Ed Topliss has a problem.Two and a half years ago, he was approached by a publishing executive of dubious credentials, who said, "If you can write a grammatical letter, you can write a sex novel." Since then, Topliss (who also writes under the pseudonyms of Dirk Smuff and Dwayne Toppil) has written one sex novel each month for $1,000 per book. According to his formula, that's 10 chapters of 5,000 words each with one sex scene in each chapter — or 280 various sexual acts in his entire career.But Ed Topliss has reached an impasse. Twenty-five years old, the only son of a cocktail waitress, a graduate of Monequois College, the father of a young girl named Elfreda who was conceived before matrimony, Topliss is haunted by an unflagging desire to be a serious writer. Beset by personal and financial crises, he suddenly discovers he cannot write on schedule. His wife leaves home, his fantasy life starts to merge with his real life, and indeed it seems as if his whole future hangs in jeopardy.In Adios, Scheherazade, Donald E. Westlake, best known for his novels of comic suspense (The Spy in the Ointment, The Hot Rock), turns his attention to a new area. With the same delightful style that won him the Mystery Writers Award for the best novel of 1967, Westlake creates a touching, funny, thoroughly enjoyable portrait of what happens when a small-time writer tries to "make it" in the world of big-time pornography.
This is for Norman Mulonet
Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their country.
I’m supposed to write a dirty book now. It is one-thirty in the afternoon, Fred is asleep, Betsy is at the A&P, it is the 21st day of November, the year of my God! 1967, and I have ten days in which to write Opus Number 29. In E flat. Scherzo, please.
What the heck am I doing? I put the paper in the typewriter, I typed the number 1 midway down the left margin, I quadruple-spaced, I indented five, and then I was supposed to write the first sentence of this month’s dirty book. So what do I think I’m doing? I’m sitting here typing nonsense, I’m supposed to be typing sex.
I can’t think about it, that’s the problem. I sit here and I look at the paper, the typewriter keys, the desk, the Bic ballpoint pen, the yellow Ticonderoga pencil, the round red eraser with the bushy green tail, and I wind up thinking things like how many words are in Ticonderoga. Ago. Tide. Recoating.
What kind of crap is that? It’s sex time, lust time, time to get the old cottage industry in high gear. I have till three p.m., November 30th, this year, to get this book written and delivered to Lance or it’s all over, I am up the flue, down the chute, in the dustbin and out on my ear. Lance does not tell jokes, and he does not make empty threats. “I’m sorry, Edwin,” he said, and he sounded sorry.
That was on the phone. I never see Lance except on the phone, if you know what I mean. Maybe he knows he’s more effective that way, with nothing but the calm sincere persuasive voice, the voice that belongs with the name Lance. Lance Pangle. You’d think he’d have changed the last name too. Rod says he had to keep it for tax reasons or business reasons or something like that, but I say no. I say the bastard’s too egotistical to become a pen name for himself. Maurice Pangle was horrible, and because (grudgingly I admit) the rat does have brains he knew it was horrible, he knew it would be a disadvantage in business dealings. And I can see why he didn’t keep the first name; Maurice itself is horrible, and the only name on earth it goes with is Evans, and that’s taken. So he changed his first name. Lance Pangle. The front half of a cowboy hero and the back half of his horse.
The voice invokes the front half. It is a gentlemanly trombone, the softest baritone in the world. The moods it implies are gentle, quiet, civilized. He can call out the firing squad and then say, “I’m sorry, Edwin,” and really and truly sound sorry.
“I’ll get it in on time, Lance,” I promised, and I wanted to sound determined and responsible, but I have the bad feeling I sounded like somebody already on the chute.
I’m a square peg in a round hole, that’s what it is, forgive the sexual reference. I’m no more a writer than I am an astronaut. I’m no more a writer than I am a—. (Fill in the blank with your three favorite occupations.)
Rod warned me. “Nobody can do this shit forever,” he said. “You gotta remember it’s only temporary.”
How could I pay any attention? In the first place he was saying “shit,” in my mother’s living room, with my mother sitting right there. In the second place he’d come up from New York with Sabina Del Lex, and they were staying together in the same motel room out at the Howard Johnson by the Thruway exit, and all I could do was try not to look at Sabina’s thighs. And in the third place I didn’t
A year and a half, that’s what I said. Rod came up to Albany in January of 1965, late in January. I got his letter the first week in January, and I wrote back and said hell yes I’m interested, and he drove up in that red MG with Sabina sometime toward the end of the month.
It was the money he kept talking about, and it was the money I was most interested in. I was a college graduate (class of ’64 gang!), and I was married, and I was living at home with my mother and working for Capital City Beer Distributors. And Betsy was seven months pregnant, which is another reason I was refusing to look at Sabina’s thighs.
I’ve had a letch for Sabina Del Lex ever since Rod first brought her up to Albany and introduced her to me. Me to her. No, since before that. When I’d seen her on TV on that General Electric clock-radio commercial, she was so obviously hot to grab that clock-radio and shove it in that I quick ran off and humped Betsy. And now here she was in my house — my mother’s house — and Betsy was just a few days from the beginning of the six weeks of nothing, and was as big as a hippopotamus anyway, and I was
Where was I? Money. Rod said they paid twelve hundred dollars for one of these books. “It used to be a thousand, but Lance Jewed them up.”
Betsy said, “That isn’t a phrase, is it? Isn’t it Jewed them down?”
