other will accomplish plenty of blurring over a period of weeks or ever days,' he said, 'and when a manuscript is in work, it get shifted around a lot. You're always hunting back through to find a name or a date. My God, Annie, one of the first thing you find out in this business is that editors hate reading manuscripts typed on Corrasable Bond almost as much a they hate hand-written manuscripts.'
'Don't call it that. I hate it when you call it that.'
He looked at her, honestly puzzled. 'Call what what?'
'When you pervert the talent God gave you by calling it a business. I hate that.'
'I'm sorry.'
'You ought to be,' she said stonily. 'You might as well call yourself a whore.'
No, Annie, he thought, suddenly filled with fury. I'm no whore . Fast Cars was about not being a whore. That's what killing that goddamned bitch Misery was about, now that I think about it. I was driving to the West Coast to celebrate my liberation from a state of whoredom. What you did was to pull me out of the wreck when I crashed my car and stick me back in the crib again. Two dollar straight up, four dollar I take you around the world. And every now and then I see a flicker in your eyes that tells me a part of you way back inside knows it too. A jury might let you off by reason of insanity, but not me, Annie. Not this kid.
'A good point,' he said. 'Now, going back to the subject of the paper — '
'I'll get you your cockadoodie paper,' she said sullenly. 'Just tell me what to get and I'll get it.'
'As long as you understand I'm on your side — '
'Don't make me laugh. No one has been on my side since my mother died twenty years ago.'
'Believe what you want, then,' he said. 'If you're so insecure you can't believe I'm grateful to you for saving my life, that's your problem.'
He was watching her shrewdly, and again saw a flicker of uncertainty, of wanting to believe, in her eyes. Good. Very good. He looked at her with all the sincerity he could muster, and again in his mind he imagined shoving a chunk of glass into her throat, once and forever letting out the blood that serviced her crazy brain.
'At least you should be able to believe that I am on the book's side. You spoke of binding it. I assume that you meant binding the manuscript? The typed pages?'
'Of course that's what I meant.'
Yes, you bet. Because if you took the manuscript to a printer, it might raise questions. You may be naive about the world of books and publishing, but not that naive. Paul Sheldon is missing, and your printer might remember receiving a book-length manuscript concerning itself with Paul Sheldon's most famous character right around the time the man himself disappeared, mightn't he? And he'd certainly remember the instructions — instructions so queer any printer would remember them. One printed copy of a novel-length manuscript.
Just one.
'What did she look like, officer? Well, she was a big woman. Looked sort of like a stone idol in a H. Rider Haggard story. Just a minute, I've got her name and address here in the files . . . J ust let me look up the carbons of the invoices . . . '
'Nothing wrong with the idea, either,' he said. 'A bound manuscript can be damned handsome. Looks like a good folio edition. But a book should last a long time, Annie, and if I write this one on Corrasable, you're going to have nothing but a bunch of blank papers in ten years or so. Unless, of course, you just put it on the shelf.'
But she wouldn't want that, would she? Christ, no. She'd want to take it down every day, maybe every few hours. Take it down and gloat over it.
An odd stony look had come onto her face. He did not like this mulishness, this almost ostentatious look of obduracy. It made him nervous. He could calculate her rage, but there was something in this new expression which was as opaque as it was childish.
'You don't have to talk anymore,' she said. 'I already
'Don't call it that. I hate it when you call it that.'
He looked at her, honestly puzzled. 'Call what what?'
'When you pervert the talent God gave you by calling it a business. I hate that.'
'I'm sorry.'
'You ought to be,' she said stonily. 'You might as well call yourself a whore.'
No, Annie, he thought, suddenly filled with fury. I'm no whore . Fast Cars was about not being a whore. That's what killing that goddamned bitch Misery was about, now that I think about it. I was driving to the West Coast to celebrate my liberation from a state of whoredom. What you did was to pull me out of the wreck when I crashed my car and stick me back in the crib again. Two dollar straight up, four dollar I take you around the world. And every now and then I see a flicker in your eyes that tells me a part of you way back inside knows it too. A jury might let you off by reason of insanity, but not me, Annie. Not this kid.
'A good point,' he said. 'Now, going back to the subject of the paper — '
'I'll get you your cockadoodie paper,' she said sullenly. 'Just tell me what to get and I'll get it.'
'As long as you understand I'm on your side — '
'Don't make me laugh. No one has been on my side since my mother died twenty years ago.'
'Believe what you want, then,' he said. 'If you're so insecure you can't believe I'm grateful to you for saving my life, that's your problem.'
He was watching her shrewdly, and again saw a flicker of uncertainty, of wanting to believe, in her eyes. Good. Very good. He looked at her with all the sincerity he could muster, and again in his mind he imagined shoving a chunk of glass into her throat, once and forever letting out the blood that serviced her crazy brain.
'At least you should be able to believe that I am on the book's side. You spoke of binding it. I assume that you meant binding the manuscript? The typed pages?'
'Of course that's what I meant.'
Yes, you bet. Because if you took the manuscript to a printer, it might raise questions. You may be naive about the world of books and publishing, but not that naive. Paul Sheldon is missing, and your printer might remember receiving a book-length manuscript concerning itself with Paul Sheldon's most famous character right around the time the man himself disappeared, mightn't he? And he'd certainly remember the instructions — instructions so queer any printer would remember them. One printed copy of a novel-length manuscript.
Just one.
'What did she look like, officer? Well, she was a big woman. Looked sort of like a stone idol in a H. Rider Haggard story. Just a minute, I've got her name and address here in the files . . . J ust let me look up the carbons of the invoices . . . '
'Nothing wrong with the idea, either,' he said. 'A bound manuscript can be damned handsome. Looks like a good folio edition. But a book should last a long time, Annie, and if I write this one on Corrasable, you're going to have nothing but a bunch of blank papers in ten years or so. Unless, of course, you just put it on the shelf.'
But she wouldn't want that, would she? Christ, no. She'd want to take it down every day, maybe every few hours. Take it down and gloat over it.
An odd stony look had come onto her face. He did not like this mulishness, this almost ostentatious look of obduracy. It made him nervous. He could calculate her rage, but there was something in this new expression which was as opaque as it was childish.
'You don't have to talk anymore,' she said. 'I already
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