So successful was this little law-game that Amile decided to keep his Barnes, Graft and Johanson around, and hooked them up with an investigative team to see if they could find other people to sue for various reasons. It was like a small business, making three or four hundred dollars a day, except for the occasional big bust, which could increase their income a thousand-fold. Not to mention the legitimate law-work they did at prices that severely undercut the competition- so much so that when one inevitably failed, Amile was their to purchase it.

And although John Smith was not his real name, it was still the name he used to write under. When Amile was five one of his favorite pastimes had been to take things apart, either with a screwdriver, a hammer, or by dropping them off the balcony. He just wanted to see what was inside, he'd explain to his mother, even though he new better then to destroy her grandfather clock, or toaster oven, or television set. She decided that if Amile was so curious he ought to go to the library, and once there he was fascinated by the sheer number of individual books that could be had for the asking. But being only five, he soon got bored with reading, and that's when his mother made him a magic challenge. "If they're so lousy, why don't you write one yourself?" So Amile did, and it was so good, Amile's mother sold it. Since then, He'd been writing, as a break from the day to day deconstructionalism, but he always used the pseudonym John Smith so that no one would know that the tender, insightful, playful writer who'd penned the bestsellers Fly Swatter Blues and A Logical Disregard of Emotion was in fact himself. Once or twice a year he took a few weeks off, sat at typewriter in a small house in a small town, and typed non-stop. Something odd happened to him when he sat down at the keyboard. He stopped thinking about how things worked, and how he could sell off those workings. He stopped wondering if the risk of alienating key individuals in the business world was worth the manipulation he could reck on them first, to his profit. Instead, he contemplated life, love, what it meant to be happy. He philosophized about God, about man's purpose on earth. Sometimes he just wrote for the sheer hell of laughter- Fly Swatter Blues was thought by many to be the next American comedy classic. When he was sitting in front of his computer, with his shirt untucked, and few days growth on his cheeks, he didn't try to solve any problems, or fix any leaks. He wasn't concerned with whether or not what he wrote worked, he just did it, and the fact that he sold so well was a happy coincidence. A Logical Disregard for Emotion was still selling in foreign markets, even after five years. But Amile made sure to keep business and pleasure separate. No one knew he wrote, and none of the people who published his books knew his real name. It was as if he were two different people.

Dressed in a suit that cost more then his first car, Amile walked into his plush office and attacked voraciously the days paperwork. Even in this mundane activity he was a deconstructionalist, breaking down each legal document, each contract, each invoice into its constituent parts, and seeing how they could be used to his benefit. His firm jaw was as smooth as polished marble, his hair was cut menacing and perfect. His teeth bared with each unfolding clause, and he grinned grimly at every cent that he won. Then the phone rang.

"Leadbetter."

"Mr. Leadbetter, Mr. Johanson is on the line. He says he has another suit prospect."

"Put him through."

"Hiya Amile."

"Jake."

"Looks like we got a big one here."

"Yeah?"

"You bet. It's an author, and a rich one, if you read the bestseller list."

"What's the deal?"

"Defamation of character. In his latest book he pretty much tears you apart for all you're worth."

"Really."

"Yes sir. He doesn't actually use your name. But the guys he describes is you to a T."

"I see."

"These authors are all alike. Get 'em into a courtroom and they all turn to jello. Hell, we'll scream and holler at his publishers for a while, and in no time they'll be beggin' for a settlement."

"Retraction? A few million?"

"Ordinarily, I'd do that, Amile, but this guy's big. Real big. I was thinkin' part of the royalties- maybe from there we could look at his publisher's, ya know?"

"Don't mess with publishing houses, Jake. They'll mess you up."

"It won't hurt to look."

"I know what I'm talking about, Jake. Get the suit rolling, and we can talk about busting the bookmakers later. What's this scribblers name, anyway?"

"He's the guy who wrote Fly Swatter Blues. Goes by John Smith."

