Free Black Evening by David Morrell Page A

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 book 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.
    The work was boring, really. Toward the end of
Fletcher's Cove
, he hadn't even faced the keyboard. He'd watched a week of television