sk.theplant-第3部分

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ne　could　believe　that。　And　while　I　was　never　under　any　illusions　that　the　man　was　a　writer；　I　made　an　assumption　of　marginal　literacy　that　turns　out　to　be　totally　unfounded。　In　fact；　just　looking　back　at　the　original　Detweiller　letter　makes　me　wonder　how　I　ever　could　have　scribbled　the　word　This　has　a　certain　half…baked　charm　in　the　margin。　。　。　and　yet　I　see　I　did。
　　So　what？　You're　saying。　Big　deal。　Give　the　schmuck's　manuscript　a　token　look　when　it　es　in　and　then　send　it　back　with　a　form　letter…〃Zenith　House　regrets；〃　etc。　That's　right。　。　。　but　it's　wrong；　too。　It's　wrong　because　guys　like　Carlos　Detweiller　turn　out　all　too　often　to　be　like　a　bad　case　of　head…lice…easy　to　get；　the　very　devil　to　get　rid　of。　The　worst　of　it　is；　I　mentioned　this　very　fact　to　Roger　in　my　original　overlong　memo　about　the　book；　recalling　General　Hecksler　and　his　Twenty　Psychic　Garden　Flowers…you　must　remember　me　telling　you　how　the　General　bombarded　us　with　registered　letters　and　phone　calls　after　we　rejected　the　book　（you　may　not　know；　however；　about　the　Mailgram　Herb　Porter　got　from　him…in　it　Hecksler　referred　to　Herb　as　〃the　designated　Jew；〃　a　reference　none　of　us　has　figured　out　to　this　day）。　It　got　steadily　more　abusive；　and　just　before　his　sister　had　him　mitted　to　an　asylum　up…state；　Sandra　Jackson　confessed　to　me　that　she　was　getting　scared　to　go　home　alone…said　she　was　afraid　the　General　might　jump　out　of　a　darkened　doorway　with　a　knife　in　one　hand　and　a　bouquet　of　psychic　posies　in　the　other。　She　said　the　hell　of　it　was　that　none　of　us　even　knew　what　he　looked　like…we'd　have　needed　a　writing　sample　instead　of　a　mug…shot　to　identify　him。
　　And　of　course　it　all　sounds　funny　now；　but　it　wasn't　funny　when　it　happened…it　was　only　after　his　sister　wrote　to　us　that　we　found　out　we　were　actually　one　of　his　lesser　obsessions；　and　of　course　he　did　turn　out　to　be　dangerous；　just　ask　the　Albany　bus　driver　he　stabbed。
　　I　knew　all　that…even　mentioned　it　to　Roger…and　still　blithely　went　ahead　and　invited　Detweiller　to　submit。
　　Of　course；　the　other　thing　（and　knowing　me　as　you　do；　you've　probably　already　guessed　it）　is　simpler…it　upsets　me　to　have　goofed　in　such　grand　style。　If　a　gonzo　illiterate　like　Carlos　Detweiller　could　fool　me　this　badly　（I　did　think　his　book　would　have　to　be　ghosted；　true；　but　that　is　still　no　excuse）；　how　much　good　stuff　am　I　missing？　Please　don't　laugh；　I'm　serious。　Roger　is　always　ragging　me　about　my　〃lit'ry　aspirations；〃　and　I　suppose　he　has　a　right　to　（no　progress　on　the　novel　this　week　if　you're　interested…this　Detweiller　thing　has　depressed　me　too　much）；　considering　where　the　erstwhile　head　of　the　Brown　University　Milton　Society　ended　up　（he　ended　up　encouraging　Anthony　LaScorbia　to　get　right　to　work　on　his　newest　epic；　Wasps　from　Hell；　for　one　thing）。　But　I　think　I　would　happily　accept　six　months　of　hectoring　letters　from　the　obviously　mad　Carlos　Detweiller；　plete　with　veiled　threats　being　a　little　less　veiled　with　each　missive；　if　I　could　only　be　assured　that　I　hadn't　let　something　good　slip　by　because　of　a　totally　deadened　critical　response。