Amile went numb for about two seconds, not from any shock- just from the loss of a lucrative suit. He couldn't sue himself- could he? No, but maybe Jake was right- maybe he could take on a publishing company. "I'll talk to you later, Jake. Keep me posted."

"Yessir."

Amile hung up the phone. What was his latest book, anyway? He'd finished Veni Vici Vertigo a month ago, but that hadn't gone to press yet. It must be Giantkiller, which he'd done in a winter fury. Had he really defamed himself? He couldn't remember- Amile really lost his sense of self when he wrote. But it didn't matter. What did matter was that he had an inside on a publishing house, normally big old hoary family owned and operated companies that had about as much flexibility as a steel girder. But now he was on the inside- undermine them with a law suit as Amile Leadbetter, offer to settle for something besides money as John Smith, weasel his way in, and then BOOM! Amile wished he'd thought of this before. And even if it didn't work, he was safe behind the guise of 'disgruntled businessman'. Publishing families were notorious for ripping apart corporate raiders by doing something unheard of amongst shareholder, i.e. working as a team, but he didn't have to worry about retaliation, because he was just 'protecting his character.' And maybe it was time for Amile to 'mix business with pleasure.'

But he had to make it look good. He picked up his phone. "Bill, get Johanson back on the phone for me."

"Yessir Mr. Leadbetter."

There was one ring. "Jake here."

"Jake, I was thinking. I wanna meet this Smith character."

"Oooh, I don't know, Amile, that usually isn't a good idea in cases like this. Someone might get hurt."

"I can take care of myself, Jake."

"Actually, I was talking about Smith. He didn't make you out as a nice guy at all."

Amile chuckled. "Don't tell me you read that crap too, Jake."

"I do if it'll get me into some broad's pants. This Smith guy's sensitive. Women see you with his book in his hand, and you're halfway home."

Amile had no idea his books had that kind of effect- and he was glad now more then ever that he kept his writing and his deconstructionalism separate. 'Amile Leadbetter, the sensitive book-writing corporate raider.' That would be real nice, oh yeah. "Whatever you say, Jake. Just find this guy, and get me his number. Maybe I'll even fly him out here, treat him nice."

"You're the boss. I'll get the team on it right away."

Amile hung up, laughing. This would be a good exercise for his investigative team, at any rate. John Smith's whereabouts were kept as secret as possible, so that Amile wouldn't accidentally give anything away. It wouldn't do for some happy fan to come knocking on his door, asking for an autograph, only to say, "Hey! I saw you on the cover of Newsweek! You a writer, too, Mr. Leadbetter?" Intimidation counted for as much as cash in this business, and Amile didn't need any victims throwing his book at him in the boardrooms.

Amile finished up for the day, having set in motion a few more sell out ventures. He stood from his desk, and noted with satisfaction that not a wrinkle had set into his suit. His was a an essay of portrait perfection. He walked out the office, and reminded his secretary to turn out the lights when he left, like he did every night, his only attempt at a goodbye. But Bill had learned that thinking was not a good idea in the deconstructionalist's world- it took time away from doing.

Amile sat back in his limousine, which was just another status symbol, and listened to business reports on the radio. When he was writing, he listened to all sorts of trash- rock n' roll, classical, jazz, even a little country when he was penning Fly Swatter. But normally he despised the radio, and music in general. A bunch of whiny emotions, complaining about the world without trying to fix it. Amile had no time for the pointless.

At home, a downtown penthouse where Amile lived quite alone except for the visiting maid and cook, Amile relaxed in front of CNN with a tonic water and waited for dinner. Donald his chef had impeccable taste, and Amile had ceased months ago to suggest courses. Funny, something he'd never thought of before but just realized, but Amile never drank alcohol, or ate anything but the finest food, unless he was writing. Crushed beer cans and tins of ravioli usually littered the house where he wrote. He even had a cat, a scruffy tom named Victor which the half-blind and utterly senile next door neighbors took care of in his absence. Pets were unheard of in the Leadbetter residence- there weren't even any plants.

