Fairlane Books filed for bankruptcy, still owing the advance for Harrington’s latest Killstar opus and most of the royalties for the previous six.
“This,” said Damon, when Helen phoned him the news, “is where I came in.”
In point of fact, he was growing heartily sick of Desmond Killstar and his never-ending battles against the evil mutant hordes of the Blighted Earth, and had been at a loss as to which new or revived menace to pit him against in #8.
“We’ll sue the bastards for whatever we can salvage,” Helen promised him. “But for the good news: Julie Kriegman is the new science fiction editor at Summit, and she said she’d like to see a new fantasy-adventure series from you — something on the lines of Killstar, but with a touch of myths and sorcery. She thought the series ought to center around a strong female character — an enchantress, or maybe a swordswoman.”
“How about a little of both?” Harrington suggested, glancing at the first draft of Killstar #8. “I think I can show her something in a few weeks. Who’s this Kriegman woman, and why is she such a fan of mine?”
“Christ, I thought you knew her. She says she knows you and Trevor from way back. She remembers that you drink Bloody Marys.”
Death’s Dark Mistress, the first of the Krystel Firewind series, was good for a quick five grand advance and a contract for two more over the next year. The paperback’s cover was a real eye-catcher, displaying Krystel Firewind astride her flying dragon and brandishing her enchanted broadsword at a horde of evil dwarves. That the artist had chosen to portray her nude except for a few certainly uncomfortable bits of baubles, while Harrington had described her as wearing plate armor for this particular battle, seemed a minor quibble. Damon was less pleased with the cover blurb that proclaimed him “America’s Michael Moorcock!”
But Summit paid promptly.
Trevor Nordgren was Guest of Honor at Cajun Con VII in New Orleans in 1979, and Harrington (he later learned it was at Trevor’s suggestion) was Master of Ceremonies. It was one of those annual regional conventions that normally draw three to five hundred fans, but this year over a thousand came to see Trevor Nordgren.
The film of The Sending had already grossed over $40 million, and Max de Lawrence was rumored to have purchased film rights to The Rending for an even million. Shaftesbury had outbid McGinnis & Parry, paying out $500,000 for hardcover rights to Nordgren’s latest, The Etching, and Warwick Books was paying a record $2 million for a package deal that gave them paperback rights to The Etching, Nordgren’s next novel, and a series of five paperback reissues of his earlier work.
Nordgren was tied up with a barrage of newspaper and television interviews when Harrington checked into the Monteleone, but by late afternoon he phoned Damon to meet him in the lobby for a quick look at the French Quarter. Harrington was just out of the shower, and by the time he reached the lobby, Nordgren had been cornered by a mob of arriving fans. He was busily signing books, and for every one he handed back, two more were thrust toward him. He saw Damon, waved, and made a quick escape.
They fled to Bourbon Street and ducked into the Old Absinthe House, where they found seats at the hollow square bar. Nordgren ordered two Sazeracs. “Always wanted to try one. Used to be made with bourbon and absinthe, or brandy and absinthe, or rye and absinthe — anyway, it was made with absinthe. Now they use Pernod or Herbsaint or something instead of absinthe. Seems like they still ought to use absinthe in the Old Absinthe House.” Harrington watched with interest the bartender’s intricate preparation. “Thought they were going to eat you alive back there in the lobby.”
“Hell, let them have their fun. They pay the bills — they and a few million who stay at home.”
Nordgren sipped the dark red cocktail that filled the lower part of a highball glass. “Hey, not bad. Beats a Manhattan. Let’s have two more — these’ll be gone by the time the next round’s ready. So tell me, Damon — how you been?”
“Things are going pretty well. Summit has accepted Swords of Red Vengeance, and I’m hard at work on a third.”
“You’re too good a writer to waste your energy on that sort of stuff.”
“Pays the bills.” Damon swallowed his Sazerac before he reminded Trevor that not all writers were overnight millionaires. “So what’s after The Etching?”
Nordgren was already on his second Sazerac. “This one’s called The Bending. No — just kidding! Christ, these little devils have a kick to them. Don’t know what they’ll want me to title it. It’s about a naive young American secretary who marries an older Englishman whose previous wife was lost when their yacht sank. They return to his vast estate, where the housekeeper makes life miserable for her because she’s obsessed with her worship of the previous wife, and…”
“Was her name Rebecca?”
“Damn! You mean somebody beat me to the idea? Well, back to square one. Let’s have another of these and go grab a quick bite.”
“My round, I believe.”
“Forget it — my treat. You can buy us dinner.”
“Then how about a po’ boy?”
“Seriously — I’d like that. Not really very hungry, but I know I’ve got to keep something in my stomach, or I’ll be dead before the con is half over.”
At a hole-in-the-wall sandwich shop they picked up a couple meatball po’ boys to go. Harrington wanted to try the red beans and rice, but Nordgren was in a hurry to get back to the Monteleone. Fans spotted Nordgren as they entered the hotel, but they caught an elevator just in time and retreated to Trevor’s room, where he ordered a dozen bottles of Dixie beer.
Nordgren managed half his sandwich by the time room service brought the beer. “Want the rest of this, Damon? I’m not all that hungry.”
“Sure!” Harrington’s last meal had been plastic chicken on the flight from Los Angeles. “Say, you’re losing weight, aren’t you?”
“My special diet plan.” Nordgren unlocked his suitcase and dug out a chamois wallet, from which he produced a polished slab of agate and a plastic bag of cocaine. “Care for a little toot before we meet the masses?”
“For sure!” Damon said through a mouthful of sandwich. “Hey, I brought along a little Columbian for the weekend. Want me to run get it?”
“Got some Thai stick in the suitcase.” Trevor was sifting coke onto the agate. “Take a look at these boulders, man! This shit has not been stepped on.”
“Nice work if you can get it.”
Nordgren cut lines with a silver razor blade and handed the matching tooter to Harrington. “Here. Courtesy of all those hot-blooded little fans out there, standing in line to buy the next bestselling thriller from that master of chills — yours truly, Trev the Ripper.”
Trevor did look a good deal thinner, Damon thought, and he seemed to have abandoned the rock star look. His hair was trimmed, and he wore an expensive-looking silk sport coat over an open-collared shirt. Put on the designer sunglasses, and welcome to Miami. Wealth evidently agreed with Nordgren.
“You’re looking fit these days,” Harrington observed between sniffles. Damon himself was worrying about a distinct mid-thirties bulge, discovered when he shopped for a new sport coat for the trip. He was considering taking up jogging.