　　I　don't　know　if　this　is　more　or　less　gloomy；　but　Roger　mentioned　in　one　of　his　Famous　Memos　that　the　Apex　Corporation　is　going　to　give　Zenith　at　least　one　more　year　to　stop　impersonating　a　dead　dog　and　start　showing　some　sales　pizazz。　He　got　the　news　from　Harlow　Enders；　Apex's　chief　New　York　ptroller；　so　presumably　it's　accurate。　I　guess　it's　good　news　when　you　consider　that　not　everyone　in　publishing　has　got　an　office　to　go　to　these　days；　not　even　with　a　pany　whose　biggest　steady　seller　is　the　Macho　Man　series　and　whose　biggest　in…house　problem　isn't　spies　making　copies　of　manuscripts　so　that　the　movie　studios　can　get　an　early　look；　but　cockroaches　in　the　water…cooler。　It's　maybe　not　so　good　when　you　think　of　how　little　money　we　have　to　spend　（maybe　you　deserve　to　get　the　Carlos　Detweillers　of　the　world　when　the　most　you　can　offer　as　an　advance　against　royalties　is　1800）　and　how　shitty　our　distribution　is。　But　no　one　at　Apex　understands　books　or　book　marketing…I　doubt　if　anyone　there　even　knows　why　they　picked　up　Zenith　House　last　year　in　the　first　place；　except　that　it　happened　to　be　for　sale　cheap。　The　chances　that　we　can　improve　our　position　（2％　of　the　paperback　market；　fifteenth　in　a　field　of　fifteen）　over　the　next　year　aren't　very　high。　Maybe　we'll　end　up　getting　married　in　California　after　all；　huh；　babe？
　　Well；　enough　doom　and　gloom…I'll　mail　this　off　and　hopefully　get　back　to　work　on　my　book　tomorrow…and　the　next　letter　I　write　will　be　of　the　〃chatty；　newsy〃　variety。　Shall　I　ask　ole　Carlos　to　send　you　flowers　from　Central　Falls？
　　Forget　I　asked　that。
　　My　love；
　　John
　　P。　S。　…And　tell　your　roommate　that　I　don't　believe　manufacturing　〃the　world's　largest　edible　Frisbee〃　has　any　merit　whatsoever；　Guinness　Book　of　Records　or　not。　Why　not　ask　her　if　she　has　any　interest　in　trying　for　the　world's　record　of　sitting　in　a　spaghetti…filled　bathtub？　First　one　to　shatter　it　wins　an　all…expense…paid　trip　to　Central　Falls；　Rhode　Island。　。　。
　　J。
　　
　　interoffice　memo
　　
　　TO：　Roger　FROM：　John　RE：　True　Tales　of　Demon　Infestations；　by　Carlos　Detweiller
　　Detweiller's　manuscript　came　this　morning；　wrapped　in　shopping　bags；　secured　with　twine　（much　of　it　broken）；　and　apparently　typed　by　someone　with　terrible　motor　control　problems。　It　is　every　bit　as　bad　as　I　feared…abysmal；　beyond　hope。
　　That　could　and　should　be　the　end；　but　some　of　the　photos　he　enclosed　are　intensely　disturbing；　Roger…and　this　is　no　joke；　so　please　don't　treat　it　as　one。　They　are　a　weird　conglomeration　of　black…and…white　glossies　（made　with　a　Nikon；　I　would　guess）；　color　slides　（ditto　Nikon）；　and　Polaroid　SX…70　shots。　Most　of　them　are　ridiculous…middle…aged　men　and　women　either　got　up　in　black　bathrobes　with　cabalistic　designs　sewn　on　them　or　middle…aged　men　and　women　in　nothing　at　all；　displaying　skinny　shanks；　dangling　breasts；　and　pot　bellies。　They　look　exactly　like　what　you'd　guess　the　folks　of　Central　Falls　would　imagine　a　Black　Mass　should　look　like　（in　some　of　them　there　is　a　much　younger　man　who　is　probably　Detweiller　himself…this　young　man　is　always　shot　from　the　rear　or　with　his　face　in　deep　shadow）；　and　the　locale　appears；　in　most　cases；　to　be　a　greenhouse…associated　with　the　florist's　where　Detweiller　told　me　he　works；　I　imagine。
　　There's　one　packet　of　six　photos　labelled　〃The　Sakred　Seance〃　which　show　plasmic　manifestations　so　obviously　faked　it's　pitiful　（what　appears　to　be　a　balloon　frosted　with　Day…Glo　paint　is　floating　from　the　medium's　fingertips）。　A　third　packet　of　photos　（all　SX…70　shots）　are　textbook…style　〃exhibit〃　shots　of　various　plants　which　purport　to　be　deadly　nightshade；　belladonna；　virgin's　hair；　etc。　（impossible　for　me　to　tell　if　the　labels　are　accurate…I　can't　tell　a　maple　tree　from　a　ponderosa　pine　without　help；　Ruth　would　probably　know）。