Donald walked in, probably to announce dinner, just as the phone rang. Amile gave him a dismissing nod, and answered. "Yes."

"Amile, sorry to bother you. This is Jake."

"Yes."

"I'll make this quick. We found Smith. He's got a small dump in the middle of nowheresville. For a bestseller he really lives like crap."

"That was pretty fast, Jake, how'd you do it?"

"Actually, it was pretty easy. One of the detective's kids found the address at the library in the Contemporary Author's Index."

"Their must be about a hundred Smiths."

"Yeah, We think that's how he got in there in the first place. Everyone else we talked to said he was unlisted, unreachable, a real recluse. We even talked to his publisher's- they got his number, but they said he always calls them first. Get this- they've never even seen the guy."

"So what's that got to do with his name?"

"Well, according to his publisher's, any references like 'Who's who' and the like would contain biographical information, since that's public knowledge, but no personal information, like his address, unless he gave them permission. Looks like the boys at Contemporary Authors goofed and withheld the address of the wrong John Smith." Jack laughed out loud. "Too bad he never found out- he could be the one's suing them."

Actually, he did find out, Jake. "Okay. Call this guy up- can you get his number?"

"We got his address- we can get his number."

"Okay, call him up. Tell him there's a plane ticket waiting for him at Arkansas International. Tell him to get his butt out here. I'll put him up in a hotel, feed him, all that good stuff. I wanna see this turkey for myself before I sue the pants off of him."

"Okay, But I still think it's a bad idea. We don't want him saying you threatened him, or anything."

"Threaten him? I'm gonna give him a night in the big city, all expenses paid, and that's a threat?"

"All right, I'll do it. Just one question. Why Arkansas International?"

Uh-oh. Amile goofed. Of course, Amile wouldn't know the nearest airport to wherever John Smith lived. Better play this one cool. "Hell, I don't care where he goes. You said he lived out in the middle of nowhere. To me, that's Arkansas."

"Actually, he does live in Arkansas."

"Intuition, Jake. Call it savvy. That's why I stay ahead of the game. A lucky guess can make you a million in this business."

Jake chuckled. "Okay boss. You want to meet him tonight?"

Amile smiled. This was getting to be almost too funny. "Sure. I'll even send the limo to the airport.."

"I'm on it. Call me if he gets outta hand."

"Don't worry about it."

Half an hour later, Amile's bedroom phone rang. It was his unlisted number, the one only the publishing company had. Actually, what they had was his number for where he wrote, and when he wasn't there, it came through to here. In this way Amile could stay in touch with his publisher's after he'd sent off the manuscript and during the editing process. He lifted the receiver, and said as softly as he could, "Hello?"

"John Smith?" It was Johanson's voice.

"Yes." Amile tried not to giggle.

"Mr. Smith, My name is Johanson, of Barnes, Graft and Johanson. We run a small law firm here in the big city, and-"

"Yes, I've heard of you. You work For Amile Leadbetter, right?" Amile tried hard not laugh outright.

"Yes, that's right. In fact, it's on Mr. Leadbetter's behalf that I'm calling. Uhhh, he's a big fan of yours, and he wanted to meet you. He's got a plane ticket waiting for you at Arkansas International."

Amile almost choked on his own guffaws. "Well how nice."

"Mr. Smith? Are you all right sir?"

Amile covered the mouth piece with his hand and wheezed himself back into some semblance of control. "Yes, I'm fine. I, uh, just have a bit of a cold. Tell Mr. Leadbetter I'd be delighted to see him."

"All right, Mr. Smith. Just go to the U.S. Air desk, and uh, you'll need two forms of I.D..."

"Yes Mr. Johanson," Amile almost lost it, "I've traveled before, I know the procedures, thank you."

"There will be someone at the airport to take you to your hotel, Mr. Smith, when you arrive."

