The Basement Read Online Free PDF Page A

girl's body parts are hidden in the book. Sales boom. The last scene is of him signing copies of his novel - called The Bestseller - in a book shop. A young wannabee writer asks him how to write a Bestseller. “Easy,” says the writer, “you just have to kill for it....”
    It's perfect. I get dressed and rush down to a print shop on 38th Street and get a dozen copies made, then back in the apartment I put them in envelopes addressed to studio execs, agents and producers in LA. I get a sudden brainwave, the movie would be perfect for Brian DePalma, it's just his sort of thing. I love Body Double, it's one of my all-time favourites. I rip one of the envelopes open and take out the synopsis, then hurriedly type out a personal letter - Dear Mr DePalma, you don't know me but... - and sign it with a flourish. I post the LA letters first, then catch a cab down to Fifth Avenue. His apartment is at number 25, I've dropped stuff off there before, even got a personal reply once. He was really nice, explained that he was too busy to take on another project and gave me the names of a couple of studios to try. I followed his advice, but of course I hit the secretarial wall straight away. This time it's going to be different. He's going to love The Bestseller, I know he is.
    It's only when I get out of the cab that I realise that I'm not really dressed for visiting a prestigious Fifth Avenue address - I was so excited about the story that I just pulled on the first clothes I found, faded blue jeans, an old sweatshirt and a pea coat, and I didn't bother shaving or showering. The doorman looks at me like I'm a wad of chewing gum stuck to the bottom of his shoe. "Whaddya want? he snarls.
    I give him the boyish smile and hold up the envelope. “I'm delivering this for Mr DePalma,” I say.
    “Ya don't look like a fucking mailman,” he says.
    I nod and widen the smile. “It's personal,” I say.
    He holds out his hand. The nails are bitten to the quick and ingrained with dirt. Before he can take the envelope I pull it back. There's a crafty look in his eyes and I don't trust him. “If it's all the same to you, I'd rather put it in his mailbox,” I say.
    “You can't. All the mail has to go through me.” He makes another attempt to grab the envelope,
    but he's too slow, too clumsy.
    “Surely I can put it in his box?”
    “No. Only the mailman has the key.”
    “Come on, are you telling me that you can't open it?”
    He folds his arms across his chest. He looks like a former boxer, a nose thickened by too many punches and a large chin that he juts forward as he speaks. “It's me or nothing,” he growls.
    “Okay, so what if I take it up to him?” I say, even though I know he's not going to let me inside his precious lobby.
    He shakes his head. “No. No way.” He holds out his hand.
    I'm not sure what to do. I just know that he's not going to pass it on to DePalma. As soon as he disappears inside, the envelope is going to go straight into the trash can. I'm fucked. I know it and he knows it, but I don't have any choice. I give it to him. He weighs it in his huge hand like it was a piece of bad meat. “I'll make sure he gets it,” he says with a savage grin.
    Yeah, right, I think, but I smile and say thanks. Thanks a lot.
    I walk all the way back to my apartment. I'm not angry, I'm cold. Like ice. I'm determined to get my own back on the doorman, but I'll do it calmly, clinically. Revenge is a dish best served cold. It's an old saying, but it's true.
    When I get back I sit down at my typewriter and write a letter to Brian DePalma, telling him what happened. I redo it several times, making sure that it's just right, then I put it into an envelope with another copy of the synopsis. I go down to the Post Office and send it by registered mail.
    * * *
    The questions come thick and fast, but you don't answer any of them. It's true what they say:
    knowledge is power. And it's important that she realises that any power she once had has