Read Online Black Evening by David Morrell - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: David Morrell
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air rekindled nature, so within the citizens of Fletcher's Cove, strong passions smoldered
.
Eric stumbled toward the Scotch. This time he ignored the glass and drank straight from the bottle. He shook, nauseous, scared to death. As the tasteless Scotch dribbled from his lips, his mind spun. He clutched the kitchen counter for support. In his delirium, he thought of only three explanations. One, he'd gone insane. Two, he was so drunk that, like the wino on the stairs, he was hallucinating. Three, the hardest to accept this wasn't an ordinary typewriter.
The way it looks should tell you that.
Good God.
The telephone's harsh ring jolted him. He nearly slipped from the counter. Fighting for balance, he teetered toward the living room. The phone was one more thing he'd soon lose, he knew. For two months, he'd failed to pay the bill. The way his life was going, he suspected that this call was from the telephone company, telling him it was canceling his service.
He fumbled to pick up the phone. Hesitant, he said, "Hello," but those two syllables slurred, combining as one. "… Lo," he said and repeated in confusion. "… Lo?"
"Is that you, Eric?" a man's loud nasal voice told him. "You sound different. Are you sick? You've got a cold?" The editor of
Village Mind
.
"No, I was working on my column." Eric attempted to control the drunken thickness in his voice. "The phone surprised me."
"On your column? Listen, Eric, I could break this to you gently, but I know you're strong enough to take it on the chin. Forget about your column. I won't need it."
"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
.
Eric stumbled toward the Scotch. This time he ignored the glass and drank straight from the bottle. He shook, nauseous, scared to death. As the tasteless Scotch dribbled from his lips, his mind spun. He clutched the kitchen counter for support. In his delirium, he thought of only three explanations. One, he'd gone insane. Two, he was so drunk that, like the wino on the stairs, he was hallucinating. Three, the hardest to accept this wasn't an ordinary typewriter.
The way it looks should tell you that.
Good God.
The telephone's harsh ring jolted him. He nearly slipped from the counter. Fighting for balance, he teetered toward the living room. The phone was one more thing he'd soon lose, he knew. For two months, he'd failed to pay the bill. The way his life was going, he suspected that this call was from the telephone company, telling him it was canceling his service.
He fumbled to pick up the phone. Hesitant, he said, "Hello," but those two syllables slurred, combining as one. "… Lo," he said and repeated in confusion. "… Lo?"
"Is that you, Eric?" a man's loud nasal voice told him. "You sound different. Are you sick? You've got a cold?" The editor of
Village Mind
.
"No, I was working on my column." Eric attempted to control the drunken thickness in his voice. "The phone surprised me."
"On your column? Listen, Eric, I could break this to you gently, but I know you're strong enough to take it on the chin. Forget about your column. I won't need it."
"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
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