Len Merner was a son of a bitch. He knew it and I knew it and we'd both accepted him for what he was. Now, being a son of a bitch, especially nowadays, has nothing to do with a man's mother. She could be the nicest woman you know – like Len's mother – but her boy could still be a son of a bitch. Anyway, other than that and being late all the damn time, Len was a swell guy. He'd graduated college two years ahead of me and was filthy rich in the publishing business with this pretty big company – put out some decent stuff. Lord know's how he got the job right out of school – wouldn't tell a soul how he'd done it but I guess it was because he was such a son of a bitch – the kind of son of a bitch that would do the publishing world some good. He told me time and time again that it was bullshit how Hemingway and Faulkner couldn't get published nowadays, a shame, he called it. He was gonna publish the good stuff – give the real writers a shot and fix the whole Goddamned system, he was. I always said we'd see about that.
It was quarter past and he was late, but he was always late. “Sure I'll take a look at it,” he'd told me with his grinning teeth. “Think you can make it past me?” “We'll see, you cheeky thin-lipped bastard,” I said half with my words and half with my tone. He was going to take a look at something I was working on. “You'll be famous if I publish you, you know that, don't you, Dano?” He always slapped me on the shoulder and he always called me 'Dano' and knowing him he'd put 'Dano Dunn' on my book if he'd ended up pushing it through, son of a bitch.
It was cool – fall was coming as it does in early September on the east coast and it was ready to rain and I was ready to take off. I looked at my watch and the rain collected on it's face. “Damn it, Len.” I looked down the side walk along the building fronts and saw no Len and then I saw the schmuck. I saw him down and across the street, walking just as lackadaisical as he'd ever been in his short short life. And crossed the street in just that fashion and ended his short short life on the windshield of a blue Ford Taurus right there in the street. Son of a bitch died right in front of me and the car kept on moving and that's all I saw.
“That's it, Mr. Dunn?”
“That's it, officer. Can I leave now? I really must be going.”
“Yes, we'll be in touch though, I'm sure you'll be called as a witness in court.”
“Well, I – Alright, talk to you then I guess. Goodbye.”
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