sentence. Boom! Not enough writers listen to this kind of advice. I like you, pops. What’d you say your name was?”
Doyle brightened. “Ah—”
Farnsworth Wright slapped the table hard. “They don’t understand I have to sell these magazines. This ain’t art. Grab me. Shake me. Scare me. Wiggle me around. This isn’t complicated. My God, these first sentences I’m reading, some of ’em go on half a page. You know how long it takes me to read half a page?” He stopped, fished his pocket watch from a gravy-stained vest, and flicked open the face. “Jesus, is that what time it is? You know how to get a guy going. Anyway, get me the story and we’ll talk. I’ll see what I can do. No promises.” He plucked another manuscript from the dwindling pile and read the first sentence. “Jesus Christ!” Farnsworth’s chair slammed back down on all four wheels as the manuscript came to a messy end on the second shelf of the
Thrill Book
library—narrowly missing Doyle, who had quickly dodged left.
Doyle rapped his walking stick hard against the floor. “That’s quite enough of that,” he declared.
Farnsworth looked up, confused. “So, what? Go on. Tell me your great idea. Thrill me. Drive me wild.”
Doyle smiled. “My good fellow, in your wildest dreams you couldn’t afford me.” He offered his hand. “Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.”
THE WHEELS OF Farnsworth’s chair slid out from under him and Farnsworth fell backwards in a heap. His earnest attempts to rise, halted by his head meeting his desktop with a
klonk,
stirred pity in Conan Doyle’s heart, and he chastised himself for using his celebrity in that way.
Farnsworth rose up with a hop, the greasy panel of hair that normally covered his scalp lolling long across the left side of his face. He collected himself and marched across the office in a businesslike way. “Farnsworth Wright.” He shook Doyle’s hand with vigor. “I can’t explain, sir, I can’t. There are some . . . This is truly . . . You’re why . . . You understand . . . I can’t.”
“That’s fine. I do appreciate it.”
Farnsworth continued to spew half thoughts as Doyle led him back to his desk. “I’m looking for an author you’ve worked with, or at least may have heard of. A gentleman named Lovecraft. Howard Phillips Lovecraft.”
Farnsworth’s neck swiveled. “You know H. P. Lovecraft?”
“As an acquaintance.”
“I never . . . he never said anything. Nothing at all. Truly.” Farnsworth began searching the office. “He never mentioned you. I would’ve. I certainly would’ve published him if I knew.”
Doyle found himself in a snowstorm of manuscripts as Farnsworth tore the office apart. “I just need an address, Mr. Wright.”
Farnsworth kicked one tower of books to the floor, and then another, before barking triumphantly and slamming a manuscript onto the desk. Its title was
At the Mountains of Madness.
Doyle nodded. “That’s the fellow.”
“I can’t believe he never told me. If I knew he shared such distinguished friendships . . . but it’s the season, you know. His work. It’s bleak. Terribly bleak. People want homicidal maniac stories. Redemptive stories. Not this. I mean, I don’t know what to make of this.
Mountains of Madness
? It’s just not anyone’s cup of tea. Desolate alien cities hidden away in the Arctic?”
“Try seeing them in person,” Doyle offered.
“Pardon?”
He smiled. “I’m not his literary advocate. I just need the address.”
“Yes, of course.” Farnsworth hastily provided it and turned back to his manuscripts, eager to end the meeting after his embarrassing introduction.
NIGHT CLOAKED THE city. Doyle stepped off an empty trolley onto Delancey Street on the Lower East Side of Manhattan. He turned to watch the creaking trolley rumble down the Bowery into Chinatown, and the lawless wards of Chatham and the Five Points. This was as far into the ghetto as he intended to go. And if atmosphere was the goal, Delancey
Doyle brightened. “Ah—”
Farnsworth Wright slapped the table hard. “They don’t understand I have to sell these magazines. This ain’t art. Grab me. Shake me. Scare me. Wiggle me around. This isn’t complicated. My God, these first sentences I’m reading, some of ’em go on half a page. You know how long it takes me to read half a page?” He stopped, fished his pocket watch from a gravy-stained vest, and flicked open the face. “Jesus, is that what time it is? You know how to get a guy going. Anyway, get me the story and we’ll talk. I’ll see what I can do. No promises.” He plucked another manuscript from the dwindling pile and read the first sentence. “Jesus Christ!” Farnsworth’s chair slammed back down on all four wheels as the manuscript came to a messy end on the second shelf of the
Thrill Book
library—narrowly missing Doyle, who had quickly dodged left.
Doyle rapped his walking stick hard against the floor. “That’s quite enough of that,” he declared.
Farnsworth looked up, confused. “So, what? Go on. Tell me your great idea. Thrill me. Drive me wild.”
Doyle smiled. “My good fellow, in your wildest dreams you couldn’t afford me.” He offered his hand. “Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.”
THE WHEELS OF Farnsworth’s chair slid out from under him and Farnsworth fell backwards in a heap. His earnest attempts to rise, halted by his head meeting his desktop with a
klonk,
stirred pity in Conan Doyle’s heart, and he chastised himself for using his celebrity in that way.
Farnsworth rose up with a hop, the greasy panel of hair that normally covered his scalp lolling long across the left side of his face. He collected himself and marched across the office in a businesslike way. “Farnsworth Wright.” He shook Doyle’s hand with vigor. “I can’t explain, sir, I can’t. There are some . . . This is truly . . . You’re why . . . You understand . . . I can’t.”
“That’s fine. I do appreciate it.”
Farnsworth continued to spew half thoughts as Doyle led him back to his desk. “I’m looking for an author you’ve worked with, or at least may have heard of. A gentleman named Lovecraft. Howard Phillips Lovecraft.”
Farnsworth’s neck swiveled. “You know H. P. Lovecraft?”
“As an acquaintance.”
“I never . . . he never said anything. Nothing at all. Truly.” Farnsworth began searching the office. “He never mentioned you. I would’ve. I certainly would’ve published him if I knew.”
Doyle found himself in a snowstorm of manuscripts as Farnsworth tore the office apart. “I just need an address, Mr. Wright.”
Farnsworth kicked one tower of books to the floor, and then another, before barking triumphantly and slamming a manuscript onto the desk. Its title was
At the Mountains of Madness.
Doyle nodded. “That’s the fellow.”
“I can’t believe he never told me. If I knew he shared such distinguished friendships . . . but it’s the season, you know. His work. It’s bleak. Terribly bleak. People want homicidal maniac stories. Redemptive stories. Not this. I mean, I don’t know what to make of this.
Mountains of Madness
? It’s just not anyone’s cup of tea. Desolate alien cities hidden away in the Arctic?”
“Try seeing them in person,” Doyle offered.
“Pardon?”
He smiled. “I’m not his literary advocate. I just need the address.”
“Yes, of course.” Farnsworth hastily provided it and turned back to his manuscripts, eager to end the meeting after his embarrassing introduction.
NIGHT CLOAKED THE city. Doyle stepped off an empty trolley onto Delancey Street on the Lower East Side of Manhattan. He turned to watch the creaking trolley rumble down the Bowery into Chinatown, and the lawless wards of Chatham and the Five Points. This was as far into the ghetto as he intended to go. And if atmosphere was the goal, Delancey
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