Where the Summer Ends - By Karl Edward Wagner Page 0,123
elevator already packed with fans. A chubby teenager in a Spock Lives! t-shirt was complaining in an uncouth New York accent: “So I ran up to him when the limo pulled up, and I said to him ‘Mr Nordgren, would you please sign my copy of The Changeling?’ and he said ‘I’d love to, sweetheart, but I don’t have the time,’ and I said ‘But it’s just this one book,’ and he said ‘If I stop for you, there are twenty invisible fans lined up behind you right now with their books,’ and I thought ‘You conceited turkey, and after I’ve read every one of your books!’” The elevator door opened on her floor, and she and most of her sympathetic audience got off. As the door closed, Harrington caught an exclamation: “Hey, wasn’t that...”
A hotel security guard stopped him as he entered the hallway toward his room, and Harrington had to show him his room key and explain that he had the suite opposite Trevor Nordgren’s. The guard was scrupulously polite, and explained that earlier fans had been lining up outside Nordgren’s door with armloads of books. Damon then understood why the hotel desk had asked him if he minded having a free drink in the lounge until they had prepared his suite after some minor vandalism wrought by the previous guests.
A bell captain appeared with his baggage finally, and then room service stocked his bar. Harrington unpacked a few things, then phoned Nordgren’s suite. A not very friendly male voice answered, and refused to do more than take a message. Harrington asked him to tell Mr Nordgren that Mike Hunt wished to have a drink with him in the suite opposite. Thirty seconds later Nordgren was kicking at his door.
“Gee, Mr Hunt!” Nordgren gushed in falsetto. “Would you please sign my copy of The Other Woman? Huh? Huh? Would you?” He looked terrible. He was far thinner than when they’d first met, and his skin seemed to hang loose and pallid over his shrunken flesh—reminding Harrington of a snake about to shed its skin. His blue eyes seemed too large for his sallow face, and their familiar arrogance was shadowed by a noticeable haunted look. Harrington thought of some fin de siécle poet dying of consumption.
“Jack Daniel’s, as usual? Or would you like a Heineken?”
“I’d like just some Perrier water, if you have it there. Cutting down on my vices.”
“Sure thing.” Damon thought about the rumors. “Hey, brought along some pearl that you won’t believe!”
“I’ll taste a line of it, then,” Nordgren brightened, allowing Damon to bring him his glass of Perrier. “Been a while since I’ve done any toot. Decided I didn’t need a Teflon septum.”
When Nordgren actually did take only one line, Harrington began to get really concerned. He fiddled with his glass of Jack Daniel’s, then managed: “Trevor, I’m only asking as an old friend—but are you all right?”
“Flight down tired me out, that’s all. Got to save up my energy for that signing thing tonight.”
Damon spent undue attention upon cutting fresh lines. “Yeah, well. I mean, you look a little thin, is all.”
Instead of taking offense, Trevor seemed wearily amused. “No, I’m not strung out on coke or smack or uppers or downers or any and all drugs. No, I don’t have cancer or some horrid wasting disease. Thank you for your concern.”
“Didn’t mean to pry.” Damon was embarrassed. “Just concerned, is all.”
“Thanks, Damon. But I’m off the booze and drugs, and I’ve had a complete check-up. Frankly, I’ve been burning the old candle at both ends and in the middle for too long. I’m exhausted body and soul, and I’m planning on treating myself to a long R&R while the royalties roll in.”
“Super! Why not plan on spending a couple weeks knocking around down on the coast with me, then? We’ll go down to Ensenada.”
A flash of Nordgren’s bitter humor returned. “Well, I’d sure like to, young feller,” he rasped. “But I figger on writin’ me one last big book. Then I’ll take all the money I got put aside, and buy me a little spread down in Texas—hangup my word processor and settle down to raise cattle. Just this one last book is all I need.”
The signing party was a complete disaster. The con committee hadn’t counted on Nordgren’s public and simply put him at a table in the hotel ballroom with the rest of the numerous pros in attendance. The ballroom was totally swamped by Nordgren’s fans—many from the Miami area