= The Chocolate Underpants Caper
  by Mary Harris


I'm an officer. A grievance officer. Dana Gore, Local 221, American Authors Union. All the doo-doo that agents, editors and publishers dish out to writers ends up on my shoes. Frankly, a lot of doo-doo happens because writers can be idiots. They don't ask for contracts. If they do get contracts, they don't bother to read them; they sign them without any forethought or advice. Then the doo-doo hits the fan, and they run screaming to me.

It was a dark and stormy Monday. I knew it was a deep doo-doo case when he burst through the door and thrust a handful of papers onto my beat-up metal desk, shoving the keyboard askew.

"You know what they did to me?" he yelled.

I saved the book I was trying to write, made sure my blouse wasn't gaping, and pointed to the rickety guest chair.

"Sit."

He sat. I studied the contract. It made for sad reading. Mr. Walter Dunphy had signed away his latest children's book to Edacity Publications. For years he had existed meagerly on cutesy plots featuring baby animals and itsy-bitsy toddlers, using carefully researched language structures appropriate for his target market; then he gave up and dashed off a stupid little book about an eight-year-old boy who wouldn't wear underwear but always saved the day.

It hit the New York Times best-seller list. TV-Land was working on a cartoon spinoff. A multi-national toy company contracted to produce the doll, clothing (except, of course, underpants) and coloring books. There were rumors of Hollywood interest. All these goodies normally bang more bucks into the writer's pocket. However, the contract was a standard boiler-plate confection from the early '60s. Poor old Wally was fifth in line at a cash cow with four teats.

I waved the papers at him. "Did your agent approve this?"

"Don't have one. Why should somebody get fifteen percent of my blood, sweat and tears?"

"Because now you're getting one hundred percent of bupkus. Did you get legal advice before signing?"

Dunphy hung his head in his hands. "No," he mumbled through thin fingers.

"Did you talk to an Authors Union contract advisor?"

He shook his head, thin grey hair creating a sad halo.

"Right. So what do you want me to do?" I asked.

He bolted from the chair. It teetered, then settled back into its usual slump. "I want my rights! I want what's mine! They're making a fortune off me!"

I pointed to paragraph 15, subclause H. "You get 10% of the publisher's 50% for sub rights, triple net."

"I don't even know what that means!" he screamed.

I opened a battered drawer and took out a pamphlet, ignoring the metallic screech as I shoved the drawer closed.

"Here. This explains everything."

He glanced at the pamphlet, his sweaty fist creating inky smudges. "But what are you going to do? I'm a Union member! You have to help me." He ended on a whimper and collapsed onto the chair. I hoped the slightly bent legs would hold.

"Help you do what? You signed away your rights for a mess of pottage. A really small mess."

"Can't you threaten them? Don't you have a gun? Can't you break into their office and steal the contract?"

I looked at him. "Are you crazy? I wouldn't do that for one of my own books."

"You have to do something. I pay my dues. I'm entitled to help!"

Entitlement. I've heard it all. One co-author screws another. The agent hangs on to royalty checks for a year or more, but never passes along any interest. The publisher grabs e-rights by shoving them into an obscure paragraph about foreign language reprints in Guam. They all feel they're entitled to a bigger slice of the pecuniary pie because they've worked harder than anyone else.

"You're entitled to a fair contract. You're entitled to on-time royalty checks and statements. You're entitled to a decent promo budget. Heck, you're even entitled to get paid more than twice a year. Which will never happen. But you have to do the spade work first." I shoved the contract and letters across the desk. Several pages drifted to the floor.

"I was so happy to make the sale I never...the contract looked so nice, with my name on it and everything...You don't know how long I've..."

"Sure I do. Been there, written that. Which is why I got into this biz." I tossed a card at him. With luck, the lettering wouldn't smear too much. "I got ripped off one too many times. Discovered the Union could help me level the playing field. Now when I negotiate a contract I avoid those nasty little clauses which give a year's worth of work a dollar value less than minimum wage. And I help other writers avoid the same potholes on the road to committing literature."

He stared at the card. "Then you're getting paid by the Union to help me!"

"Hold on there, scrivener. We're volunteers. I'm lucky to get reimbursed for phone calls and stamps."

He looked around my office. A dingy room with a toilet down the hall no self-respecting vulture would use, a single window with a narrow view of a brick building assembled by architecturally impaired nineteenth-century immigrants, and the gentle odors of uncollected garbage. The best attractions, however, were its low rent, paid in cash to a small furtive man on the first of every month, and its distance from my home, where several children and one husband felt it their mission from God to interrupt me every time a story took life or a deadline became imminent.

I pulled a file folder from another screeching drawer. Got to remember to bring the WD-40 tomorrow, I thought. The noise, however, drove the dingy pigeons from the windowsill.

