“Colin’s embarrassed,” Sunita said. “It’s probably just transference. He’s not dumb, I can tell he knows better. He wants to get back to your professional relationship without that encounter hanging over it.”

“Right,” Henry agreed wanly. But he knew the difference between the aching yearning unslakable hunger he saw in so many clients, a one way street, and what he saw between him and Colin, which was a… like it or not, connection. He certainly didn’t love Colin, but he liked him to a degree which was becoming uncomfortable in this kind of business relationship.

“Oh, okay. So… any other potential bookings? I need to make up the lost earnings as soon as I can.”

Henry tried to keep his voice calm as his panic spiked at the lost thousands. He walked out of the laptop’s camera range, straight to the freezer and the emergency pint of Ben and Jerry’s.

“Colin paid for the canceled booking. And for the ‘bad date day,’ the one where you refused his cash.” The slightly scolding note in Sunita’s voice was unmistakable.

Henry didn’t realize how tight his grip was on the spoon until he relaxed at the news.

“I wasn’t going to charge him for services not rendered.”

“Be that as it may. I’m transferring you the money. You know, we need to get you on Bitcoin or Ethereum or something less trackable than PayPal. Especially with all this lovely cash cascading in. You’ll have to pay taxes if you’re not careful.”

Henry shook his head. “If Leonard would let me, I’d adopt Christina and then I could write her off. I feel bad, taking Colin’s money for nothing. It’s not a… It’s not a ‘Hamilton’ kind of thing to do.”

Sunita knew all about Christina and The Bill, and she smiled kindly. “You are a saint among men, Henry. And saints cannot always afford to be gentlemen. Gotta go.”

Sunita disappeared, another, more important client’s Skype call pling-pling-plooping in the background.

Henry sighed. Sunita was right. The old “grasshopper” Hamilton could be magnanimous, and reject unearned money. But “ant Hamilton,” well, he had no choice.

The good news was, now he was relaxed enough that he could write. He got ready to go out to the café, packing his bag and whistling a tune.

For some people, desperate times and short deadlines inspire their best work. Henry was not one of them. An empty bank account and a looming deadline only paralyzed him. Now, with enough extra money to tide him over for a while, he could relax and think.

He had to remind himself, when he saw the balance transfer from Sunita, that the extra money was a lifeboat, not a yacht. There could be no new laptop, even as he looked at the crack in the corner of the screen which he’d taped over to prevent it from spreading.

The Colin money wouldn’t come in forever. Eventually, his Eliza Doolittle would spread his wings and fly away, ready to meet a man with whom he could have a normal, healthy relationship.

Henry felt a strange pang of regret at this thought, but chalked it up to the end of the fairly easy money, and left for the café.

* * *

Writing, Henry mused, was one of the few endeavors in which you could monetize your pain. And he was highly incentivized by that pain to get a screenplay written. After all, even though selling it was a long shot, it was only by making that kind of money that he could get off this “Hamilton hamster wheel,” and stop lying to… everyone about everything.

He knew his script would be about a con man, and the pain that a con man brings to the conned. Even when he does it in a good cause. Research complete on that, he thought with a grim smile.

His protagonist was also a failed writer. But unlike Henry, he hadn’t found any refuge from the slings and arrows of outrageous bill collectors. He was on the verge of losing his apartment…

No, Henry said to himself, scratching that out. Raise the stakes.

He’d already lost his apartment and had surfed every couch of every friend, and was on the brink of real homelessness when…

Hmm. I need a Catalyst.

So the guy’s a writer. He’s written what, some short story collection that sold seven copies. So where’s the con, then? What’s his game? Something literary, something that would require a literary education…

Henry remembered reading about Lee Israel, a biographer who, severely strapped for cash, had started stealing famous people’s letters from libraries and selling them to collectors. Then she’d realized there was even better money in making up “undiscovered” letters from literary luminaries of the 1930s. She sold about four hundred of them before she got caught.

There you go, he nodded. His protagonist… Hmm. He needs a name.

