“OK, OK! I just came to ask you for a divorce!”

“Whenever you want. Although I’d prefer to be a widower.”

“Fuck up and die, you bastard!”

Once he had her in the corridor, he slammed the door in her face and said to me, “Call a locksmith. We have to get the locks changed, then let’s get back to work.”

Stanley had given Harry a couple of little tasks to do. The first was the title, and Harry had handed me a sheet of paper with his suggestions. I sat down and read over the list. A Handbook for Criminals, A Handbook for Young Criminals, The Handbook of Crime for Young Criminals and Toddlers, Crime: How to Do It, Breaking the Law by Numbers, Felony for Dummies, Step-by-Step Guide to Crime, Lawlessness Is Easy!… The list went on.

Then came the problem of the preface. Harry had given me his first draft and asked me to pass it on to Stanley untouched. I couldn’t touch it even if I wanted to. It was the outpouring of a man on the edge. It went like this:

There are men put on this earth to make laws designed to break the spirits of men. Then there are those put here to have their spirits broken by those put here to break them. Then there are those who are here to break the laws that break the men who break the spirits of other men. I am one of those men.

– the author

Stanley sent it back and told him to try again. Harry’s second attempt was no better.

They have you in their sights. They have you on their list. They want to turn the product of your semen’s blood into steam engines that churn out power to light up their lives. Well I’m here to tell you if you read this book and follow its advice you can fill your own pockets with gold for a change and let someone else’s children carry the stone tablets for the corpulent Egyptian taskmasters. I say, why not get them first?

– the author

Stanley didn’t think anything that sounded bitter or insane would be good for sales. I could see his point. I gently asked Harry to take one more crack at it. His third attempt I opened and read as the bus rolled toward the city. It read simply:

Ah-ha! Worship me! You cunts!

– the author

I tore it up and composed my own preface and put Harry’s name to it.

The world’s a fat place, so fat you’d think there’s enough to go around. There isn’t. So some have to grab what they can without following the rules because the rules state that they get next to nothing. Most stumble along this path unguided, unmapped. By writing this book, I am not trying to cause a revolution, just giving some roadside assistance to the disadvantaged on the road less traveled by lighting it a little, showing the potholes and the pitfalls, putting up entry and exit signs and speed limits.

Drive well, you young thugs, drive well…

– the author

Finally the day of printing arrived. I had to go to Stanley ’s office and disclose the author’s name. Harry and I sat in the backyard smoking cigarettes for breakfast. He had gone beyond anxiety; his hands were shaking vigorously. We both tried not to notice it, and when I had to light his cigarette for him, we pretended it was because I was his long-serving houseboy. I said, “There you go, sir,” and he replied, “Thanks, boy.”

Above us the sky was a strange color, the same algae green as his swimming pool.

“This publisher. Can we trust him?” Harry asked.

“Implicitly.”

“Is he going to screw us?”

“No.”

“When you speak to him next, tell him I’ve killed seventeen men, two women, and a child.”

“You killed a child?”

“Well- a young adult.”

Harry handed me a sheet of paper. On it was a list of acknowledgments. I took it and went off to fulfill our destinies, hitting the streets with my arms swinging at both sides. That’s how you walk when you’re doing destiny’s dirty work.

I met Stanley at his office. He was too excited to sit. In the first two minutes after I arrived, he went from the door to the window three times, making strange gestures with his hands as if strangling chickens.

“This is it, mate- the printers are standing by. I’m ready for the name now.”

“OK, here it is. The man who wrote The Handbook of Crime is Harry West.”

Stanley ’s mouth opened and stayed that way as he let out a long throaty exhale.

“Who?”

“Harry West!”

“Never heard of him.”

I ran through his rap sheet, not leaving anything out. “Harry West,” Stanley said as he wrote the name down, sounding a little disappointed. Then, as I fed him information, Stanley composed a biography for the “about the author” section. It ran like this:

Harry West was born in Sydney in 1922. For the next fifty-five years he broke every law in the Southern Hemisphere. He escaped from custody and is currently a fugitive from justice.

“And Harry’s written a list of acknowledgments he wants to go in the front,” I said.

“Fine.”

Stanley took a look at it. It was just your standard page of thanks that precedes a life’s work.

I would like to acknowledge my father for giving me a taste for violence, my grandfather for giving my father a taste for violence, who in turn gave it to me. I have no children, so I’ve had to give it to acquaintances and passersby. I would also like to acknowledge the New South Wales criminal justice system for teaching me about injustice, the New South Wales police force for their indefatigable corruption and tireless brutality, violence in cinema for desensitizing my victims so they take longer to say ouch, my victims for losing, my victors for showing me there is no dishonor in a bullet in the thigh, and finally my editor, friend, and brother in isolation, Martin Dean.

“Are you sure you want your name on this?” Stanley asked me.

“Why not?” I asked stupidly, knowing why not. I was practically admitting to a crime: harboring a known fugitive and editing his opus. “I think so,” I said.

“Think about it a second.”

I thought about it. Was I making a mistake? It was obvious there was no real reason my involvement needed to be mentioned in any way. But this was my work too. I had broken my back to get this book this far, and I wanted the world to know it.

“Yeah, leave it in.”

“OK then, well, we’re all ready to go. I’m going to run this down to the printers. Afterward, can I meet him?”

“I don’t know if that’s such a hot idea right now.”

“Why?”

“He’s not well at the moment. He’s a little…on edge. Maybe when the book’s out in the stores. When will that be, by the way?”

“Three weeks.”

“I can’t believe it’s really happening.”

“You bet your arse,” he said, and just before he left the office, Stanley turned to me with a strange, far-off look on his face and said, “Tell Harry I think he’s a genius.”

I said that I would.

“What did he say when you told him my name? What was the look on his face? Tell me everything. Don’t leave anything out,” Harry said breathlessly from his front door as I headed up the drive.

“He was impressed,” I lied. “He’d heard of you.”

“Of course he’s heard of me. A man doesn’t kill steadily for fifty years without making a name for himself. So when’s it in the stores?”

“Three weeks.”

“Three weeks! Fuck!”

There was nothing left to be done but wait. Everything was sorted. I had that feeling of satisfaction and anticlimax that comes with the completion of a job. Now I knew how all those Egyptian slaves must have felt when the pointy stone was put on top of the pyramid of Giza and they all had to stand around waiting for the cement to dry. Also I felt a sense of disquiet. I had been involved in something meaningful for the second time in my life, after the suggestion box; now what the fuck was I going to do? The ambition rising in my chest had no further outlet. That was annoying.