David Morrell - Black Evening

"What? You're canceling my – " Eric felt his heart skip.

"Hey, not just your column. Everything. The Village Mind is folding. It's kaput. Bankrupt. Hell, why beat around the bush? It's broke."

His editor's clichés had always bothered Eric, but now he felt too stunned to be offended. "Broke?" Terror flooded through him.

"Absolutely busted. See, the IRS won't let me write the magazine off. They insist it's a tax dodge, not a business."

"Fascists!"

"To be honest, Eric, they're right. It is a tax dodge. You should see the way I juggle my accounts."

Now Eric was completely certain he'd gone insane. He couldn't actually be hearing this. The Village Mind a fraud, a con game? "You can't be serious!"

"Hey, look, don't take this hard, huh? Nothing personal. It's business. You can find another magazine. Got to run, pal. See you sometime."

Eric heard the sudden drone of the dial tone. Its dull monotony amplified inside his head. His stomach churned. The System. Once again, the System had attacked him. Was there nothing sacred, even Art?

He dropped the phone back on its cradle. Hopeless, he rubbed his throbbing forehead. If he didn't get his check tomorrow, his phone would be disconnected. He'd be dragged from his apartment. The police would find his starved emaciated body in the gutter. Either that or – Eric cringed – he'd have to find a steady – here he swallowed with great difficulty – job.

He panicked. Could he borrow money from his friends? He heard their scornful laughter. Could he beg more money from his mother? He imagined her disowning him.

It wasn't fair! He'd pledged his life to Art, and he was starving while those hacks churned out their trashy bestsellers and were millionaires! There wasn't any justice!

A thought gleamed. An idea clicked into place. A trashy bestseller? Something those hacks churned out? Well, in his kitchen, waiting on the counter, was a hideous contraption that a while ago had churned like crazy.

That horrific word again. Like crazy? Yes, and he was crazy to believe that what had happened in his drunken fit was more than an illusion.

Better see a shrink, he told himself.

And how am I supposed to pay him?

Totally discouraged, Eric tottered toward the Scotch in the kitchen. Might as well get blotto. Nothing else will help.

He stared at the grotesque typewriter and the words on the paper. Although the letters were now blurred by alcohol, they nonetheless were readable, and more important, they seemed actual. He swigged more Scotch, tapping at keys in stupefaction, randomly, no longer startled when the gushy words made sense. It was a sign of his insanity, he told himself, that he could stand here at this kitchen counter, hitting any keys he wanted, and not be surprised by the result. No matter what the cause or explanation, he apparently was automatically composing the outrageous saga of the passions and perversions of the folks in Fletcher's Cove.

"Yes, Johnny," Eric told the television personality and smiled with humble candor. " Fletcher's Cove burst out of me in one enormous flash of inspiration. Frankly the experience was scary. I'd been waiting all my life to tell that story, but I wasn't sure I had the talent. Then one day I took a chance. I sat down at my faithful battered typewriter. I bought it in a junk shop, Johnny. That's how poor I was. And Fate or Luck or something was on my side for a change. My fingers seemed to dance across the keys. The story leapt out from me toward the page. A day doesn't go by that I don't thank the Lord for how He's blessed me."

Johnny tapped a pencil on his desk with practiced ease. The studio lights blazed. Eric sweated underneath his thousand-dollar sharkskin suit. His two-hundred-dollar designer haircut felt stiff from hairspray. In the glare, he squinted but couldn't see the audience, although he sensed their firm approval of his rags-to-riches wonderful success. America was validated. One day, there'd be a shrine to honor its most cherished saint: Horatio Alger.

"Eric, you're too modest. You're not just our country's most admired novelist. You're also a respected critic, not to mention a short story of yours won a prestigious literary prize."

Prestigious? Eric inwardly frowned. Hey, be careful, Johnny. With a word that big, you'll lose our audience. I've got a book to sell.

"Yes," Eric said, admiring his host's sophisticated light-gray hair. "The heyday of the Village Mind . The good old days in Greenwich Village. That's a disadvantage of success. I miss the gang down at Washington Square. I miss the coffee houses and the nights when we'd get together, reading stories to each other, testing new ideas, talking till after dawn."

Like hell I miss them, Eric thought. That dump I lived in. That fat-assed Simmons. He can have his cockroach colony and those winos on the stairs. The Village Mind ? A more descriptive title would have been the Village Idiot . And literary prize? The Subway Press awarded prizes every month. Sure, with the prizes and a quarter, you could buy a cup of coffee.

"You'll admit success has its advantages," Johnny said.

Eric shrugged disarmingly "A few more creature comforts."

"You're a wealthy man."

You bet I'm wealthy, Eric thought. Two million bucks for the hardback. Four million for the paperback. Two million for the movie, and another million from the book club. Then the British rights, the other foreign rights in twenty countries. Fifteen million was the total. Ten percent went to his agent. Five percent to his publicity director. After that, the IRS held out its hand. But Eric had been clever. Oil and cattle, real estate – he coveted tax shelters. His trips to Europe he wrote off as research. He'd incorporated. His estate, his jet, his yacht, he wrote off as expenses. After all, a man in his position needed privacy to write, to earn more money for the government. After taking advantage of every tax dodge he could find, he pocketed nine million. Not bad for a forty-buck investment, although to hedge against inflation Eric wished he'd found a way to keep a few more million. Well, I can't complain.

"But Johnny, money isn't everything. Oh, sure, if someone wants to give it to me, I won't throw the money in the Hudson River." Eric laughed and heard the audience respond in kind. Their laughter was good-natured. You can bet they wouldn't turn down money either. "No, the thing is, Johnny, the reward I most enjoy comes when I read the letters from my fans. The pleasure they've received from Fletcher's Cove is more important than material success. It's what this business is about. The reading public."

Eric paused. The interview had gone too smoothly. Smoothness didn't sell his book. What people wanted was a controversy.

Beneath the blazing lights, his underarms sweated in profusion. He feared he'd stain his sharkskin suit and ruin it, but then he realized he could always buy another one.

"I know what Truman Capote says, that Fletcher's Cove is hardly writing – it's mere typing. But he's used that comment several times before, and if you want to know what I think, he's done several other things too many times before."

The audience began to laugh, but this time cruelly.

"Johnny, I'm still waiting for that novel he keeps promising. I'm glad I didn't hold my breath."

The audience laughed more derisively. If Truman had been present, they'd have stoned him.

"To be honest, Johnny, I think Truman's lost his touch with that great readership out there. The middle of America. I've tasted modern fiction, and it makes me gag. What people want are bulging stories filled with glamour, romance, action, and suspense. The kind of thing Dickens wrote."