noticed the world holding its breath. I was two months late delivering
Kasey’s Quest,
and nearly a year late on
Open Wounds,
wasn’t I? You can’t create to a fucking schedule, damn it!”
“No, Sander,” Alan said. “It won’t wash. The circumstances are different this time. You got a lot of money up front on this book, mainly because
Copping Out
did well, but the publishers are regretting it now. You seem to have forgotten that
Open Wounds
still hasn’t found a paperback publisher.”
“It got good reviews,” Sandy protested.
“That’s not enough. It’s selling shitty. I’ve warned you, if you’re late on delivering the new one, they’re going to cancel the contract right out from under you and demand their money back. We can’t give them the opportunity.”
“You’re too damn pessimistic,” Sandy said. “It won’t be that bad. I’m going to do this one story for Jared, that’s all, and then I’ll be back to work on the novel. Hell, maybe I’ll even make that deadline. If not, you’ll find some way to placate them.”
“I’m an agent, not a magician,” Alan said. “You overestimate my powers of persuasion. Look, let me make myself perfectly clear—”
“Jesus,” said Sandy. “You sound like Nixon.”
“Be that as it may,” Alan persisted, “I’m going to warn you right now that I’m not in business to make five-hundred-dollar deals with
Hedgehog
. If you don’t deliver this novel, and the contract gets canceled, you had better start looking around for other representation.”
“Maybe I should start looking around anyway,” Sandy said.
“Maybe you should,” Alan agreed. He sighed. “I don’t want to do this, Sander. I like you, and I like your work. But this is for your own good. Forget this story, come back to New York and get to work. You have professional responsibilities.”
“Screw professional responsibilities,” Sandy snapped, “and get off my case, Alan. Don’t you have a call on another line?”
“As a matter of fact, I do. I just thought perhaps I might talk some sense into you. I can see that was a misplaced hope. Think about it, Sander. It’s your decision.”
“Glad you remember that,” Sandy said. “Goodbye, Alan. I’ll keep in touch.” With a conscious effort, he refrained from slamming the receiver down into its cradle and dropped it very softly into place.
He was in a sour, surly mood as he checked out and lugged his suitcase to the car. Most of the day was shot already, and the talks with Alan and Sharon had left him feeling hassled and depressed. Maybe they were right, Sandy thought to himself. Maybe it was stupid to be working on this Nazgûl thing instead of the novel. Maybe he was being immature and irresponsible. But damn it, he had a right to be a little immature at times, didn’t he? It wasn’t as if he’d run off to join the circus. He was doing a story, and it might turn out to be a damn
good
story too, a big one, an important one. Maybe he’d even win some kind of goddamned
award
. He tightened the straps that held his suitcase in place, stepped back, and slammed down the rear hatch of the Mazda harder than was really necessary. For a moment he stood in the motel parking lot, seething, wanting something on which to vent his frustration, finding nothing. He felt like kicking the car. He’d stubbed many a toe on the tires of Roach, Jezebel, the Battleship Missouri, and the Hogmobile through the years, letting off steam.
The Mazda, though, the Mazda wasn’t kickable. It sat there in the parking lot, sleek and gorgeous, all low and bronze-colored and shining, with its sunroof and its power antenna and its rakish black rear-window louvres, looking fast as hell and twice as sexy even standing still. Sandy had always dreamed of owning a sports car. He loved his Mazda. Yet somehow it wasn’t an old friend the way the other cars had been, wasn’t the kind of partner in adventure and adversity who might understand and forgive an
Kasey’s Quest,
and nearly a year late on
Open Wounds,
wasn’t I? You can’t create to a fucking schedule, damn it!”
“No, Sander,” Alan said. “It won’t wash. The circumstances are different this time. You got a lot of money up front on this book, mainly because
Copping Out
did well, but the publishers are regretting it now. You seem to have forgotten that
Open Wounds
still hasn’t found a paperback publisher.”
“It got good reviews,” Sandy protested.
“That’s not enough. It’s selling shitty. I’ve warned you, if you’re late on delivering the new one, they’re going to cancel the contract right out from under you and demand their money back. We can’t give them the opportunity.”
“You’re too damn pessimistic,” Sandy said. “It won’t be that bad. I’m going to do this one story for Jared, that’s all, and then I’ll be back to work on the novel. Hell, maybe I’ll even make that deadline. If not, you’ll find some way to placate them.”
“I’m an agent, not a magician,” Alan said. “You overestimate my powers of persuasion. Look, let me make myself perfectly clear—”
“Jesus,” said Sandy. “You sound like Nixon.”
“Be that as it may,” Alan persisted, “I’m going to warn you right now that I’m not in business to make five-hundred-dollar deals with
Hedgehog
. If you don’t deliver this novel, and the contract gets canceled, you had better start looking around for other representation.”
“Maybe I should start looking around anyway,” Sandy said.
“Maybe you should,” Alan agreed. He sighed. “I don’t want to do this, Sander. I like you, and I like your work. But this is for your own good. Forget this story, come back to New York and get to work. You have professional responsibilities.”
“Screw professional responsibilities,” Sandy snapped, “and get off my case, Alan. Don’t you have a call on another line?”
“As a matter of fact, I do. I just thought perhaps I might talk some sense into you. I can see that was a misplaced hope. Think about it, Sander. It’s your decision.”
“Glad you remember that,” Sandy said. “Goodbye, Alan. I’ll keep in touch.” With a conscious effort, he refrained from slamming the receiver down into its cradle and dropped it very softly into place.
He was in a sour, surly mood as he checked out and lugged his suitcase to the car. Most of the day was shot already, and the talks with Alan and Sharon had left him feeling hassled and depressed. Maybe they were right, Sandy thought to himself. Maybe it was stupid to be working on this Nazgûl thing instead of the novel. Maybe he was being immature and irresponsible. But damn it, he had a right to be a little immature at times, didn’t he? It wasn’t as if he’d run off to join the circus. He was doing a story, and it might turn out to be a damn
good
story too, a big one, an important one. Maybe he’d even win some kind of goddamned
award
. He tightened the straps that held his suitcase in place, stepped back, and slammed down the rear hatch of the Mazda harder than was really necessary. For a moment he stood in the motel parking lot, seething, wanting something on which to vent his frustration, finding nothing. He felt like kicking the car. He’d stubbed many a toe on the tires of Roach, Jezebel, the Battleship Missouri, and the Hogmobile through the years, letting off steam.
The Mazda, though, the Mazda wasn’t kickable. It sat there in the parking lot, sleek and gorgeous, all low and bronze-colored and shining, with its sunroof and its power antenna and its rakish black rear-window louvres, looking fast as hell and twice as sexy even standing still. Sandy had always dreamed of owning a sports car. He loved his Mazda. Yet somehow it wasn’t an old friend the way the other cars had been, wasn’t the kind of partner in adventure and adversity who might understand and forgive an
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