The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [413]
“As a Greek drug dealer or something?” asked Nathan.
“No,” replied Prometheus slightly testily, “as Prometheus.”
“Oh, yeah?” Snudd laughed. “What are you going to do? Steal fire from the DeFablio family and give it to Mickey Finn?”
Prometheus stared at him as though he were a twit—which he was, I suppose.
“No, I thought I could be here awaiting extradition back to the Caucasus by Zeus’ lawyers or something—and Jack could be in charge of witness protection, trying to protect me against Zeus’ hit men—sort of like The Client but with gods instead of the Mob.”
“If you want to cross-genre we have to build from the ground up,” replied Snudd disparagingly, “and that takes more money and expertise than you guys will ever possess.”
“What did you say?” asked Prometheus in a threatening manner.
“You heard me. Everyone thinks it’s easy to be a plotsmith.”
“What you’ve described,” continued the Titan, showing great restraint, “isn’t a crime thriller—it’s a mess.”
Snudd prodded Prometheus on the tie and sneered, “Well, let me tell you, Mr. Smart-Aleck-Greek-Titan-fire-giver, I didn’t spend four years at Plotschool to be told my job by an ex-convict!”
The Titan’s lip quivered. “Okay,” he snarled, pulling up his shirtsleeves, “you and me. Right now, here on the sidewalk.”
“C’mon,” said Jack in a soothing manner, “this isn’t going to get us anywhere. Snudd, I think perhaps you should listen to what Prometheus has to say. He might have a point.”
“A point?” cried Snudd, getting out of the car but avoiding Prometheus. “I’ll tell you the point. You came to me wanting my help and I gave it—now I have to listen to dumb ideas from any myth that happens to wander along. This was a favor, Jack—my time isn’t cheap. And since this is an ideas free-for-all, let me tell you a home truth: the Great Panjandrum himself couldn’t sort out the problems in this book. And you know why? Because it was shit to begin with. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got two subplots to write for proper, paying clients!”
And without another word, Snudd vanished.
“Well,” said Prometheus, getting into the backseat, “who needs cretins like him?”
“Me,” sighed Jack, “I need all the help I can get. What do you care what happens to us anyway?”
“Well,” said the Titan slowly, “I kind of like it here, and all that mail redirection is a pain in the arse. What shall we do now?”
“Lunch?” I suggested.
“Good idea,” said Prometheus. “I wait tables at Zorba’s in the high street—I can get us a discount.”
29.
Mrs. Bradshaw and Solomon (Judgments) Inc.
The “police officer being suspended by reluctant boss” plot device was pretty common in the crime genre. It usually happened just before a down-ending second act, when the author sets things up so the reader thinks that there is no way the hero can extricate himself. A down-ending second usually heralds an up-ending third, but not always; you can finish a third down, but it usually works better if the end of the second is up—which means the end of the first should be up, not down.
JEREMY FNORP,
The Ups and Downs of Act Breaks
I WENT TO WORK as normal the following morning, my head cleared and feeling better than I had for some time. Randolph, however, was inconsolable without Lola and had moped all the previous evening, becoming quite angry that I believed him when he said that nothing was the matter. Gran was out and I slept well for the first time in weeks. I even dreamt of Landen—and wasn’t interrupted during the good parts, either.
“I share your grief for Miss Havisham,” murmured Beatrice when I arrived at Norland Park.
“Thank you.”
“Rotten luck,” said Falstaff as I walked past. “There were the remains of a fine woman about Havisham.”
“Thank you.”
“Miss Next?” It was the Bellman. “Can I have a word?”
I walked over with him to his office and he shut the door.
“So, tell me, how do you feel about joining us permanently?”
“I can stay for a year, but I have a husband back in the real world who doesn’t exist and needs me.”
“Ah. Well, I’m sorry to hear