American literary giant: 1974

The next morning, Lynn arrived at the car dealership at seven o'clock as usual.

The sky in Manhattan wasn't fully light yet, and the light bulbs in the tin shed hung swaying overhead. Old Porter was squatting on the ground repairing a car's rearview mirror, an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth.

Lynn pushed open the iron gate, but Old Potter didn't even look up.

"Someone is looking for you."

Lynn paused for a moment.

"Who?"

"A guy, speaking with a country bumpkin accent, saying something about Maine." Old Porter pulled a screwdriver from the screw in the rearview mirror, wiped it with his sleeve, and said, "He came to the car dealership early in the morning, before seven."

Lynn's heart skipped a beat.

"What did he say?"

"He said to call you back, that he's finished reading, that's all." Old Porter finally lit his cigarette, took a puff, and glanced sideways at Lynn. "You have relatives in Maine?"

"No, just a friend."

Old Porter snorted, clearly not believing that a Chinese taxi driver would have friends in Maine: "He said you have his number and told you to call him back as soon as possible. Oh, and he also said something else he wanted me to tell you."

"What did you say?"

Old Porter tossed the screwdriver into the toolbox, stood up, and dusted off his knees.

He said, "Tell that Chinese driver he owes me dinner."

"Potter, I'll be out for ten minutes."

"You're asking for leave again—"

"Ten minutes, you can deduct my pay if you want."

Potter muttered, "You're the most troublesome driver I've ever met." But he still waved Lynn out.

Two blocks east, at the intersection of Lexington Avenue and 46th Street, there's a public phone booth. The aluminum casing is covered in graffiti with marker, and several pictures of strip club guys are pasted on the glass.

Lynn squeezed into the phone booth and took out two coins from his pocket, one a dime and the other twenty-five cents.

This is a long-distance call from New York to Maine. The starting price is 50 cents for the first three minutes.

He took out the slip of paper, which was already damp with sweat from his hands, checked the number, inserted the coin, and turned the dial seven times.

beep - beep - beep -

"Feed?"

A hoarse voice with a heavy Maine accent came through the receiver, and there was a sound in the background, like a kettle boiling.

"Mr. King, I'm Lynn, a taxi driver in New York."

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line.

"Damn it, I've been waiting for your call for two whole days!"

"You know, most taxi drivers in New York don't have landlines."

"I know, I called three places before I found your car rental shop. First, I called the address on the envelope, but there wasn't even a public phone in your building. Then I called 411 and asked if there was a taxi driver named Lynn in Manhattan—guess what the operator said?"

"She said there are eight hundred taxi drivers named Lynn in Manhattan?"

She said, "Sir, have you had too much to drink?"

Lynn laughed. Outside the phone booth, a bus roared past, rattling the windows. He covered his other ear with one hand.

"How did you eventually find the car dealership?"

"There was a zip code on the envelope. I checked it, and there are only a few car dealerships in that area. I found it on the second one. An old man answered it, and he wasn't very nice."

"That's Potter. He has a bad temper with everyone."

He even asked me if I was your parole officer.

The kettle stopped running on the other end of the phone; Jin had probably taken it off the stove. Then came the sound of a chair being moved, its wooden leg scraping against the floor.

"Lynn".

"Um."

"I've finished reading."

Lynn's fingers tightened slightly on the microphone.

I read half of it on the train, and then read it again when I got home.

"and then?"

Jin did not answer immediately.

The sound of a lighter came through the phone line—click, click—it lit on the second try, and Jin took a drag of his cigarette.

"Do you know where I stopped reading?"

"where?"

"The basement. The female agent went into the basement alone, and the lights went out. The killer was right behind her; he was wearing night vision goggles, so she couldn't see anything. He stood a step behind her, reaching out his hand..."

Jin paused for a moment.

"I fucking put the manuscript on the kitchen table, poured myself a glass of whiskey, drank it standing in the kitchen, and only then did I dare to go back and turn to the next page."

Lynn closed her eyes briefly.

"That's the most unsettling thing about Hannibal, isn't it?" Kim continued, lowering his voice. "It's not that he kills people, it's not that he eats people, it's that he's too fucking polite. He talks to that girl like a gentleman, he's gentler to her than anyone else, that's the most bastard thing about him."

"What do you think of the writing?" Lynn asked.

Jin took another drag of his cigarette.

"There are a few things that are not quite right."

Lynn's stomach clenched.

"In the middle section, when the female agent goes to investigate the senator's daughter, you spent too much time on FBI procedures. File retrieval, departmental coordination, reporting to superiors—I know you wanted to make it seem realistic, but it reads a bit like reading the FBI Operations Manual. Readers don't care how the FBI holds meetings; they care whether that girl is still alive."

"Hmm." Lynn switched hands to hold the microphone. The small light above the coin slot flashed; time was almost up.

"And the ending, the part where the assassin gets killed, it was too fast. You spent so much time making the reader afraid of this person, and then he just disappears in the last three pages? You have to make the reader feel uncomfortable at the end."

"for example?"

"For example, after she fired the shot, the killer fell down, but she stood there in the dark, unable to see anything, and she wasn't sure if he was dead or not—let her stand in that darkness a little longer."

Lynn muttered those words to himself in the phone booth.

Let her stand in the dark a little longer.

Hold.

This is Stephen King.

“But,” Kim’s tone changed, “aside from all that, this is the best thing I’ve read all year. I said it before at the train station, but I’ll say it again—this story is very uncomfortable, and I’m praising you.”

Lynn leaned against the aluminum wall of the phone booth, feeling a layer of sweat on her back.

"Listen, Lynn, I know someone."

Lynn's breath hitched for a second.

"My editor, Bill Thompson, from Random House, is the one who signed Carrie."

"I know him."

"I sent the manuscript back to you. I called him, but on one condition—"

"What are the prerequisites?"

"I have a good relationship with Bill, but he needs an agent to go and talk to him. That's his rule. Without an agent, the manuscript won't even get past his secretary. You understand? I can help you knock on that door, but you need someone to walk in for you."

"Where am I supposed to find an agent? A proper literary agent's signing fee alone would be—"

Lynn knew that literary agents in New York charged at least $300 for a contract. Even if he combined his salary from the car dealership with the remaining royalties from "Guts," he couldn't scrape together that amount in two months without eating or drinking.

“I know.” King’s voice lowered a little. “Even if it’s not a big-name agent, even if it’s someone who’s just starting out, as long as they say as an agent, ‘I’m representing an author recommended by Stephen King,’ Bill will take a look.”

King paused for a moment, then said, "I've arranged a meeting with Bill for you next Monday. I've already sent over the rest of the manuscript; it should be in your hands soon."

Ten minutes have passed.

After hanging up the phone, Lynn stood silently in the phone booth for a while.

He only needs one person, someone who can make a phone call.

A voice that sounds professional, calm, and knowledgeable.

He thought of someone.