Bag of Bones by Stephen King

Nearing’s a great lead character, and Skate is your best villain ever.”
    I said nothing.
    â€œDebra raised the possibility of making Helen’s Promise the opener of a three-book contract. A very lucrative three-book contract. All without any prompting from me. Three is one more than any publisher has wanted to commit to ’til now. I mentioned nine million dollars, three million per book, in other words, expecting her to laugh . . . but anagent has to start somewhere, and I always choose the highest ground I can find. I think I must have Roman military officers somewhere back in my family tree.”
    Ethiopian rug-merchants, more like it, I thought, but didn’t say. I felt the way you do when the dentist has gone a little heavy on the Novocain and flooded your lips and tongue as well as your bad tooth and the patch of gum surrounding it. If I tried to talk, I’d probably only flap and spread spit. Harold was almost purring. A three-book contract for the new, mature Michael Noonan. Tall tickets, baby.
    This time I didn’t feel like laughing. This time I felt like screaming. Harold went on, happy and oblivious. Harold didn’t know the bookberry tree had died. Harold didn’t know the new Mike Noonan had cataclysmic shortness of breath and projectile-vomiting fits every time he tried to write.
    â€œYou want to hear how she came back to me, Michael?”
    â€œLay it on me.”
    â€œShe said, ‘Well, nine’s obviously high, but it’s as good a place to start as any. We feel this new book is a big step forward for him.’ This is extraordinary. Extraordinary. Now, I haven’t given anything away, wanted to talk to you first, of course, but I think we’re looking at seven-point-five, minimum. In fact—”
    â€œNo.”
    He paused a moment. Long enough for me to realize I was gripping the phone so hard it hurt my hand. I had to make a conscious effort to relax my grip. “Mike, if you’ll just hear me out—”
    â€œI don’t need to hear you out. I don’t want to talk about a new contract.”
    â€œPardon me for disagreeing, but there’ll never be a better time. Think about it, for Christ’s sake. We’re talking top dollar here. If you wait until after Helen’s Promise is published, I can’t guarantee that the same offer—”
    â€œI know you can’t,” I said. “I don’t want guarantees, I don’t want offers, I don’t want to talk contract. ”
    â€œYou don’t need to shout, Mike, I can hear you.”
    Had I been shouting? Yes, I suppose I had been.
    â€œAre you dissatisfied with Putnam? I think Debra would be very distressed to hear that. I also think Phyllis Grann would do damned near anything to address any concerns you might have.”
    Are you sleeping with Debra, Harold? I thought, and all at once it seemed like the most logical idea in the world—that dumpy, fiftyish, balding little Harold Oblowski was making it with my blonde, aristocratic, Smith-educated editor. Are you sleeping with her, do you talk about my future while you’re lying in bed together in a room at the Plaza? Are the pair of you trying to figure how many golden eggs you can get out of this tired old goose before you finally wring its neck and turn it into pâté? Is that what you’re up to?
    â€œHarold, I can’t talk about this now, and I won’t talk about this now.”
    â€œWhat’s wrong? Why are you so upset? I thought you’d be pleased. Hell, I thought you’d be over the fucking moon.”
    â€œThere’s nothing wrong. It’s just a bad time for me to talk long-term contract. You’ll have to pardon me, Harold. I have something coming out of the oven.”
    â€œCan we at least discuss this next w—”
    â€œ No, ” I said, and hung up. I think it was the first time in my adult life that I’d hung up on