"Less than you think," said Webb, happily,
Harry eyed him for a moment, trying to assemble a response worthy of reason. Instead, he slammed his hands down on the armrests of his chair.
"Oh, come on!" he exclaimed. "This is nonsense."
He was about to demand his money back, but stopped for a moment. An idea was sifting through his mind and his mouth formed a stringent, knowing smile. He could beat Webb at his own game.
"Well," began Harry, "if what you say is true, Mr. Webb, then perhaps you might have some idea as to how I could get my script changed."
"Do you mean rewritten?" asked Webb.
"Exactly," said Harry, his effective entrapment causing him to gloat as he crossed his arms.
Webb didn't bat an eye.
"That would naturally require an additional expenditure," he said, smoothly. "Another two-thousand, to be exact. But if you're definitely interested. . ."
Harry, surprised as he found himself by this reply, of course, was. Still confused, he wrote down an address Webb read to him from a little black book, and after suspiciously shaking Webb's hand, left.
As he rode through the city in a dingy cab, Harry thought about the notion of his life being a script. He didn't believe it. But on the off chance that what Webb said was true, Harry knew one thing. His script was no comedy. It was more like a sordid, low-budget melodrama. Harry's script would definitely not have made a movie you could take your family to.
The driver pulled to the curb, and Harry got out and paid. The cabbie roared away, and Harry looked up at the sign on the store front: 229 S. Maple—ABE'S KOSHER DELI.
Harry shook his head, incredulously, and walked toward the door.
As he opened the door, he was met inside by a gust of chilly air-conditioning and the rich scent of cold-cuts.
He approached the front display counter and leaned over it. There was a butcher standing with his back to Harry, behind the counter. Harry discerned that it was likely Abe, himself.
"Excuse me," said Harry.
"Yeah, what'll it be?" asked the man, turning to face Harry, bloody cleaver in hand. He had a thick paunch, and wiped his free hand of animal innards, smearing them on his starched apron.
"1 was sent over here by Mr. Webb at Script Sure,” said Harry.
"Oh, yeah, yeah," grunted the man. "You're looking for Eddie. He's upstairs. Office is the last one on the right." He gestured toward the upstairs area with his cleaver.
"Thanks," said Harry, his suspicions of a clumsy con renewed. "And tell him we're out of sliced almonds for his ice cream, will you?" added the corpulent butcher.
"Sure," said Harry, heading for the stairs, "why not?"
Once upstairs, he easily found the office.
As he stood outside its door, he could faintly hear the cadence of a muted typewriter clacking inside. He knocked, and noticed that hand-painted on the glass-pane insert, was the name, EDWARD OMNEY.
"Come in!" yelled a voice, from inside the office. "It's open!"
Harry hinged open the door.
Inside, he was met by a minuscule office virtually immobilized by disorder. The floor, cheaply carpeted, was covered, from wall to wall, with notebook binders of differing colors. The binders also covered the battered desk in the right center of the tiny office, barely leaving room for the worn typewriter.
On one of two chairs, before the desk, sat a humming blade fan, tossing three ribbons tied to its front. The walls were a chipped, caramel patina, coats of nicotine thin on their surface. Behind the desk, seated on a squeaking chair, was a tiny, harried-looking Jewish man about fifty. He was nearly bald, and resembled a scaled-down Ritz brother, with a manner suggesting the patience of a lit stick of dynamite.
"Hi ya," welcomed the man, with a teeter-totter Yiddish accent, "what's the good word?"
"Good afternoon," said Harry, "are you Eddie?"
"Last time I checked," said Eddie, dropping a heaping spoonful of bromo-seltzer into a glass of water. "You like vanilla ice cream?" he asked, as he stirred the frothing drink with his finger. "Because if you do," he continued, "I'm stuffed and there's a whole dish in my little fridge, there." He pointed over to the corner.
"No, thank you," said Harry, his appetite poor since the onset of his problems, "I haven't been eating well lately."
"Sorry to hear that," said Eddie. "You ought to get a hobby. Myself, I do sit-ups. Lots of sit-ups. And look at me, I'm fit as a fiddle." He patted his stomach hard with his palm, then leaned back in his chair and gulped his fizzing seltzer.
