone pressed to his ear.

The boy flipped the phone away from his mouth and shrugged his shoulders. Without breaking his stride, he uttered a pardon devoid of regret.

* * * * *

Readers who do not find it odd that Quincy could converse with Ernest Hemingway one night and bump into a cell phone-wielding juvenile delinquent the very next day, might not know that Ernest Hemingway died in 1961—a full twenty-five years before cell phones were commercially available. As it turns out, T. Quincy Rollins is not a lost member of the Lost Generation, or any other historical literary circle. The year is 2012 and T. Quincy Rollins is insane.

* * * * *

Perhaps insane is too strong. Past diagnoses were less blunt—including schizophrenic, bipolar, delusional, etc. While his ailment may have been the subject of much debate amongst specialists, all seemed to agree that Quincy’s mental state should be closely monitored. However, he hadn’t seen a doctor since he arrived in Paris and had flushed his medications down the toilet during a bout with writer’s block several months ago.

It was times like these that Quincy regretted flushing his pills. The young man that had hip-checked him into the bollard sent him into a sudden rage. Closing his eyes and clenching his teeth, Quincy fought the urge to chase after him, rip the cell phone from his ear, and smash it into a thousand tiny pieces beneath his heel.

Once the anger subsided, he checked his watch—it was a few minutes past five-thirty. Despite his tardiness, he decided to stop at a kiosk for a newspaper. He liked having a prop when he was around people, something to occupy his hands and prevent the nervous fidgeting that annoyed his sister. Besides, the headline Metro Bomb Kills 14 intrigued him, as did any story of mass mayhem. Scanning the article as he stood in line, nausea forced him to tuck the paper under the armpit of his dry side.

He planned the remainder of his day as he waited. He would stay at the café until seven, grab a cheap bite to eat somewhere, go home and write at least two chapters. He set these goals for himself every day, but despite his best intentions, the evenings usually ended with Quincy stumbling home with a blood-alcohol-content higher than his freshman year’s grade point average.

Tonight’s going to be different, he told himself, though on some level he knew it wouldn’t. Some people and alcohol don’t mix and after expulsion from college, getting fired from Hallmark, and countless shattered relationships, Quincy understood he was one of those people. But for a young man who idolized hard drinking writers, alcoholic failure was more admirable than medicated mediocrity.

Bored, he opened the Herald-Tribune to the one section he felt his hangover would tolerate. A smile formed when he saw that the Yankees had lost. He took comfort in knowing that he was still capable of enjoying life’s simple diversions without help from the pharmaceutical industry.

Chapter 3

An Algerian in Paris

Allehandro grabbed an abandoned newspaper from the next table and studied the headline Metro Bomb Kills 14. He took a long swig from a bottle of Heineken and savored the taste, trying not to think how much it cost. The fashionable café on Montparnasse was way out his price range, but he was celebrating. According to the paper, the bomb had killed fourteen—not bad for a mere four pounds of plastique. He skimmed the article for details: it detonated at the height of rush-hour, near the Opera Station… Police had no leads… Al-Qaeda claimed responsibility. Allehandro felt his face redden. He reread the last sentence. Al-Qaeda claimed responsibility? It had been an Algerian operation—his operation! All Al-Qaeda had done was overcharge him for the plastique.

Al-Qaeda! he barked, slamming the paper down on the table. Embarrassed, he bit his lip and buried his head behind the newspaper. He cursed himself for being so emotional. Like a dime store detective, he furtively peered over the top and scanned the crowd. No one seemed to have noticed his outburst. He took another sip of his beer to calm down.

It was just like those attention whores to try to take credit for the hard work of the Groupe Islamique Armé. He wondered when the GIA would finally claim responsibility. Headquarters was supposed to notify the media as soon as they learned of the bombing.