　　Okay；　the　disturbing　part。　Some　of　the　photos　（four；　to　be　pletely　accurate）　in　the　〃Black　Mass〃　scenes　purport　to　show　a　human　sacrifice…and　it　looks　to　me　as　if　maybe　they　really　did　kill　someone。　The　first　photo　shows　an　old　man　with　an　extremely　realistic　expression　of　terror　on　his　face　lying　spread…eagled　on　a　table　in　the　greenhouse　I　mentioned。　Several　people　in　hokey　robes　are　holding　him　down。　The　young　man　I　presume　to　be　Carlos　Detweiller　is　standing　on　the　left；　naked；　with　what　looks　like　a　Bowie　knife。　The　second　shows　the　knife　plunging　into　the　old　fellow's　chest；　in　the　third；　the　man　I　presume　to　be　Detweiller　is　reaching　into　the　chest　cavity；　in　the　last　he　is　holding　up　a　dripping　thing　for　the　others　to　look　at。　The　dripping　thing　looks　very　much　like　a　human　heart。
　　The　pictures　could　be　plete　hokum；　and　I'd　be　the　first　to　admit　it…a　half…decent　special　effects　man　could　cobble　up　something　like　this；　I　suppose；　especially　in　stills。　。　。　but　the　efforts　to　mislead　in　the　other　photos　are　so　painfully　obvious　that　I　wonder　if　that　can　be。
　　Just　glancing　at　them　is　enough　to　make　me　want　to　whoops　my　cookies；　Roger…what　if　we've　stumbled　onto　a　bunch　of　people　who　are　really　practicing　human　sacrifice？　Mass　murder；　perhaps？　I'm　nauseated；　but　right　now　I'm　more　scared　than　anything　else。　I　could　have　told　you　all　of　this　in　person；　of　course；　but　it　seemed　important　to　get　this　down　in　writing；　just　in　case　it　does　turn　out　to　be　a　legal　matter。　Christ；　I　wish　I'd　never　even　heard　of　Carlos　Fucking　Detweiller。
　　e　down　and　take　a　look　at　these　as　soon　as　you　possibly　can；　okay？　I　just　don't　know　if　I　should　pick　up　the　phone　and　call　the　police　in　Central　Falls　or　not。
　　
　　John
　　
　　SYNOPSIS
　　JOHN　KENTON；　who　attended　Brown　University；　majored　in　English；　and　was　president　of　the　Literary　Society；　has　had　a　rude　awakening　in　the　real　world：　he　is　one　of　four　editors　at　Zenith　House；　a　down…at…the…heels　paperback　publisher　in　New　York。
　　Zenith　has　2％　of　the　paperback　market　and　is　fifteenth　in　a　field　of　fifteen　paperback　publishers。　All　of　the　Zenith　House　personnel　are　worried　that　Apex；　the　parent　corporation；　may　decide　to　put　the　house　on　the　market　if　there　isn't　a　sales　turnaround　in　the　calendar　year　1981。　。　。　and　due　to　Zenith's　poor　distribution　network；　that　seems　unlikely。
　　On　January　4th　of　1981；　Kenton　receives　a　query　letter　from　CARLOS　DETWEILLER；　of　Central　Falls；　Rhode　Island。　Detweiller；　twenty…three；　works　in　the　Central　Falls　House　of　Flowers；　and　is　hawking　a　book　he　has　written　called　True　Tales　of　Demon　Infestations。　It's　obvious　to　Kenton　that　Detweiller　has　absolutely　no　talent　as　a　writer。　。　。　but　then；　neither　do　most　of　the　writers　on　Zenith's　roster　（biggest　seller：　the　Macho　Man　series）。　He　encourages　Detweiller　to　submit　sample　chapters　and　an　outline。
　　Instead；　Detweiller　submits　the　work　entire；　which　is　even　more　abysmal　than　Kenton…who　thought　that　the　book　could　perhaps　be　cut　down；　ghost…written；　and　juiced　up　for　The　Amityville　Horror　audience…would　have　believed　in　his　worst　nightmares。　Yet　the　worst　nightmare　of　all　is　in　the　photographs　Detweiller　encloses。　Some　are　painfully　faked　pictures　of　a　seance　in　progress；　but　a　series　of　four　show　a　gruesomely　realistic　human　sacrifice；　in　which　an　old　man's