"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 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 while he let his fingers tap whatever letters they happened to select. After all, it didn't make a difference what he typed. The strange machine did the composing. At the end of every television program, he'd read the last page the machine had typed, hoping to see The End. And one day, finally, those closing words appeared before him.

After the success of Fletcher's Cove, he'd started typing again. He'd read the title Parson's Grove and worked patiently for twenty pages. Unenthusiastically. What he'd learned from his experience was that he'd never liked writing, that instead he liked to talk about. it and be called a writer, but the pain of work did not appeal to him. And this way, when his mind wasn't engaged, the work was even less appealing. To be absolutely honest, Eric thought, I should have been a prince.