The caller had obviously missed the news. Allehandro uttered a resigned sigh. He had grown accustomed to such administrative blunders. You got what you paid for and the GIA relied upon a mostly volunteer work force. Eventually the call would be made and he would get the credit he deserved. He took another sip of his beer and smiled at a beautiful brunette walking past his table. Her obliviousness to his very existence didn’t bother him; he was in too good a mood. The subway bombing had been his first act of terrorism abroad and as far as anyone would ever know, it had gone flawlessly.

Mistakes were made, but he had no intention of ever sharing with anyone the gaffes that had plagued his day: forgetting his Metro pass, getting on the outbound train during the morning commute, the ten minute delay in the tunnel. While the train’s loss of power was out of his control, his reaction was not. He winced, recalling the flop sweat pouring from his body, his heart pounding against his ribcage, the pathetic, panicked thoughts, culminating in the ultimate bodily betrayal. He was supposed to be a professional, cold-blooded killer, yet he had pissed himself like a frightened schoolgirl.

The delay had seemed so long that at one point Allehandro actually contemplated reaching under his seat, opening the gym bag and disarming the timer—in front of everyone. Getting caught with the bomb was certainly a more attractive proposition than the alternative—getting blown to smithereens. He vowed to prepare for the unexpected next time and most importantly, to always go to the bathroom before he left.

Fortunately, the train had started with time to spare. He recalled with delight the sound of the explosion beneath his feet once he was safely above ground. A smile came to his face as he envisioned the ensuing madness: sirens, lights, screaming and commotion—it was what terrorism was all about. He took another sip of beer and savored the cool effervescent liquid as it flowed over his tongue.

That was the beauty of working alone; no matter how badly you screwed up you could cover your tracks, or blow them up before anyone found out. However, Allehandro’s solo days would soon be over. Tomorrow he would begin sharing his cramped cell with a Libyan. According to his friends in the GIA, no one knew the Libyan’s real name, not even the Paris director—and he had raised the capital to fund his mission. All Allehandro knew was that the Libyan had been hired to assassinate some right wing French bigwig. Apparently, years of battling the Algerian and French governments had depleted the GIA’s resources for such a delicate mission. Lacking the experience and finesse required to pull off high-level assassinations, the GIA now stuck to simple bombings. Fortunately for the GIA, the Arab Spring had unleashed thousands of talented killers from government payrolls into the free market.

A glimpse of a woman with long blonde hair distracted his thoughts. As she approached his table, her hair flowed gracefully behind like a satin train. Large eyes, petite nose and full red lips were absorbed and processed by his libido in a split second. Before establishing eye contact, he glanced down to her feet. Perfectly painted toes were cradled in expensive black sandals. Fine, delicate ankles effortlessly supported long, tanned and toned legs. His eyes traveled past her knees, to firm thighs that tragically disappeared behind a tiny black miniskirt. His eyes continued higher, to a snug shirt that hugged her flat stomach. He nearly groaned when he saw the swelling breasts on display courtesy of a plunging neckline. His eyes remained fixated on her cleavage as she walked past. A pain in his stomach grew as she walked away, her firm, round bottom swaying ever so slightly back and forth, back and forth.

Allehandro looked about anxiously for his waiter. While he didn’t have the confidence to approach this particular woman, there were others lining the sidewalks of Rue St. Dennis who would not resist his charms. For one-hundred Euros they would satisfy all his desires. Growing impatient, he threw a ten Euro note on the table and walked off in the direction of the Metro.

As he waited at a busy intersection, he felt a tap on his shoulder.

"Excusé, monsieur, said a man in a white blazer. Nineteen-Euros, monsieur."

A few awkward seconds passed before Allehandro recognized him as the waiter. After explaining that there must be a mistake—one beer could not possibly cost that much—the waiter grew impatient and waved the receipt under Allehandro’s long nose. "It is nineteen-Euros, monsieur. You only paid ten," he barked, pointing at the bottom line of the receipt for emphasis.

Examining the receipt, Allehandro saw that two beers were listed. "Non, monsieur. I had only one beer!" Feeling he was being watched, Allehandro turned to see dozens café patrons staring at him.

