Read Online Black Evening by David Morrell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: David Morrell
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letters were now blurred by alcohol, they nonetheless were readable, and more important, they seemed actual. He swigged more Scotch, tapping at keys in stupefaction, randomly, no longer startled when the gushy words made sense. It was a sign of his insanity, he told himself, that he could stand here at this kitchen counter, hitting any keys he wanted, and not be surprised by the result. No matter what the cause or explanation, he apparently was automatically composing the outrageous saga of the passions and perversions of the folks in Fletcher's Cove.
***
"Yes, Johnny," Eric told the television personality and smiled with humble candor. "
Fletcher's Cove
burst out of me in one enormous flash of inspiration. Frankly the experience was scary. I'd been waiting all my life to tell that story, but I wasn't sure I had the talent. Then one day I took a chance. I sat down at my faithful battered typewriter. I bought it in a junk shop, Johnny. That's how poor I was. And Fate or Luck or something was on
my
side for a change. My fingers seemed to dance across the keys. The story leapt out from me toward the page. A day doesn't go by that I don't thank the Lord for how He's blessed me."
Johnny tapped a pencil on his desk with practiced ease. The studio lights blazed. Eric sweated underneath his thousand-dollar sharkskin suit. His two-hundred-dollar designer haircut felt stiff from hairspray. In the glare, he squinted but couldn't see the audience, although he sensed their firm approval of his rags-to-riches wonderful success. America was validated. One day, there'd be a shrine to honor its most cherished saint: Horatio Alger.
"Eric, you're too modest. You're not just our country's most admired novelist. You're also a respected critic, not to mention a short story of yours won a prestigious literary prize."
Prestigious? Eric inwardly frowned. Hey, be careful, Johnny. With a word that big, you'll lose our audience. I've got a book to sell.
"Yes," Eric said, admiring his host's sophisticated light-gray hair. "The heyday of the
Village Mind
. The good old days in Greenwich Village. That's a disadvantage of success. I miss the gang down at Washington Square. I miss the coffee houses and the nights when we'd get together, reading stories to each other, testing new ideas, talking till after dawn."
Like hell I miss them, Eric thought. That dump I lived in. That fat-assed Simmons. He can have his cockroach colony and those winos on the stairs. The
Village Mind
? A more descriptive title would have been the
Village Idiot
. And literary prize? The Subway Press awarded prizes every month. Sure, with the prizes and a quarter, you could buy a cup of coffee.
"You'll admit success has its advantages," Johnny said.
Eric shrugged disarmingly "A few more creature comforts."
"You're a wealthy man."
You bet I'm wealthy, Eric thought. Two million bucks for the hardback. Four million for the paperback. Two million for the movie, and another million from the book club. Then the British rights, the other foreign rights in twenty countries. Fifteen million was the total. Ten percent went to his agent. Five percent to his publicity director. After that, the IRS held out its hand. But Eric had been clever. Oil and cattle, real estate — he coveted tax shelters. His trips to Europe he wrote off as research. He'd incorporated. His estate, his jet, his yacht, he wrote off as expenses. After all, a man in his position needed privacy to write, to earn more money for the government. After taking advantage of every tax dodge he could find, he pocketed nine million. Not bad for a forty-buck investment, although to hedge against inflation Eric wished he'd found a way to keep a few more million. Well, I can't complain.
"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 laughed and heard the audience respond in kind. Their laughter was good-natured. You can bet they wouldn't turn
***
"Yes, Johnny," Eric told the television personality and smiled with humble candor. "
Fletcher's Cove
burst out of me in one enormous flash of inspiration. Frankly the experience was scary. I'd been waiting all my life to tell that story, but I wasn't sure I had the talent. Then one day I took a chance. I sat down at my faithful battered typewriter. I bought it in a junk shop, Johnny. That's how poor I was. And Fate or Luck or something was on
my
side for a change. My fingers seemed to dance across the keys. The story leapt out from me toward the page. A day doesn't go by that I don't thank the Lord for how He's blessed me."
Johnny tapped a pencil on his desk with practiced ease. The studio lights blazed. Eric sweated underneath his thousand-dollar sharkskin suit. His two-hundred-dollar designer haircut felt stiff from hairspray. In the glare, he squinted but couldn't see the audience, although he sensed their firm approval of his rags-to-riches wonderful success. America was validated. One day, there'd be a shrine to honor its most cherished saint: Horatio Alger.
"Eric, you're too modest. You're not just our country's most admired novelist. You're also a respected critic, not to mention a short story of yours won a prestigious literary prize."
Prestigious? Eric inwardly frowned. Hey, be careful, Johnny. With a word that big, you'll lose our audience. I've got a book to sell.
"Yes," Eric said, admiring his host's sophisticated light-gray hair. "The heyday of the
Village Mind
. The good old days in Greenwich Village. That's a disadvantage of success. I miss the gang down at Washington Square. I miss the coffee houses and the nights when we'd get together, reading stories to each other, testing new ideas, talking till after dawn."
Like hell I miss them, Eric thought. That dump I lived in. That fat-assed Simmons. He can have his cockroach colony and those winos on the stairs. The
Village Mind
? A more descriptive title would have been the
Village Idiot
. And literary prize? The Subway Press awarded prizes every month. Sure, with the prizes and a quarter, you could buy a cup of coffee.
"You'll admit success has its advantages," Johnny said.
Eric shrugged disarmingly "A few more creature comforts."
"You're a wealthy man."
You bet I'm wealthy, Eric thought. Two million bucks for the hardback. Four million for the paperback. Two million for the movie, and another million from the book club. Then the British rights, the other foreign rights in twenty countries. Fifteen million was the total. Ten percent went to his agent. Five percent to his publicity director. After that, the IRS held out its hand. But Eric had been clever. Oil and cattle, real estate — he coveted tax shelters. His trips to Europe he wrote off as research. He'd incorporated. His estate, his jet, his yacht, he wrote off as expenses. After all, a man in his position needed privacy to write, to earn more money for the government. After taking advantage of every tax dodge he could find, he pocketed nine million. Not bad for a forty-buck investment, although to hedge against inflation Eric wished he'd found a way to keep a few more million. Well, I can't complain.
"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 laughed and heard the audience respond in kind. Their laughter was good-natured. You can bet they wouldn't turn
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