"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 farther. When the book is published, everyone can read it."
"Totally fantastic," Eric's agent said. His name was Jeffrey Amgott. 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. "Perfect. What you said about Capote – guaranteed to sell another hundred thousand copies."
"I figured," Eric said. Outside the studio, he climbed in the limousine. "But you don't look happy."
The Carson show was taped in the late afternoon, but the smog was so thick it looked like twilight.
"We've got problems," Jeffrey said.
"I don't see what. Here, have a drink to calm your nerves."
"And wreck my stomach? Thanks, but no thanks. Listen, I've been talking to your business manager."
"I hear it coming. You both worry too damn much."
"But 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 nine million bucks. Let me live a little."
"No, you don't."
Eric stared. "I beg your pardon."
"You haven't got nine million dollars. All those trips to Europe. That beach house here in Malibu, the place in Bimini."
"I've got investments. Oil and cattle."
"The wells went dry. The cattle died from hoof-and-mouth disease."
"You're kidding me."
"My stomach isn't kidding. You've got mortgages on those estates. Your Ferrari isn't paid for. The Lear jet isn't paid for, either. You're flat broke."
"I've been extravagant, I grant you."
Jeffrey gaped. "Extravagant? Extravagant? You've lost your mind is what you've done."
"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 offering three 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 problem then? Three million bucks will pay my bills."
"But where the hell's the book? You don't get any money if you don't deliver the manuscript."
"I'm working on it."
Jeffrey moaned. "Dear God, you mean it isn't finished yet? I asked you. No, I pleaded with you. Please stop partying. Get busy. Write the book, and then have all the parties you want. What is it? 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? 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, Jeffrey. Anyway, if I'm a little late, it doesn't matter. I'm worth money to the publisher. He'll extend the deadline."
"Damn it, you don't listen. Everything depends on timing. The new hardback's been announced. It should have been delivered and edited months ago. The release of the paperback of Fletcher's Cove is tied to it. The stores are expecting both books. The printer's waiting. The publicity's set to start. If you don't deliver, the publisher will think you've made a fool of him. You'll lose your media spots. The book club will get angry, not to mention your foreign publishers who've announced the new book in their catalogues. They're depending on you. Eric, you don't understand. Big business. You don't disappoint big business."
"Not to worry." Eric smiled to reassure him. "Everything's taken care of. Robert Evans invited me to a party tonight, but afterward, I'll get to work."
"God help you, Eric. Hit those keys, man. Hit those keys."
The Lear jet soared from LAX. Above the city, Eric peered down toward the grids of streetlights and gleaming freeways in the darkness.
Might as well get started, he decided with reluctance. The cocaine he'd snorted on the way to the airport gave him energy.
As the engine's muffled roar came through the fuselage, he reached inside a cabinet and lifted out the enormous typewriter. He took it everywhere with him, afraid that something might happen to it if it was unattended.
Struggling, he 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 cockpit. 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 happened to select. After all, it didn't make a difference what he typed. The strange machine did the composing. At the 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 wasn't engaged, the work was even less appealing. To be absolutely honest, Eric thought, I should have been a prince.
He'd put off typing Parson's Grove as long as possible. The money came so easily he didn't want to suffer even the one week he'd calculated would be necessary to complete the manuscript.
But Jeffrey had alarmed him. There's no money? Then I'd better go back to the gold mine. The goose that laid the golden egg. Or what was it a writer's helper used to be called? Amanuensis. 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 Lear jet, en route to New York and the Today show. This can't be really happening.
It was, though. And if Eric 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 Dom Perignon. He selected a cassette of Halloween and put it in his VCR. 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 Dom Perignon. Halloween ended. He watched Alien and an arousing woman in her underwear who'd trapped herself inside a shuttle with a monster. Somewhere over Indiana – Eric later calculated where and when it happened – he glanced at a sheet of paper he'd just typed and gasped when he discovered that the prose was total nonsense.