"By the way, the butcher downstairs says he's out of nuts for your ice cream," said Harry, as he watched Eddie finish the glass.
"It's just as well," said Eddie, wiping foam from his lips. "They give me indigestion; can't write with indigestion. Listen, you sure you don't want some ice cream?"
"No," said Harry, ready to get down to business. "Look, Eddie, I'll get directly to the point. I was sent here by Script Sure. I'm very unhappy with my script and I want it rewritten."
"Naturally," said Eddie. "Everybody's a writer. What's the matter with it?" he asked, muffling several burps brought on by the bromo.
"What isn't the matter with it," said Harry. "My life is a disaster. Every day is more horrible than the one before it."
"Oh, yeah?" said Eddie, beginning to get interested.
"How could you do this to me?" asked Harry, miserably. "My wife left me for a trumpet player, my boss laid me off last week, my kid is on pills, and I think I'm getting an ingrown toenail."
"Right!" yelled Eddie. "Now I remember. That was a good one. Knocked the final draft out over a weekend, as I recall."
"How long do you usually take?" asked Harry, deeply upset at having the approximate importance of a thrown-together, high school book report.
"A week or two," said Eddie, "give or take. . ."
Harry just stared.
"And you did mine in a weekend?"
Harry was beginning to feel more like the Cliff's Notes that inspired the book report.
"Pretty sure I did," said Eddie. "The wife was out of town, seeing her mother, I think." He stared at the ceiling, trying to remember. "Or did I have the flu?"
"Oh, great," said Harry.
"Hey, don't be put off. I do some of my best work under pressure."
Harry made a displeased face.
"Now what were you saying about wanting it changed?" asked Eddie.
Harry realized that it was definitely in his best interest to find out how the company he was entrusting his future to operated. After all, he wouldn't buy a car without kicking the tires good and hard, once or twice.
"Not so fast," said Harry. "There's a few things I'd like to know first. Like for instance, how long people have had scripts?"
"Long time," replied Eddie. "Since the beginning, I would expect."
"Don't you know?" asked Harry.
"Nope," said Eddie, lighting a cigar, "not really. I just started on here a while ago."
Harry was having a hard time absorbing this information and felt an ulcerous twitch.
"Well, what did you do before?" he asked.
"Oh, a little of this, a little of that," replied Eddie. "Mostly just bummed around. Wrote poetry, taught judo."
Harry visibly cringed at hearing this. There was minimal comfort in the prospect of having his future in the hands of a deadbeat poet who splintered two-by-fours with his feet. Harry wanted more from a rewrite man.
"Look, Eddie," said Harry, "I'm not so sure about your credentials. I mean, your background sounds pretty shaky to me."
"Big deal," said Eddie. "Lincoln was born in a log cabin. You gonna stand there and tell me Abe Lincoln wasn't a terrific president?"
"Well, no, but. . ."
"But nothing. I rest my case. What's to talk? Tell me what you want and let me get to work." Eddie sounded a bit testy at having his probity slighted.
Harry was getting confused and upset by everything he'd heard, and began to hyperventilate.
Harry's voice sounded almost crumbly.
"1 just never thought it would be like this," he whined, rising from his chair and walking to the window. He looked out onto the busy avenue. "1 mean, it's crazy! It's totally crazy!"
"Hey, come on buddy, it's not that bad. Take it easy. Hey, what's your name, anyway? You never told me."
"Don't you know? I thought you knew everything."
"Can't remember them all. I do a lot of scripts."
Harry turned from the window.
"Harry. Harry Addley."
"Right. I remember something like that," said Eddie. "Well, look Harry, I can't remember how I wrote you; are you a religious man?"
"Fairly," said Harry, sniffing to himself. "I respond spiritually to organ music."
"Right," said Eddie. "Well, what I'm getting at here is that, if you are, you might not want to know how this all works. It might shake you up. Things aren't always as they seem."
"For instance," said Harry, "most people don't think of the Lord as a Jewish writer, who works out of a kosher deli."
