I met David Thompson exactly once. I didn’t even know he was David Thompson – I mean THE David Thompson. He was just the guy I ended up sitting next to in the basement of some German restaurant at Bouchercon in Indy last fall. We’d both ordered the wiener schnitzel and were laughing a bit when the waiter plopped down these giant Frisbees of breaded veal.
I was a crime genre newbie – hell, I still am. I’d only recently signed on with Stacia Decker at Donald Maass, and she told me I should get myself down to Bouchercon and meet some folks. It was my first night in town and I didn’t know anybody – felt a little out of my depth, frankly. And everybody else knew everybody else and they were all chatting away, and this David introduced himself saying “he worked at a bookstore down in Houston.” Cool by me, I was happy to have anyone to talk to. So we talked a little about my book and he was very complimentary, even told me I should plan on coming down to Houston to do a reading once I got a deal. So, in about 15 minutes, I’d gone from not knowing anybody to having this guy ask me to come down and do a reading for a book I’d just signed with an agent and hadn’t even had a nibble on.
By the end of dinner, I knew lots of folks, mostly because David kept making sure I got introduced to everybody and worked into conversations. It was only later, at the bar back at the hotel, that Stacia told me who he was. Jesus. A big shot. Sure didn’t act like one.
I was looking forward to seeing him in San Francisco this year. Figured I owed him a drink at least.
Fuck. Just fuck.