After scanning and printing his papers, I handed Dunphy his originals. "I'll take another look," I said. "You'll hear from me. But I'm not promising anything."

Anger warred with gratitude on his face. "Those greedy encephalitic spawn of hell better pay up! Thanks for your help." He shambled out of the office. I accessed my novel again and tried to coax the muse back to my shoulder.

* * *

Tuesday morning was already hot as I climbed the three flights to my office. A well-fed elegantly clad gentleman waited outside the locked door. He flourished a business card while I pulled out my purse-sized Mace keychain.

"I'm Arthur Razewell Delahanty. Attorney for Edacity Publications. You must be Ms.," he peered at the inset window, "An Gor." Several more flakes of gold lettering drifted off the rippled glass, further reducing my name.

"No," I replied. "It's Dana Gore. But that's okay, Art. Easy mistake."

We entered and I waved him to the folding chair. He glanced at it, then stood next to my desk and snapped the card down. "I'm here regarding Mr. Dunphy's unfounded complaints in re Edacity."

I pulled out Dunphy's file. Delahanty's head craned over my arm. "Don't hover, okay, Art? Makes me nervous."

He moved away, still trying to read my notes. "Actually, the name's Arthur. Or Mr. Delahanty. I've never been called Art."

"Nor has anything your employer puts out. Let's get right to it, Art. What are you offering?"

He plunked down his tooled leather briefcase and abstracted papers. "According to the contract, Edacity owes Dunphy nothing." He patted the signature. "It's all legal and ironclad."

"Did anyone talk to Mr. Dunphy about this contract? Before he signed it with his blood, I mean."

Delahanty's nostrils curled. "I spent time with him going over various terms. An inordinate amount of time, I might add. For which he did not pay."

I totally revere the English language but don't object to ending sentences with prepositions. Especially when the "correct" way of saying it sounds uppity. So I wanted to give Art what for.

"So he signed upon your advice and direction, huh? Sounds like a conflict of interest to me."

I typed in a website and stared at the screen. "According to the database, you've been sued over twenty times. And lost. Ouch. Big time. 'Legal' and 'ironclad' might not be the best words to use, Art. Coercion, duress, misdirection, ethically challenged, those are the words which occur to me."

"You a lawyer?"

I grimaced. "Mom didn't allow such creatures in the house. And I was raised to respect my mother."

"Those contracts were different. And we didn't lose." He shuddered. "We settled. And my ethnicity has never been called into question."

"These cases don't look like they're distinguishable from Mr. Dunphy's. So what are you willing to settle upon him?"

A look of cunning flitted across Delahanty's face. "Are you empowered to negotiate binding terms for him?" He glanced around my office. "Your time must be valuable. We'd be willing to pay a substantial--" A pigeon lit on the windowsill, deposited a juicy load which hit the floor with a splat, then flew off. "A nominal amount for your services."

I smiled. "What's a nominal amount, Art?"

He quickly checked a printout. "Say, five thousand."

Seeing my face, he added, "Plus expenses, of course." I thought I heard him mutter something about a cleaning service, but I ignored it.

"Hmmm. Five K plus." My eyes wandered to the ceiling. A small red light, undiscernible by Art, stared down at me. Good. The remote camera was working. My oldest son hadn't disabled it yet this week.

"Sounds like a pittance, Art." I dropped my eyes to his face. "Sounds like an opening offer. A pretty insulting one."

"We could go as high as ten. Plus."

"What's in it for Mr. Dunphy?"

He held the printout at arm's length and puffed out his chest. He started to resemble the pigeons so much, I began to fear for the floor. "We're prepared to give Mr. Dunphy, once he signs all releases, the sum of $24,000."

I tapped the monitor. "These cases, Art, also list the judgments, or settlements, if you prefer. Twenty-four is a drop in the bucket." I punched in another website and pointed to the screen. "You guys stand to make millions. The cartoon alone will spawn a juvie movie mega-hit. I'll tell Mr. Dunphy, of course, but in my opinion that offer needs to be a lot sweeter."

He replaced the printout in the briefcase and snapped the locks. "I'll take that back to the principal. You'll hear from me."

I reported the offer to Walter, fended off his premature gratitude and returned to deconstructing the traditional cozy.

* * *

Overnight, the pigeon poop had dried to a sticky mess. I sighed and pulled paper towels, disinfectant cleanser, two resource books, a can of WD-40 and a sandwich from my purse. It took an hour to biodegrade the cracked linoleum.

Dunphy burst into my office. "Do you know what they're offering now?"

I looked up from the keyboard. "Was Lord Peter a duke, or was that his brother?"

"I don't know! I write children's books!"

I closed out and turned to Dunphy. His sparse hair was wilder than on Monday. Veins throbbed under the bluish skin on his neck. His hands shook.

"Fifty thousand! They'll give me fifty thousand dollars!" He dropped onto the chair. It rocked, but stayed upright.