"Well, I'm only one of the many that Script Sure employs, but you're getting the idea. See, I didn't do such a bad job. You're pretty quick."
Harry sighed and sat down, pointing the fan at his face; slightly faint.
"Hey! I'm burning up in here, as is," squawked Eddie.
"Why don't you make it snow?"
"You see. There you go again," said Eddie. "That's all just a stereotype. That stuff has all been updated. No more lofty images. Things are more efficient these days. We even advertise to cover office expenses. We run a little in the red. You know, paper clips, coffee cups . . . it adds up."
"Sure," said Harry, morosely, his mind elsewhere. "And to think I bothered going to Sunday School. I should have prayed for better dialogue and characterization. For that matter, the Bible should have been written by Tennessee Williams. He probably would have picked up the pace a little."
"Hell of a writer," agreed Eddie.
Harry reflected on his situation and decided to make the best of it. "Well look, Eddie, when can you get to my script?"
"You got the two G's?" asked Eddie.
"Yeah, I can get it," said Harry. "It's worth it. I mean it's my damn life."
Eddie got a hurt expression on his face. "Sure, it's easy for you to talk about my writing like that. You try writing one of these babies sometime. Give you migraines."
"Sorry," said Harry, "you know what I meant."
"It's okay," said Eddie, "I'll live."
"Well, when do you think I could have it?" asked Harry. "Week and a half. I'll change everything. Believe me, you'll love it."
"1 want to be happy, Eddie. I want my wife back. I want a better job, I want my kid straightened out and I want new feet."
"Same size?" asked Eddie, making some brief notes.
"Maybe a little smaller," offered Harry.
"How about a nine-D?"
"I like it," said Harry.
"Okay," said Eddie, "I'll take it from here. I know exactly what you're after. Listen, Harry, I have a terrific idea. Why don't you take a vacation until I have the script ready. You ski?"
"No," said Harry. "I guess you didn't have time to put that in. Your wife must have come home."
"Aw, come on Harry, don't be nasty. We'll fix everything up for you. I'll throw something together this afternoon for you to go skiing in Aspen. How does that sound? Is Eddie looking out for you or isn't he?"
Harry looked at him with a critical sigh. "We'll see."
Four days after his conversation with Eddie, Harry was on the slopes at Aspen.
He had never put skis on, in his entire life, yet he was doing expertly on even the most complicated of maneuvers. He traversed moguls with ease, and was even able to slalom down the most difficult slope on a single ski. His ingrown toenail had even, miraculously, disappeared.
He realized it was all Eddie's doing and no longer questioned his competence as a writer. He wasn't such a bad guy, thought Harry. He just worked for Script Sure because he needed the work. Christ, somebody had to do the job.
That afternoon, after a warm soup and hot chocolate at the Chalet, Harry decided to go for a cross-country ski. He would take some food and head out for the unspoiled flats of Aspen's most spectacular country. There, beneath the towering mountains, he could celebrate the prospect of his new life. He finished his lunch and went to get his equipment.
Hunched over his typewriter, far from the magnificence of the Aspen peaks, sat Eddie, reworking Harry's script.
As he worked on the section about the cross-country ski, he decided to really do a special job for Harry to make up for the trouble Script Sure had caused him. He decided to give Harry an exciting run for his two-thousand dollars. Florid descriptions began to roll off Eddie's fingertips as he furiously typed scene after scene for Harry's stimulating new revision.
He included a breakneck escape from an avalanche, which Harry was to barely avert at the last second. He also included, with much chuckling to himself, an encounter with a beautiful ski bunny for Harry, culminating with Harry and the young lovely making wild love through the night before a large fireplace.
As if this weren't enough, Eddie described Harry's next day as being even more action-filled and death-defying. He was to make a three-hundred-foot ski jump, through mid-air, and land perfectly on one ski, then, immediately afterward, participate in a tequila drinking contest in the Chalet, which he would win after successfully downing four bottles of the hot liquor.
The evening of that same day, he'd arm-wrestle a Norwegian ski instructor for the instructor's woman, and overwhelm the massive Nordic giant after a two-hour, sweat-drenched struggle.