Amile couldn't help it. "Oooh! A hotel, too, how thoughtful. Give Mr. Leadbetter my thanks."

"I will, Mr. Smith. Have a nice evening."

"You too. Goodbye."

Amile hung up, and howled. This was the most fun he'd had, except for writing, in years. He laughed so hard his sides ached. In any second, Jake would be calling... and right on cue, the house phone rang. Amile fell down with mirth. This was just too rich. Finally, he collected himself enough to pick up the phone with some sobriety. "That you, Johanson?"

"Yeah, Amile, uh, you okay?"

"Of course! Did you get Smith?"

"Yes, I just got off the phone with him. Kinda of a weirdo. I can see where all that sensitivity comes from."

"Well, is he comin' out here or what?"

"Yeah, he is. Was real nice about it. I didn't tell him why you wanted to see him, except that you're a real big fan of his."

"Good. That was a smart idea, Jake."

"Thanks. It's funny, though. Him being a big a recluse, and he didn't even ask how I got his number."

Damn! Amile could have smacked himself. "Well you know writers. All of 'em eccentric as hell, without a drop of common sense."

"I guess so. Anyway, he'll be arriving at around 11:30"

"All right, I'm sending the limo out for him. This might actually be fun."

"You're the boss, boss. I'll talk to you tomorrow, at any rate."

"Yes, you will."

Before he went in to eat, Amile called the limo service, just to make this as thorough as possible. Then he sat down to Donald's perfect meal. Another culinary masterpiece, and Amile savored every bite as he perused the Wall Street Journal. When he was done, he left a note on the dishes for the maid, and wandered into his study. It was time to give this some serious thought. That the publishing company had given out his address to the Contemporary Author's Index was a nice piece of information to have. It would give him something else to play with, as John Smith, on the inside. Amile could have kissed his mother, at that moment, if he knew where she was, for making him write. This was just the sort of leverage that would bag him another lucrative bust.

But business must be attended to, and so Amile called the operator. "I need U.S. Air, please." when he got the number, he dialed through.

"U.S. Air. How may I help you?"

"This is Amile Leadbetter. I had a ticket sent out for a John Smith to Arkansas International. If he doesn't show, can I cancel that?" No sense in losing a thousand bucks for a joke.

"Yes, Mr. Leadbetter. Shall I check to see if he's gotten it?"

"Yes, please."

Amile waited a few moments. "Mr. Leadbetter?"

"Yes."

"According to our computer Mr. Smith picked up his ticket and flew out an hour ago."

Amile was taken aback. "Oh really? Are you sure it was John Smith?"

"Well, that is a common name. How many people knew the ticket was available?"

"Only myself and my lawyer." Amile paused. "And Smith, of course."

"Well he's in the air right now, anyway."

"Yes, all right. Thank you for your help."

That was strange! Maybe it was some kind of mix up. Oh well, it didn't matter. Actually, it did. Perhaps Amile could give the airline some flack for the mixup, and get his money back anyway. Of course, airline's were tricky, what with all the F.B.I. regulations placed on them. But the intended passenger hadn't got the ticket, and that meant money lost for poor Amile Leadbetter. Actually, this was getting quite good. Amile never would have thought hacking out soul-selling yarns would give his better life so many opportunities.

Amile watched CNN for a few more hours, and finished the newspaper. After the nightly pre-bed ritual of donning sleep wear and brushing teeth and setting the alarm, he crawled into bed, and as was his wont to do things right, fell immediately asleep. His sleep was dreamless, but rudely interrupted a few hours later by the sound of his doorbell. He checked the clock- it was 11:45. Amile donned a robe, stepped into slippers, and made for the front door. Now who in the world? Even Johanson knew it was a bad idea to disturb the world's most powerful deconstructionalist when he was sleeping. Trusting in the building security, Amile ripped the door open without bothering to check the eye-hole. Then he fell down.

