Black Evening

by David Morrell

  My mind, he told himself, it's playing tricks. I think I'm typing one thing, but unconsciously I'm typing something else. The Scotch is confusing me.

  To test his theory, Eric concentrated to uncloud his mind and make his fingers more alert. Taking care that he typed what he wanted, he hit several keys. The letters clattered onto the paper, taking the exact amount of time they should have. Something was wrong, though. As he frowned toward the page, he saw that what he'd meant to type (a story) had come out as something else (a novel).

  Eric gaped. He knew he hadn't written that. Besides, he'd always written stories. He'd never tried — he didn't have the discipline — to write a novel. What the hell was going on? In frustration, he quickly typed, The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog.

  But this is what he read: The town of Fletcher's Cove had managed to survive, as it had always managed to survive, the fierce Atlantic winter.

  That awful tingle again. Like ice. This is crazy, he thought. I've never heard of Fletcher's Cove, and that redundant clause, it's horrible. It's decoration, gingerbread.

  Appalled, he struck the keys repeatedly, at frenzied random, hoping to read nonsense, praying he hadn't lost his mind.

  Instead of nonsense, this is what he saw: The townsfolk were as rugged as the harsh New England coastline. They had characters of granite, able to withstand the punishments of nature, as if they had learned the techniques of survival from the sturdy rocks along the shore, impervious to tidal onslaughts.

  Eric flinched. He knew he hadn't typed those words. What's more, he never could have forced himself to type them. They were terrible. Redundancy was everywhere, and Lord, those strained commercial images. The sentences were hack work, typical of gushy bestsellers.

  Anger seized him. He typed frantically, determined to discover what was happening. His writer's block had disappeared. The notion of bestsellers had inspired him to write a column, scorning the outrageous decadence of fiction that was cynically designed to pander to the basest common taste.

  But what he read was: Deep December snows enshrouded Fletcher's Cove. The land lay dormant, frozen. January. February. The townsfolk huddled, imprisoned near the stove and hearth inside their homes. They scanned the too-familiar faces of their forced companions. While the savage wind howled past their bedroom windows, wives and husbands soon grew bored with one another. March came with its early thaw. Then April, and the land became alive again. But as the warm spring 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 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 down money either. "No, the thing is, Johnny, the reward I most enjoy comes when I read the letters from my fans. The pleasure they've received from Fletcher's Cove is more important than material success. It's what this business is about. The reading public."

  Eric paused. The interview had gone too smoothly. Smoothness didn't sell his book. What people wanted was a controversy.

  Beneath the blazing lights, his underarms sweated in profusion. He feared he'd stain his sharkskin suit and ruin it, but then he realized he could always buy another one.

  "I know what Truman Capote says, that Fletcher's Cove is hardly writing — it's mere typing. But he's used that comment several times before, and if you want to know what I think, he's done several other things too many times before."

  The audience began to laugh, but this time cruelly.

  "Johnny, I'm still waiting for that novel he keeps promising. I'm glad I didn't hold my breath."

  The audience laughed more derisively. If Truman had been present, they'd have stoned him.

  "To be honest, Johnny, I think Truman's lost his touch with that great readership out there. The middle of America. I've tasted modern fiction, and it makes me gag. What people want are bulging stories filled with glamour, romance, action, and suspense. The kind of thing Dickens wrote."

  The audience applauded with approval.

  "Eric," Johnny said, "you mentioned Dickens. But a different writer comes to mind. A man whose work was popular back in the fifties. Winston Davis. If I hadn't known you wrote Fletcher's Cove, I'd have sworn it was something new by Davis. But of course, that isn't possible. The man's dead — a tragic boating accident when he was only forty-eight. Just off Long Island, I believe."

  "I'm flattered you thought of Davis," Eric said. "In fact, you're not the only reader who's noticed the comparison. He's an example of the kind of author I admire. His enormous love of character and plot. Those small towns in New England he immortalized. The richness of his prose. I've studied everything Davis wrote. I'm trying to continue his tradition. People want true, honest, human stories."

  Eric hadn't even heard of Winston Davis until fans began comparing Eric's book with Davis's. Puzzled, Eric had gone to the New York public library. He'd squirmed with discomfort as he'd tried to struggle through a half dozen books by Davis. Eric couldn't finish any of them. Tasteless dreck. Mind-numbing trash. The prose was deadening, but Eric recognized it. The comparison was valid. Fletcher's Cove was like a book by Winston Davis. Eric had frowned as he'd left the public library. He'd felt that tingle again. Despite their frequent appearances throughout Fletcher's Cove, he'd never liked coincidences.

  "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 boo
k 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.