Unknown, p.24
Unknown, page 24
"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 said and 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 glamor, romance, action, and suspense. The kind of thing Dickens wrote."
The audience exploded with approval.
"Eric," Johnny said, "you mentioned Dickens. But a different writer comes to mind. A man whose work was popular back in the fifties.
Winston Davis. If I hadn't known that you wrote Fletcher's Cove, I'd have sworn it was something new by Davis. But of course, that isn't possible. The man is dead-a tragic boating accident when he was only forty-eight. Just off Long Island, I believe."
"I'm flattered you thought of him," Eric said." In fact, you're not the only reader who's noticed the comparison. He's an example of the kind of author I admire. His enormous love of character and plot.
Those small towns in New England he immortalized. The richness of his prose. I've studied everything Davis wrote. I'm trying to continue his tradition. People want true, honest, human stories."
Eric thought what Winston Davis wrote was dreadful. Wretched.
He hadn't even heard of Winston Davis till fans began comparing his book with Davis's. Puzzled, he'd gone to the New York Public Library and squirmed with keen discomfort as he'd tried to struggle through a half dozen books by Davis. He couldn't finish any of them. Tasteless dreck.
Mind-numbing trash. The prose was deadening, but Eric recognized it.
The comparison was valid. Fletcher's Cove was like a book by Winston Davis. Eric had been frowning as he'd left the Public Library.
He'd felt that apprehensive tingle again. Despite their manifold appearance throughout Fletcher's Cove, he'd never like coincidences.
"One last question," Johnny said." Your fans are anxious for another novel. Can you tell us what the new one's about?"
"I'd like to, but I'm superstitious, Johnny. I'm afraid to talk about a work while it's in progress. I can tell you this, though." Eric glanced around suspiciously as if he feared that spies from rival publishers were lurking in the studio. He shrugged and laughed." I guess I can say it. After all who'd steal a title after several million people heard me stake a claim to it. The new book is called Parson's Grove."
He heard a sigh of rapture from the audience." It takes place in a small town in Vermont, and-well, I'd better not go any further. When the book is published, everyone can read it."
"Totally fantastic," his agent said. His name was Jason Epstein.
He was in his thirties, but his hair was gray and thin from worry. He frowned constantly. His stomach gave him trouble, and his motions were so hurried that he seemed to be on speed." Fantastic. What you said about Capote-guaranteed to sell another hundred thousand copies of your book."
"I figured," he said. Outside the studio, he climbed in the limousine and waited for his agent." Jason, you're not happy, though."
The chauffeur drove them through the evening fog in Burbank.
"We've got problems," Jason agreed.
"I don't see what. Here, have a drink to calm your nerves."
"And wreck my stomach? Thanks, but no thanks. Eric, listen to me. I've been talking to your business manager."
"I hear it coming. You both worry too damn much."
"But Eric, you've been spending money like you're printing it.
That jet, that yacht, that big estate. You can't afford them."
"Hey, I've got five million bucks. Let me live a little."
"No, you don't."
Eric stared." I beg your pardon."
"No, you haven't got five million dollars. All those trips to Europe.
And that beach house here in Malibu, the place in Bimini."
"I've got investments. Oil and cattle."
"But the wells went dry. The cattle died from hoof-and-mouth disease."
" You're kidding me."
"My stomach isn't kidding. Eric, you've got mortgages on those estates.
That fifty-thousand-buck Ferrari-it's not paid for. And the Learjet isn't paid for either. You're flat broke."
"All right, I've been extravagant, I'll grant you."
Jason gaped." Extravagant?" he said." Extravagant? You've lost your mind is what you've done."
" Hey, you're my agent. Make another deal for me."
"I did already. What's the matter with you? Have you lost your memory with your mind? A week from now, your publisher expects a brand new book from you. He's got two million dollars for the hardback rights. I let him have the book. He lets me have the money.
That's the way the contract was arranged. Have you forgotten?"
"What's the matter then? Two million bucks will pay my bills."
"But Eric, where's the book? You don't get any 'money if you don't deliver that new book."
" I'm working on it."
Jason moaned." Dear God, you mean it isn't finished yet? I asked you, Eric. No, I pleaded with you. Please stop partying. Get busy.
Write the book, and then have all the parties you want. What is it, Eric? All those women, did they sap your strength, your brains, or what?"
" You'll have the book a week from now."
"Oh, Eric, I wish I had your confidence. You think writing's like turning on a tap? Hey, it's work. Suppose you get a block. Suppose you get the flu or something. How can anybody write a novel in a week?"
"You'll have the book. I promise, Jason. Anyway, if I'm a little late, it doesn't matter. I'm worth money to the publisher. He'll just extend the deadline."
