amazement, a great deal has been done on the Iron-Guts bio, and in a very short time. While Roger and I were in Central Falls, Herb Porter was one busy little bee. Not only has he engaged Olive Barker as the ghost on The Devil's General, he's gotten her solemn promise to deliver a sixty thousand-word first draft in just three weeks.
To say that I was surprised by this quick action would be drawing it mild. In my previous experience, Herb Porter only moves fast when Riddley comes down the hall yelling, "Dey's doughnuts in de kitchenette, and dey sho are fine! Dey's doughnuts in de kitchenette, and dey sho are fine!"
"Three weeks, man, I don't know," Bill said dubiously. "Stroke aside, Olive's got this little problem." He mimed swallowing a handful of pills.
"That's the best part," Herb said. "Mademoiselle Barker is clean, at least for the time being. She's going to those meetings and everything. You know she was always the fastest on-demand writer we had when she was straight."
"Clean copy, too," I said. "At least it used to be."
"Can she stay clean for three weeks, do you think?"
"She'll stay clean," Herb said grimly. "For the next three weeks, I'm Olive Barker's personal sponsor. She gets calls three times a day. If I hear so much as a single slurred s, and I'm over there with a stomach-pump. And an enema bag."
"Please," Sandra said, grimacing.
Herb ignored her. "But that's not all. Wait."
He darted out, crossed the hall to the glorified closet that's his office (on the wall is a poster-sized photo of General Anthony Hecksler which Herb throws darts at when he's bored), and came back with a sheaf of paper. He looked uncharacteristically shy as he put them in Roger's hands.
Instead of looking at the manuscript - because of course that was what it was - Roger looked at Herb, eyebrows raised.
For a moment I thought Herb was having an allergic reaction, perhaps as a result of some skin sensitivity to ivy leaves. Then I realized he was blushing. I saw this, but the idea still seems foreign to me, like the idea of Clint Eastwood blubbering into his mommy's lap.
"It's my account of the Twenty Psychic Garden Flowers business," Herb said. "I think it's pretty good, actually. Only about thirty per cent of it is actually true - I never tackled Iron-Guts and brought him to his knees when he showed up here waving a knife, for instance..."
True enough, I thought, since Hecksler never showed up here at all, to the best of our knowledge.
"...but it makes good reading. I... I was inspired." Herb lowered his face for a moment, as if the idea of inspiration struck him as somehow shameful. Then he raised his head again and looked around at us defiantly. "Besides, the goddam loony's dead, and I don't expect any trouble from his sister, especially if we bring her into the tent to help with the book and slip her a couple of hundred for her... well, call it creative assistance."
Roger was looking through the pages Herb had handed him, pretty much ignoring this flood of verbiage. "Herb," he said. "There's... my goodness gracious, there's thirty-eight pages here. That's close to ten thousand words. When did you do it?"
"Last night," he said, looking down at the floor again. His cheeks were brighter than ever. "I told you, I was inspired."
Sandra and Bill looked impressed, but not as impressed as I felt. To the best of my knowledge, only Thomas Wolfe was a ten-thousand-a-day man. Certainly it overshadows my pitiful clackings on this Olivetti. And as Roger leafed through the pages again, I saw less than a dozen strikeovers and interlinings. God, he must have been inspired.
"This is terrific, Herb," Roger said, and there was no doubting the sincerity in his voice. "If the writing's okay - based on your memos and summaries I have every reason to think it will be - it's going to be the heart of the book." Herb flushed again, this time I think with pleasure.
Sandra was looking at his manuscript. "Herb, do you think writing that so fast... do you think it had anything to do with... you know..."
"Sure it did," Bill said. "Must have. Don't you think so, Herb?"
I could see Herb struggling, wanting to take credit for the ten thousand words that were going to form the dramatic heart of The Devil's General, and then (I swear this is true) I could sense his thoughts turning to