The waiter shook his head and again pointed to the receipt. As the two argued back in forth, each grew more agitated. Sensing he could not win, Allehandro scanned the crowd for an ally. He groaned when he noticed the beautiful blonde seated at a table a few feet away. His olive complexion turned crimson when their eyes met. He reached into his pocket and reluctantly pulled out a ten-Euro note. The waiter uttered a sarcastic merci, reached into his apron and flipped a coin at Allehandro. He turned and walked away as Allehandro awkwardly fumbled the coin before it finally fell to the ground. An uncontrollable rage overcame him. Without thinking, he picked up the coin and hurled it at the waiter’s head. He watched with dread as the coin arced to the left, sailing past the waiter’s ear and striking an innocent bystander between the lapels of a hideous tweed jacket.

The victim stopped in his tracks and began to rub his chest. As he looked down at the projectile, spinning on the pavement before him, the waiter bent over and deftly snatched the coin off the ground without breaking his stride. The waiter turned back to Allehandro and raised the coin between his thumb and forefinger. "Merci beaucoup, monsieur," he shouted with a smile.

Laughter erupted from the nearby tables. Looking over, Allehandro saw the blonde and her friends doubled-over. He turned back and angrily watched as the waiter made his way inside café Le Select.

I’ll get him for that, he thought before scurrying off toward the Metro.

Chapter 4

Mandy the Model

Reginald prepared for the punch line. He had his audience right where he wanted them—with the exception of Sara, who was staring off into space. He continued in his refined English accent, And so the patient spits the water from his mouth and says—

Hi everybody, Mandy called as she approached the table.

Everyone said hello, except Reginald. He clenched his teeth and stared down at the table. If there was one thing he hated, it was being interrupted. He looked up as Mandy worked her way around the table. His irritation immediately faded as he was struck by her beauty. Forgetting that his girlfriend was seated next to him, his eyes dropped to her legs and worked their way up. By the time his gaze reached her chest, he had completely forgiven her interruption. Mandy normally showed up at the café without makeup, casually dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, but today she had out-dressed the Montparnasse’s most militant fashionistas. Her short black skirt hid little of her long, tanned legs and her blouse looked as if it had been painted on. A black beret held her straight blonde hair back so nothing distracted the beauty of her face.

Look at you! You look marvelous! Kate cried in a thick Australian accent. She had been trying to sound more English since she started dating Reginald, but when excited, her accent became as strong as it was on the day she left Perth.

You like? Mandy placed her hands on her waist and leaned forward, giving the table a better view down her shirt. Reginald tried to conceal a pained sigh.

Raising her hands behind her head, with a quick motion of her wrists Sara tightened her pony tail so the hair hugged her skull like a bathing cap. With feigned equanimity, she asked how the photo shoot went.

It was great! Mandy replied. They let me keep the clothes.

Wow! Kate replied. They’ve never let me keep anything after a shoot.

Reginald picked up his espresso and raised the small cup towards his mouth, stopping just before it reached his chin. I guess it makes sense, he announced into the espresso cup, as if it were a microphone. It’s free advertising for the manufacturer having someone as lovely as Mandy wear their clothes.

I wonder what that says about me? Kate scoffed.

As Reginald racked his brain for a suave compliment, he was let off the hook by a commotion nearby. Forgetting Kate’s query, the group fixated on a heated exchange between two men on the sidewalk by their table.

They’re arguing over the bill, Reginald whispered for the non-French speakers.

As the argument escalated from yelling to the wild gesticulation phase, the taller man glanced around, locking in on Sara. Her eyes quickly retreated to the safety of her tablemates.

Reginald, weren’t you in the middle of a joke? she asked.

Oh, yes. Where was I? Reginald replied, his eyes still locked on the pending street brawl. "Right, so the nurse says, I’m sorry, I thought you said chamber pot."

Nobody laughed at the punch line and Reginald didn’t care. Like everyone else, he immediately returned to the kerfuffle.

Hey, there’s Quincy! Sara announced in another attempt to distract the group from the spectacle.

The table’s collective