He burst out laughing. “Dallas Harris!” The play on his own multiple identities was irresistible.

* * *

Dallas, Henry decided, had written his senior thesis on Lee Israel’s forgeries. And in the process he’d become not only very good at detecting them, but had, daringly, tried his hand at it himself. He’d even (strictly for research of course) tried to pass one of them off on a collector. To his stunned surprise, the collector had made him an offer.

You’d think the collector would have been grateful when Dallas revealed the game. Instead, the furious old geezer tried to have him arrested, and only the intervention of his thesis advisor and the Dean had kept him out of trouble.

The hard lesson Dallas learned from that, Henry decided, was that people were more interested in thinking that they're right rather than being correct, and would rather be conned and left in the dark, than find out they’d been conned because they weren’t as smart as they thought.

So the catalyst would be an opportunity for Dallas to do a little forging himself. That old crocodile collector would look him up and say, “I need a letter from the famous reclusive author P.Q. Mallinger [who was of course Henry’s thinly disguised version of J. D. Salinger] and I’ll pay you five grand for it. It needs to state that I’m his agent for the sale of some books from his library.”

“And… you’re not. But you have books from his library you can’t sell without it.”

“It’s a family matter, trust me. I’m… representing a family member. It’s not a theft. The sale is for his own good. He’s old and sick and the family needs money to take care of him, and he won’t part with the books on his own.”

Henry pondered. What kind of person was Dallas? He had to be the Hero, of course. He couldn’t just go off and do illegal shit without a better motive than greed. Also, he had to be a huge P. Q. Mallinger fan, so there was a real conflict in him about doing this.

So Dallas had to investigate the family first. See if this whole thing was legit or not. It wouldn’t be wrong to forge the letter, if it was in the best interests of poor, senile old P. Q. Mallinger, right?

Of course there was wrongdoing afoot, or there’d be no plot. Dallas discovers that it’s a scam to steal the old man’s money, engineered by a… Hmm. Let’s say a sister he hates. A nice big juicy female role. He knew you couldn’t write in the screenplay, “Meryl Streep would be so great for this role,” but he could think it.

He’s going to leave everything to a university, books, papers, money, house, except $1 apiece for each family member, the surefire way to block any “he must have forgotten me when he wrote it” protests against the will’s legitimacy.

Their only hope of getting around it is to sell off some of the more valuable items, like his first editions. Henry did some Googling to find himself gawking at the $11 million value of a copy of Audubon’s Birds of America. There was his Maltese Falcon right there – a single item of immense value was perfect for a movie.

Once Dallas discovers that they’re selling the most valuable item the old man owns, he knows it’s a racket to get his money.

Dallas takes dramatic action. He does indeed forge a letter, that makes him the representative of PQM. But he does it to save the author, whose works he loves, just like anyone who was ever an adolescent.

It goes to PQM’s lawyer, who calls in Dallas, along with the collector and the family, who are all enraged to find out that Dallas has double crossed them. Talk about a sweaty moment.

The lawyer doesn’t believe any of them. But, surprise! He’s the only person in the world who’s in contact with PQM, unbeknownst to the family. And he’s going to call him right now and authenticate the letter.

Dallas gets ready to flee the lawyer’s office, and the country for that matter. Well, he would if he had a dime to his name. Of course, on top of it, the collector and the family now know what he’s done, and they’re furious with him for trying to make an end run around them.

Then comes the first twist in the story. PQM’s lawyer hangs up the phone and confirms that the letter is real, and that Dallas is his official representative, and is authorized to sell the book! The stolen book is turned over to Dallas, and now it’s up to him to decide what to do with it.

Does PQM really need the cash? The lawyer is silent on the matter, but just as confused as Dallas is, knowing as he does that the letter is bullshit.

Why, Dallas has to discover, did the mysterious recluse suddenly legitimize him?

Henry grinned, signaling the waiter for a third espresso as he flexed his hand.

Because with that twist in place, Henry knew he had a real story to write.