Later that evening, having ditched his original ski bunny, he would be made love to by his prize. She would be an indefatigable, sensual Amazon who would take Harry to her private chalet, and show him bizarre, anatomical innovations, that he would, theretofore, have thought were certainly federal offenses, and only have dreamed of.
It would be a deeply gratifying evening.
For the following day, Eddie was putting in descriptions of Harry's Porsche race through ice-covered Aspen roads, against the reigning, champion race driver in the world. Harry would win by a nerve-wracking hair, and come near to death when his turbo-powered racecar would almost skid off a cliff.
The former champion would later weep before a gathered crowd, and present Harry his trophy, congratulating him for being a brilliant competitor and a gentleman. Before bringing him back, to give him his new job, Eddie included a few more thrills for Harry. Included among these, were the eventual killing of the Norwegian ski instructor, in self-defense, by snipping the cable to his chair lift. He also threw in a new sexy moustache for Harry, on a face which had formerly been capable of only sparse peach-fuzz.
What a script this was!
Eddie was exultant. This was the best one he'd ever done. As he was typing in a description of Harry winning big at the tables in Vegas on his way back from Aspen, his phone rang.
"Hello," said Eddie, still typing, putting the phone in the crook of his shoulder.
"Eddie, Jerry."
"Jerry! Great to hear from you. What's up?"
"How about lunch?"
"Have to take a rain check, Jer. Caught up with a rewrite and it's coming out great."
"Oh, come on, Eddie. If I can put down my scripts for awhile, you can. Me and some of the guys are going for sandwiches. Larry's coming, so's Sid."
"Jeez, Jer, I'd love to, but I really can't."
"They're busy with rewrites, too, Eddie."
"I know. But this script is the best one I've ever done. It might win me the annual Soul award from Script Sure."
"That good, huh?"
"Better," said Ed
die, confidently. "It's brilliant and I'd rather stay in 'til I'm done with it."
"What's it about?" asked Jerry, a little envious.
"This guy came in a few days ago with a bad script. Seems his wife left him, his kid was on pills, got laid off from his job. Even had an ingrown toenail."
"Eddie, you're gonna hate me for this, but did the guy's wife leave him for a trumpet player?"
"Yeah, that's right. How'd you know?"
Jerry laughed.
"I worked on that script! Did the first draft, way back. It's a good thing that guy came in to see you. Things were only going to get worse, as I recall."
"What do you mean?" asked Eddie, wondering if something like this would disqualify him from the Soul award competition. "Well, of course, with that condition of his. . ."
"Condition. What condition?"
"Oh, you must have missed it. Yeah, as I remember, I gave him a very weak heart. Just don't give him anything too strenuous in your rewrites," said Jerry, cheerily. "Now how about that lunch?"
Eddie didn't answer.
He just leaned back in his chair, face expressionless, and downed another bromo.
Goosebumps
". . . and so it was, on that foul, moonlit eve, the fetid creature disappeared, as inexplicably as it had spawned. And though Mr. Edworthy would never tell the good peoples of Frankshire what manner of obscene anguish he'd suffered, he would never forget.
For in that forgotten hamlet, on the farthest reaches of the Scottish coast, evil had entered not only the body of a man, but his very soul. Evil, which was finally, thank God, gone.
Or at least Mr. Edworthy thought it was.
Until suddenly, he felt that horrid, famished gnawing. The one he'd come to dread.
And the frightened townsfolk could hear his tortured screams as they lit torches and trod up the dirt road to Edworthy farm. But what they found was never spoken about again. Nightmares were just as soon forgotten."
Andy closed the anthology and shivered.
Not a bad little horror story. Not bad at all.
Nightfall was a terrific collection, with a truly unnerving host of stories, including some of the finest horror he'd ever read. The one about the confessional, haunted by the long dead priest, had really shaken him. And the one about the circus fat man who ate his curious victims, was an appalling fascination. But it was this last one, "Edworthy's Fate", which was beginning to really chill him. As he slid under the covers, he placed the collection on the nightside table and turned off the light.
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