“Ever read a book called Hell in Eldorado?”
“Read it? I wrote it. But that was twelve or fifteen years ago, and it was a stinking Western.”
“Exactly. Except for the stinking; it was a fairly good Western, Luke.”
“But it’s dead as a dodo. You don’t mean Bernstein is reissuing it?”
“Not Bernstein, no. But Midget Books is bringing out a new pocket edition. The market in Westerns is booming and they’re desperate for them. And they paid a very sweet advance guarantee to reissue your old Western.”
Luke frowned. “What do you mean, Carter? Not that I want to act as though I’m looking a gift horse in the proverbial, but since when is four hundred bucks a very sweet advance on a pocket book deal? Not that it isn’t a fortune to me right now, but—”
“Down, boy,” Carter said. “Your share of that advance was three grand, and that’s damn good for a pocket book reissue. But you owed Bernstein over two and a half grand on all those advances you’ve been getting, and they deducted. That check you’ve got there is clear and you don’t owe anybody anything.”
Luke whistled softly. That made it different all right. Carter said, “Bernstein—Bernie himself—called me up last week. Mail was being returned from where you lived before and he didn’t know how to reach you. I told him if he wanted to send the check care of me, I’d—find you somehow. And he said—”
“How did you find me?”
“Found out from Margie you were in Long Beach—seems you called her some weeks ago but then never called back, and you hadn’t given her an address. But I’ve been coming over here evenings, making the rounds of the taverns. Knew I’d run into you sooner or later.”
“Miracle you did,” Luke said. “My first time in one since that night I called Margie. And my last one for—I mean, it would have been my last time for God knows how long if you hadn’t found me. But now go on about what Bernie said.”
“Said to tell you to forget the science-fiction book. Science fiction’s dead. Extraterrestrial stuff is just what people want to escape from right now. They’ve got Martians, in their hair. But people are still reading and there’s a big swing to mystery and a bigger one to Westerns. Said to tell you that if you’ve actually started that science-fiction book—Have you by the way?”
“No.”
“Good. Anyway, Bernie was fair about it; he said that he’d commissioned it and given you advances against it and that if you actually did have any of it done, he’d pay you a word rate for however much you’ve actually done—but that you can then tear it up and throw it away. He doesn’t want it, and he wants you to stop work on it.”
“Not hard when I haven’t got even an idea for it. I think I had one once, in that shack of yours, but it slipped away. The night the Martians came.”
“What are your plans now, Luke?”
“Tomorrow I’m going on—” Luke stopped suddenly. With a check for over four hundred dollars in his pocket he wouldn’t be going on relief tomorrow after all. What were his plans? With the depression drop in prices he could live for months on that much money. Solvent again, he could even look up Margie. If he wanted to. Did he want to?
“I don’t know,” he said, and it was the answer to Carter’s question and his own.
“Well, I know,” Carter said. “I know what you’re going to do if you’ve got any sense. You think you’re burned out as a writer because you can’t write science fiction any more. But you’re not. You just can’t write science fiction—and for the same reason you and everybody else doesn’t want to read it any more. It’s dead. But what’s wrong with Westerns? You wrote one once—or was it only one?”
“One novel. A few short stories and novelettes. But I don’t like Westerns.”
“Do you like digging ditches?”
“Well—not exactly.”
“Look at this.” Carter Benson’s wallet was in his hand again and he took something from it and handed it to Luke.
It looked like another check. It was another check. There was barely enough light for Luke to read it. One thousand dollars, made out to Luke Devereaux, signed by W. B. Moran, Treas., Bernstein Publishers, Inc.
Carter reached across and took the check out of Luke’s hand. “Not yours yet, son. Bernie sent it to me to give to you as an advance on another Western novel—if you agree to write one. He says to tell you that if you do, and if it’s no worse than Hell in Eldorado you’ll make at least five thousand out of it.”
“Gimme,” Luke said. He took back the check and stared at it lovingly.
His slump was over. Ideas were beginning to crowd him toward his typewriter. A lonely Western plain at dusk, a cowboy riding…
“Attaboy,” Carter said. “Now do we hang one on to celebrate?”
“Hell, yes—or—wait a minute. Would you mind awfully if we didn’t? Or at least postponed it?”
“Whatever you say. Why? Feel like diving in?”
“Exactly. I feel hot and think I should get that novel going while the mood lasts. And I’m still sober so far; this is only my fourth drink, so it’s not too late. You don’t mind, do you?”
“Hell, no. I understand, and I’m glad you feel that way. Nothing like the sudden turn of a near leaf.” Carter put down his glass on a window sill beside him and pulled out a notebook and pencil. “Just give me your address and phone number while we’re together.”
Luke gave him both. Then stuck out his hand. “Thanks to hell and back. And you won’t have to write to Bernie, Carter. I’ll write him tomorrow—and tell him the Western’s already started.”
“Attaboy. And listen, Margie’s been worrying about you. I could tell from the way she talked when I called her. And I had to promise I’d give her your address if I found you. Is that okay?”
“Sure, but you won’t have to. I’ll call her myself tomorrow.” He wrung Carter’s hand again and hurried off.
He felt so exhilarated and excited that it wasn’t until he was on the stairs going up to his room that he discovered that he still had a half-full glass of whiskey and soda in his hand and that, fast as he’d walked, he’d carried it so carefully for ten blocks that he hadn’t spilled a drop.
He laughed at himself and stopped on the landing to drink it off.
In his room he took off his suit coat and necktie and rolled up his sleeves. Put the typewriter and a stack of paper on the table and pulled up a chair. Ran paper in the typewriter. Yellow paper only. He’d already decided to do rough draft on this one so he wouldn’t have to stop to look up anything. Whatever pints came up that might indicate a spot of research could be taken care of on the final version.
Title? You didn’t need a good title for a Western. Just so it indicated action and sounded like a Western. Something like Guns Across the Border or Guns Across the Pecos.
Sure, he’d settle for the Guns Across part except that he didn’t want to write a border story again—Hell in Eldorado had been a border story—and he didn’t know anything about the Pecos country. Better take something in Arizona; he’d traveled quite a bit around Arizona and could handle the descriptions much better.
What rivers were there in Arizona? Hmmm, the Little Colorado, but that was too long. The name, not the river. And a Trout Creek, but Guns Across the Trout would sound silly. Guns Across the Date would sound worse.