"Eric, you don't listen. Everything depends on timing. The publicity is set to start. The printer's ready, waiting. If you don't deliver, the publisher will think you've made a fool of him. The movie tie-in will collapse. The book club will get angry. They're depending on you, … 4.4..4.., Eric, you don't understand. Big business. You don't disappoint big business."
"Not to worry, Jason." Eric smiled to reassure him." Everything's taken care of. I intend to start tonight."
" God help you, Eric. I-lit those keys, man. Hit those keys."
The Lear soared away from L.A. International. Above the city, Eric peered down toward the grids of streetlights and gleaming freeways in the darkness. Glancing west toward the ocean's rim that he was leaving, he saw a hint of crimson on the far horizon.
Might as well get started, he decided with reluctance.
As the engine's muffled roar came through the fuselage, he reached inside a cabinet and lifted the enormous grotesque typewriter. He took it everywhere with him, afraid of fire or theft if it was unattended.
Struggling, Eric set it on a table. He'd given orders to the pilot not to come back to the passenger compartment. A thick bulkhead separated Eric from the pilot. Here, as at his mansion up the Hudson, Eric did his typing in strict secrecy.
The work was boring, really. Toward the end of Fletcher's Cove, he hadn't even faced the keyboard. He'd watched a week of television while he let his fingers tap whatever letters they by chance selected.
After all, it didn't make a difference what he typed. The strange machine did the composing. At the very end of every television program, he'd read the last page the machine had typed, hoping to see The End And one day, finally, those closing words appeared before him.
After the success of Fletcher's Cove, he'd started typing again.
He'd read the title Parson's Grove and worked patiently for twenty pages. Unenthusiastically. What he'd learned from his experience was that he'd never liked writing, that instead he liked to talk about it and be called a writer, but the pain of work did not appeal to him. And this way, when his mind was not engaged, the work was even less appealing. To be absolutely honest, he thought, I should have been a prince.
He'd put off typing Parson's Grove as long as possible. The money came so easily Eric didn't want to suffer even the one week he'd calculated would be necessary to complete the manuscript.
But Jason had alarmed him. There's no money? Then I'd better go back to the gold mine for some more. The goose that laid the golden egg. Or what was it a writer's helper once was called?
Amaneunsis. Sure, that's what I'll call you, Eric told his weird machine. From now on, you'll be my amanuensis. He couldn't believe he was actually a millionaire-at least on paper-flying in his own Learjet, enroute to New York, the Today show, the Tomorrow show, and then Good Moming, America. This can't be really happening.
It was, though. And if he wanted to continue his fine life, he'd better type like hell for one week to produce his second book.
The jet streaked through the night. He shoved a sheet of paper into his amanuensis. Bored, he sipped a glass of bourbon. He selected a cassette of Halloween and put it in his Beta player. Watching television where some kid stabbed his big sister, Eric started typing.
Chapter Three… Ramona felt a rapture. She had never known such pleasure. Not her husband, not her lover, had produced such ecstasy within her. Yes, the milkman…
Eric yawned. He watched a nut escape from an asylum. He watched some crazy doctor try to find the nut. A babysitter screamed a lot. The nut got killed a half dozen times but still survived because apparently he was the boogey man.
Without once looking at the keyboard, Eric typed. The stack of pages grew beside him. He finished drinking his fifth glass of bourbon.
Halloween ended. He watched Alien and an arousing woman in her underwear who'd trapped herself inside a shuttle with a monster.
Somewhere over Colorado-Eric later calculated where and when it happened-he glanced at a sheet of paper he'd just typed and gasped when he discovered the prose was totally nonsensical.
He fumbled through the stack of paper, realizing that for half an hour he'd been typing gibberish.
He paled. He gaped. He nearly vomited.
"Good God, what's happened?"
He typed madly, Little Bo Peep has lost her sheep.
Those words were what he read.
He typed, The quick brown fox.
And that was what he read.
He scrambled at the keyboard, and the scramble faced him on the paper.
By the time he reached New York's La Guardia, he had a two-inch stack of frantic gibberish beside him, and, to make things worse, the typewriter abruptly jammed. He heard a nauseating crunch inside it, and the keys froze solidly. He couldn't make them manufacture even gibberish. It's got a block, he thought and moaned. Dear God, it's broken, busted, wrecked.
We both are.
He tried slamming it to free the keys, but all he did was hurt his hands. He suddenly feared he'd break more parts inside it. Drunkenly, he set a blanket over it and struggled from the jet to put it in the limousine that waited for him. He wasn't due at the television interviews till tomorrow. As the sun glared blindingly on New York, he rubbed his haggard whisker-stubbled face and in panic told the chauffeur, "Take me to Manhattan. Find a shop that fixes typewriters."
The errand took two hours through stalled trucks, accidents, ' and detours. Finally, the limousine double-parked on Fifty-Second Street, and he stumbled with his burden toward a store with Olivettis in the window.
"I can't fix this," the young serviceman informed him.