I noted the amount on the file. "Who made the offer?"

"Their lawyer. Delahatty or something." His eyes closed. "I haven't made that much on all my books put together. I can quit working at the Transit Authority and write full time."

"Did he phone you?"

Dunphy opened his eyes. "No. He came to my apartment. I was just sitting down to supper." His eyes closed again in ecstasy. "Now I can afford beef. I really hate scrambled tofu."

"Soy is an excellent source of protein and calcium. It also helps ease some symptoms of menopause." I eyed Dunphy. "In your case, it couldn't hurt."

A small bubble of spit appeared in one corner of his mouth.

"Hey, Wally! Wake up! Time enough for erotic bovine dreams later. Did you sign anything?"

He sat up. "I learned my lesson, Miss Gore. Delabunny shoved papers at me, but I told him I wasn't signing anything without clearing it with you first."

"You have learned well, grasshopper. Did he say why they would pay that much?"

"My publisher is willing to pay me," he gulped, "fifty thousand dollars as a kind of a bonus."

I snorted. Money was flooding in faster than springtime backwater in a Louisiana bayou. Edacity must have wanted to avoid another lawsuit like politicians avoid clear sentences.

"Let me talk to him again. I think you can do better."

Dunphy goggled at me. "Better? Are you crazy? I'll take it!"

"Walter," I said patiently, "think. He offered twenty-four thousand yesterday afternoon. Then he offered fifty last evening. By Friday you could outstrip the Sultan of Brunei."

"I don't want to blow the deal." This from a man who couldn't be bothered running his contracts past the Union advisor.

"I won't blow it for you, Walter, I promise. Let me talk to him one more time. Then our guy will look over the releases and you'll get your money."

Walter finally agreed. As the door creaked closed behind him, I accessed my book and plunged back into teatime at the vicarage.

* * *

"He's begging for trouble," Delahanty snarled across my meager Thursday afternoon snack. "How will it look? Headlines screaming 'Children's author gouges publisher! Kiddie writer reneges on contract!' He'll never publish another Dick and Jane. Get him to sign the releases."

He waved two checks under my nose. I noticed the one bearing my name had increased by quite a sizeable sum. I waved them away. "You know what they say, Art. Any publicity's good publicity, as long as they spell his name right."

"He can't eat publicity. And you're supposed to get the best deal possible for your members," Delahanty growled. "This is it. Get him to sign. Take the checks. Then Edacity's happy, I'm happy, Wally's happy and you're happy."

"Happiness is relative, unless your relatives live next door," I said. "And he doesn't like to be called Wally, Art."

Delahanty's flush subsided. "Hot bull spit, pardon my French, it's more than reasonable. He walks away with a hundred thousand. You pocket twenty thousand. We all go our merry ways. That makes sense to you, surely."

"What makes sense is that you're hot to trot on buying off Mr. Dunphy and me. Too hot. And don't call me Shirley."

"We have to carpe diem. With juvenile books you never know how long you'll be popular. The little bast--ah, darlings have the attention span of an aged gnat."

I took the releases. They were longer than the original contract. They covered almost every possibility, including print runs on other planets.

After a moment, I looked up. "I think your offer is pretty good." Delahanty let out his breath. "I'll take this to Mr. Dunphy tonight. Let's talk tomorrow, say, ten-ish?"

"Bring Mr. Dunphy to the publisher's office," he countered. "He can sign the releases and while they're being notarized and copied, we can celebrate. Punch and donut holes all right?"

"Faboo, Art. Now let me get to work."

As soon as he left, I ate a cookie and inspiration struck. Unfortunately, it wasn't for my book, but inspiration is inspiration. I called my younger daughter, who immediately started squealing in excitement. After a few more calls, I carefully leaned back and smiled. For once, the chair didn't squeak.

* * *

Friday dawned bright and clear. The ozone index was lower, the pollen count was down and pigeon droppings were, well, dropping. Walter stuffed a donut hole in his mouth and scribbled his signature on the last page. I brushed off the powdered sugar before handing it to Delahanty. The publisher sat a mile away behind his desk and beamed at us. At least, it looked like beaming. It was hard to tell. The red glow from his eyes hindered my vision.

I swigged punch as Art handed over one check with Walter's name and six figures on it. I swallowed and said, "'If it were done when 'tis done, twere well it were done quickly.'"

Walter and Art looked at me. "What the heck does that mean?" Wally asked. A hundred thousand dollars had shifted his voice several octaves lower. Or maybe it was the beef.

I put down my plastic cup, met the publisher's glare and said, "It means let's hustle to the bank, Wally, and cash that check."

"Afraid it's no good, Miss Gore?" Art sneered. "Or anxious for your cut?"

"Saving this poor man's ranch from you, Snively Whiplash, is the only reward I need." Not my best exit line, but close.

