Free Black Evening by David Morrell

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