Standing before him and smiling big was himself, dressed in a wrinkled Hawaiian shirt and sporting a grizzly five-o'clock shadow. He wore jeans, sneakers, and was carrying a portable typewriter. "Hiya, Amile- mind if I come in?" the soft voice said as he did just that.

Amile couldn't believe what was going on. He was dreaming, obviously. Still. The man was himself to a T. Same stature, same face, same mannerisms as he wandered around the apartment, looking at things and clutching his typewriter. Finally, Amile got hold of himself and shut the door. "What's going on here?"

The man set down his portable and plopped into Amile's favorite chair. "You wanted to meet John Smith, right? Well here I am."

"But this is impossible! You're not Smith- I'm Smith."

"Take a good look, Amile. Isn't this the way you dress whenever you type?"

"Yes, but that's just because I can't be bothered to dress up. Who are you? How'd you get up here?"

The man was fiddling with Amile's remote control. "What do you mean, who am I? I'm you, Amile! I'm the John Smith version of you, anyway. The door man recognized me, of course. Thought my clothes were a little weird, but he'll get used to that. Yuck, CNN." Smith turned the T.V. off.

"Now wait just a minute. I don't know who you are or what you're trying to pull here, but-"

Smith wandered over to the table. "It's real simple, Leadbetter. When I wrote Giantkiller I knew what I was doing. I knew your greedy lawyers would pick it up and try to sue me for every dime I have. And I knew you wouldn't resist the chance at cracking a bookmaker."

Amile sat down heavily. "I guess you got me figured pretty good."

Smith picked a bone off the table. "What with my being you and all, it's not difficult. You see, I got tired of only coming alive once or twice a year. I've been craving ravioli for a month now, man, and all you give me is this..." he waggled the bone. "This ain't livin', Amile, This dying and going to heaven."

Suddenly, Amile Leadbetter was angry. "What the hell's wrong with that? If I want to live the good life, make money, realize my fullest potential, why can't I?"

Smith shook his head. "Because that's not life. Heaven's for dead people, Amile. Life is supposed have it's pains- that's the only way, the only reason to create."

Amile, despite himself, knew John Smith was right. This was him, standing before him, telling him what he really only knew for a few weeks every year. "So how'd you do it?"

"It was easy, Ame! I learned from the best," he said, pointing at Amile, "me! Like I said, I wrote Giantkiller and pretty much ate your lunch. And I called up the Contemporary Author's Index, and gave them my address. Also Who's Who, Rolling Stone, People Magazine, and anyone else I could think of. I set it all up, just so you'd play this silly game. You see, Amile, I couldn't get up and walk around until you decide to be me for a while. And that stunt you pulled with Johanson was all it took. Even now, we're trying to be both of us at the same time."

Amile looked up. "Can't we keep doing this, then? Can't we still be both of us? I'll raid corporations all day, while you write? We can eat dinner together, kick ideas around, you know..."

"Ame," Smith shook his head, "I just don't think it'll work. A man can't be in two places a once, usually, not even you. This was an extreme circumstance, sure, but sometimes you gotta go to extremes to get things done. And I'm tired of watching you destroy things all year long. I'm gonna do some busting, too, when you're gone, but it'll be the last one, and it'll be Leadbetter Incorporated."

Amile was suddenly depressed, a feeling he usually only felt when he finished a book and he knew it was time to go. "So what about me?"

"You are going to walk out that door, and disappear. Don't worry, Amile, you ain't gonna die. Maybe once or twice a year I'll take a few weeks off from writing and I'll shave, dress up real nice, and buy up some stock options, or something."

Amile decide this wasn't a dream after all. Morosely, he stood. Walked across the room, and out the door, which shut behind him softly.

John Smith smiled, gnawed on the left over bone, and went into the bedroom, where he picked up the phone and dialed.

"Hello?"

"Jake! Wake your ass up, boy, I wanna talk turkey."

"Mr. Leadbetter! Sorry, sir, you woke me up. Is Smith there?"

"Yeah, he's here. Now listen. How much is my stock worth right now?"