I bustled Walter to the bank, saw the check transformed into cash, helped him open a money market account, then scooted back to the office. The faint voice of my muse could be heard above the racketing trains and belching buses.

* * *

Two weeks later, my door burst open. I quickly swung my feet off my desk. I had worn a skirt that day and didn't want anyone looking up my old address.

Delahanty started yelling before my feet hit the floor.

"We had a deal! He signed the releases! You helped him cash the check!"

"Why, Mr. Delahanty! You're so attractive when you scream."

He pounded on my desk, sending papers and puffs of dust flying. "I'll have you in court so fast your head will spin! Did you really think you could get away with it?"

"Get away with what?" I asked demurely.

"Wally, with your nefarious help, cut a deal with a cookie manufacturer. All kinds of cookies. Plain, frosted, filled, chock full 'o nuts, you name it. All chocolate! All shaped like underpants!"

I shrugged. "So? Wally likes cookies. And please remember, he doesn't like to be called Wally."

"We own that character! We own all rights!"

I pulled Walter's file from the blessedly silent drawer. Several pigeons cooed on the windowsill. Darn. Had to get something else to shoo them away. Maybe I could find a cat.

"Says here, Edacity has the rights to the character and all publications, whether print, animated, digital, Web or live action, in all languages in all media, whether now known or to be developed."

"Right! So how can he sell his character to a cookie company?"

I snapped the file shut. "He didn't."

"Did too!"

I handed a copy of Walter's newest contract to Art. "Show me where he sold the character. Or the town where the character lives. Or any pertinent detail of the character or the book."

"Underpants!" he screamed. "He sold the underpants!"

As his voice crescendoed, the pigeons flapped away in terror, leaving behind a badly soiled sill.

"The character doesn't wear underpants," I pointed out.

"That's right! That's the whole shtick! And the cookies are shaped like little Y-fronts!"

"You can't copyright a shape in literature. You ought to know that," I scolded.

"But everyone will associate the cookies with the character."

"Prove it. The character's name isn't on the cookies or the box. The book title won't be on anything. There's nothing to associate the cookies with the book. And even though my daughter and other children love the idea, Walter can't control what the kids might think."

"His endorsement is on it! The box, the cookies, the promotional literature! Slathered all over! And you put him up to it! I'm suing you, Wally, the Union, the cookie maker, the box manufacturer, the lawyer who drafted this contract..."

"I've told you for the last time." Art's mouth snapped shut at my tone. "He doesn't like to be called Wally. And I'm telling you for the first and last time. You didn't get food rights. Your contract language and your releases are specific and detailed. But you neglected to include food rights."

"It was contemplated by all parties that the rights..."

"Contemplation, shmontemplation." Boy, that was hard to say, but I managed without spitting all over Art. "A judge will take one look at the four corners and rule that if you covered everything which you did cover, you also should have put in comestibles."

"We'll eat up that hundred thousand he banked and every penny he hopes to earn from that crumby contract. I'll tie him up in court till the day he dies."

"That's the way the cookie crumbles, Art. But I suggest you take a deep breath before running to the courthouse." I pointed to the ceiling.

Art stared up blindly, then noticed the tiny red light. He looked at me.

I nodded. "From your first step into this office up to this moment, a camera has been recording every word, every offer, every threat." He looked around wildly.

"No, the camera isn't here, Art. It's at a security office." I crossed my fingers under my desk and hoped Art wasn't smart enough to figure out I couldn't afford a security firm.

"And it also has you," I continued, "on tape trying to bribe a Union official. Did you know that's a federal offense?"

His expression grew ugly. "You coerced Walter into holding out for more money. A grievance officer isn't supposed to do that. You pushed him into signing a cookie contract you knew was shaky at best. The Union will kick you out and the notorious publicity will keep every reputable publisher from touching you."

I spread out my hands. "I had Walter's full and informed consent for every step I took. Our contracts guy and the cookie lawyer cleared Wally's deal. Also, reputable publishers aren't really in your purview, Art. And like I said before, any publicity..."

He chewed his lip a while, then picked up his briefcase and slammed out.

The pigeons returned, twisting their heads back and forth before deciding the nasty loud man was gone, then started cooing again. I accessed my novel and scrolled down to where the village gossip had just had her neck wrung by an as-yet unknown, even to me, miscreant. Ah, bliss, thy name is writing.


MARY HARRIS has been a member of Sisters in Crime for seven years and, like her character Dana Gore, spent five years as a grievance officer with the National Writers Union. She's written articles and reviews for Sisters In Crime local and national newsletters and "The Outpost" magazine, as well as various other projects. Mary lives in Chicago, where she's worked as a federal judge's secretary, a courtroom deputy, and a freelance paralegal.

Copyright (c) 2001 Mary Harris