Eric moaned." You've got to."
"See this brace inside. It's cracked. I don't have any parts for something strange like this." The serviceman was horrified by the sheer ugliness of the machine." I'd have to weld the brace. But buddy, look, a piece of junk this old, it's like a worn-out shirt. You patch an elbow, and the shirt tears at the patch. You patch the new hole, and the shirt tears at the new patch. When you're through, you haven't got a shirt. You've just got patches. If I weld this brace, the heat'll weaken this old metal, and the brace'll crack in other places. You'll keep coming back till you've got more welds than metal. Anyway, a weird design like this, I wouldn't want to fool with it. Believe me, buddy, I don't understand this thing. You'd better find the guy who built it.
Maybe he can fix it. Maybe he's got extra parts. Say, don't I know you?"
Eric frowned." I beg your pardon?"
" Aren't you famous? Weren't you on the Carson show?"
"No, you're mistaken," Eric told him furtively. He glanced down at his eighteen-karat Rolex watch and saw it was almost noon. Good God, he'd lost the morning." I've got to hurry."
Eric grabbed the broken typewriter and tottered from the building toward the limousine. The traffic's blare unnerved him.
"Greenwich Village," he blurted to the bored chauffeur." As fast as you can get there."
" In this traffic? Sir, it's noon. The rush hour."
His stomach burned. He trembled, sweating. When the driver reached the Village, Eric gave directions in a frenzy. He kept glancing at his watch. At almost twenty after one, he had a sudden fearful thought. Oh, God, suppose the place is closed. Suppose the old guy's dead or out of business.
He cringed. But then he squinted through the windshield, seeing the dusty windows of the junk shop down the street. He scrambled from the limousine before it completely stopped. He grabbed the massive typewriter, and though adrenaline spurred him, his knees wobbled as he fumbled at the creaky junk shop door and lurched inside the dingy musty narrow shadowed room.
The old guy stood exactly where he'd been the last time Eric walked inside here: hunched across a battered desk, a quarter-inch of cigarette between his yellowed fingers, scowling at a racing form. He even wore the same frayed sweater with the buttons missing. Cobweb hair, and sallow face.
The old man peered up from the racing form." All sales are final.
Can't you read the sign?"
Off balance from his burden, he gaped in disbeliel "You still remember me?"
"You bet I do. I can't forget that piece of trash. I told you I don't take returns."
"But that's not why I'm here."
"Then why'd you bring that damn thing back? Good God, it's ugly. I can't stand to look at it."
"It's broken."
"Yeah, it figures."
"I can't get it fixed. The serviceman won't touch it. He's afraid he'll break it even more."
"So throw it in the garbage. Sell it as scrap metal. Sure, it weighs enough. You'll maybe get a couple of dollars."
"But I like it!"
"I don't know." The old man shook his head." Some people's taste. I "The serviceman suggested the guy who built it might know how to fix it."
"And if cows had wings "Look, tell me where you got it!"
"How much is the information worth to you?"
"A hundred bucks!"
The old man straightened." I won't take a check."
"In cash! For God's sake, hurry!"
"Where's the money?"
The old man took several hours. Eric paced and smoked and sweated.
Finally the old man groaned up from his basement with some scribbles on a scrap of paper.
"An estate," the old man said." Out on Long Island. Some guy died. He drowned, I think. Let's see." The old man struggled to decipher what he'd scrawled across the scrap of paper." Yeah, his name was Winston Davis."
Eric clutched the battered desk; his stomach dropped; his heart skipped several beats." No, that can't be."
"You mean you know this guy?" the old man said." This Winston Davis."
Eric tasted dust." I've heard of him. He was a novelist." His voice sounded hoarse.
"I hope he didn't try to write his novels on that thing. It's like I told you when you bought it. I tried every way I knew to make them keep it. But the owners sold the dead guy's stuff in one big lump. They wouldn't split the package. Everything or nothing."
"On Long Island?"
"The address is on this paper."
Eric grabbed it, frantically picked up the heavy broken typewriter, and stumbled toward the door.
"Say, don't I know your face?" the old man asked behind him.
"Weren't you on the Carson show last night?"
The sun had almost set as Eric found his destination. All the way across Long Island, he'd trembled fearfully. He realized now why so many readers had compared his work with that of Winston Davis.
Davis once had owned this same machine. He'd typed his novels on it.
The machine had done the actual composing. That's why Eric's work and Davis's were similar. Their novels had the same creator.
Just as Eric kept the secret, so had Davis, evidently never even telling his close friends or his family. When Davis died, the family had guessed that this old typewriter was nothing more than junk, and they'd sold it with some other junk around the house. If they'd known about the secret, surely they'd have kept this golden goose, this gold mine.
But it wasn't any gold mine now. It was a hunk of junk, a broken hulk of bolts and levers.
