I nodded politely as I lit my pipe. Joel pulled a corn-cob from a desk drawer, borrowed some tobacco.
He puffed and nodded. “Nice nut flavor, I like this.”
“I'll part with my secret formula some day,” I said, glancing at my watch.
“I'd also started a new novel—in fact I started two more new novels. Hell, the two grand seemed to vanish and we were in debt. I got nervous, panicky. I borrowed some money from my mother; Wilma and I decided we needed a change. We went to the Florida Keys—a la Hemingway. Everything was wrong—Wilma is the bossy type without meaning to be. Our marriage was going one-sided. I was losing confidence in myself as a man, as a writer. Doc Matt Anthony straightened all that out.”
“How?”
“We met Fran and Matt in Key West. Naturally, I'd heard of him and on seeing him, well, he seemed the very personification of a writer: hearty, confident, easy-going, living well... a real pro. He did so much for me. For one thing he got me off the 'great' writer kick, showed me you have to be a hack to eat regularly. This bit about waiting for the creative mood is only for the dilettantes. He got me into the habit of writing every day, to stop looking on writing as a talent or gift, but rather as a job where you must keep producing. In desperation I'd been trying everything—pulps, confessions, quality yarns. Matt took the time to read much of my stuff, told me I had a knack for writing children's books. He was right. I've had five published with another two due shortly. I write for the 6 to 10 year old group, and since there are always new brats of that age every year, you keep selling. My goal is to have about 20 in print, and if each brings in a few hundred in royalties, why I'll practically have an annuity for life. Then I can afford to try other forms of writing.”
“Sounds like a wise idea,” I said. “But to return to Matt....”
He held up his hand as if to ward off a punch. “I know I must be boring you, Connor, but you want to get the picture of Matt and Fran. Actually it was really Fran who taught me the financial mechanics of writing. Her first husband had been an artist with a big A. Type of joker who convinces himself he's only living for his art—in his case a rather bad novel. As Fran said, art becomes an escape, the artist can't be bothered with the realities of food and rent. Fran was constantly nagging Matt to keep his expenses down. That's the reason we live in this dump—overhead can strangle a writer. Too often a writer has a good year, say he makes ten grand, starts living up to that, and paying taxes on it, only to find—as I did—that the years to come aren't good, money-wise. Poor Fran didn't have an easy life with Matt. But don't misunderstand me, I admire Matt. If he played the clown he was also a man with insight and wisdom. Off the record, things weren't going too well with Wilma and me. A thing that happens to every marriage at some time... but then I understand you're going through that now yourself.”
Wilma and her big mouth. I said casually, “We all have our little battles.”
He looked at me wisely. “Oh, no, I don't mean the little ones. Wilma and I still have those, although we're riding a hell of a big wave at the moment. No, I mean being on the verge of a break. Everything I did was wrong. I wasn't selling or even writing much. Wasn't much of a husband, either. I couldn't do a damn thing right. And Wilma is very capable, does everything efficiently.”
“I've heard Fran was the same type.
“She was, but Wilma is also good physically at so many things—a crack swimmer, rows like a man, a good fisherman. She was getting to be the man of the family while all I could raise was a bad inferiority complex. And Matt realized that. This is what he did: The four of us had chartered a boat for a few days of deep sea fishing. It was embarrassing, everybody caught fish except me. Matt and Fran reeled in amberjacks and a baby tuna, while Wilma landed a sword fish. I was a mess. Not only didn't I catch a darn thing, I lost my tackle over the side, got a sniffling cold and ran a temperature. Catching a fish became symbolic of my whole damn life. I kept a line over all the time, even at night or when the others were eating. I couldn't get a nibble. I was delirious with fever. I felt if I went ashore empty-handed it would also be the end of me, of our marriage. You must know what I mean.”
“I suppose so,” I said cautiously, wondering why I'd ever talked to Wilma.
“Matt realized how sick I was, in body and mind, kept me jacked up on booze. On the third day, as we were heading in, I was still fishless. I was the only one with a line over, and suddenly the biggest marlin in the world hit my line, almost took the rod from me. It turned out to weigh only 206 pounds, actually a small one. But to me... well! As I said I was sick, and it seemed as if the monster would jerk my arms off. Wilma and Fran wanted to help me, but Matt, who was up on the flying bridge running the boat, shouted for them to leave me alone. It was a rough sea and he kept maneuvering the cruiser to take some of the strain off my arms. Then the motor began acting up, coughing a lot. I just told myself if I lost this fish I'd try suicide—I meant it. It seemed the last straw, the final kick in the butt. The point is, the fish suddenly gave up the fight and I managed to reel him in. Can you believe landing that marlin made a new man out of me?”
“Since I've never caught anything over two pounds, it sounds like a big deal,” I said, wondering why I was sitting there, wasting my time.
“It gave me fresh confidence, new respect from Wilma. Why I almost swung on Matt for clumsily cutting the marlin's head with the hook as he helped bring it aboard. Later he told me the truth: up on the bridge he had deliberately made the motor backfire as he pumped slugs into the monster with a hunting rifle he kept handy. That's the kind of true friend Matt is.”
“Did you see him often?”
“They traveled a lot—West Indies, Mexico, Hollywood but we kept in touch. When he bought the End Harbor place, we went out for a New Year's party, and this summer Matt was kind enough to ask us out when Wilma had her vacation.”
“Exactly what happened out there the other day?” I asked, going through the motions again.
Joel noisily sucked on his corncob, lit it again. “Wilma has told you about all I know. Fran nagged Matt a lot. Not only about drinking and his heart, but actually old Matt never followed his own advice. She wanted to save a little but he seems to think hell go on turning out saleable books forever. In his own way Matt considers himself a genius, a great talent that will never dry up. As to what happened that horrible day, what can I add to what Wilma has told you?”
“You said something about Matt fooling you on the time. What was that?”
“It was a lousy thing, to involve me. Well, after he and Fran had it out, Wilma and I went up to our room. I'm starting a book series about seven-year-old twins as they visit various countries. I usually discuss the plots with Wilma because she has a lot of common sense. We heard Matt drive away with Prof. Brown. About a half-hour later Fran called up she was going fishing. Wilma and I came down, had a few belts as we took a sun bath on the lawn. I fooled around with the poodle for a time, had him chasing a ball. Anyway, Wilma and I dozed off. I awoke to find Matt playing with the dog. He said it was a quarter to three. I fell off again and then Wilma shook me awake to say it was half past three and time for a swim. Actually the sonofabitch had tricked us, according to his confession. He'd already killed Fran and was setting up an alibi. Neither Wilma or I had a watch on and it turned out instead of three quarters of an hour pasting between the time I awoke again, it only had been five minutes. Soon as I went to sleep again, Matt had got Wilma awake, told her it was three-thirty. You see, Matt's very smart about such things, has a knowledge of all criminal tricks.”