Avery asked me how my books were selling in hard covers and I told him, “Lousy,” and he nodded wisely and said I’d never learned to put enough sex in my books. His were selling over ten thousand copies in the first editions, he went on, and he had an offer from one of the houses doing original soft-cover books of a $15,000 advance for a book if he would guarantee them at least five hot sex scenes.

I knew he was probably selling about three thousand copies in hard covers, and might possibly have been offered $2,500 for a soft-cover original, so I shrugged and drank his drink and turned back to the bar away from him to be lonely some more.

I was pouring my third drink of cognac from the bottle I’d had the bartender leave in front of me when I heard a low voice on my left saying, “I’ll bet you it’s the guy that writes Mike Shayne. Uh… can’t think of his name just now, but that’s him all right.”

The speaker was jammed up close beside me on my left side. My patch is on that eye and I couldn’t see who it was. I kept looking straight ahead and pretended not to hear, but there’s no author in the world who wouldn’t have listened.

A second voice, beyond the first speaker, replied scornfully, making no effort to keep his voice low: “You mean Brett Halliday? Maybe it is. Who could care less?”

“Sh-h-h, Lew. Maybe you don’t like his stuff, but he’s one of the real old-timers.”

“That’s just it. His stuff is old hat. My God, I bet I outsell him four to one and I’ve only been writing three years!”

I poured my drink down and then turned deliberately to look at the pair who were discussing me.

The lad next to me had a fresh, round face and ingenuous blue eyes. His corn-colored hair was cut short. He caught my eye as I turned, and a flush spread over his face. He said eagerly, “You are Brett Halliday, aren’t you? I’m Jimmie Mason, a new member. I’ve only had a couple of shorts published, but I’m working on a novel now.”