The Plant

February 7, 1981

Dear Ruth,

I had sort of expected a “fuck-you” letter from Carlos Detweiller-it was in the back of my mind, anyway-and I got a dilly just the other day. I employed Zenith House's creaky pre-World War I Xerox machine to make a copy, and have enclosed it with this letter. In his anger he is almost lyrical-I especially like the line about me being a warped plank in the floor of the universe... a phrase even Carlyle might admire. He misspelled Richard Gere's name, but maybe that was artistic license. On the whole, I'd say I feel relieved-it's over, at least. The guy has struck out for the Great American West, undoubtedly with his rose-cutting shears slung low on one hip (on one rose-hip? oh, forget it).

“Yeah, but is he really gone?” you ask. The answer is, yes he is.

I got the letter yesterday and rang up Barton Iverson of the Central Falls Police almost at once (after getting Roger's grudging approval for the long distance, I might add). I thought Iverson would go along with my request to check matters out, and he did. Seems he too thought the “sakrifice photos” were too real for comfort, and the latest Detweiller communication does have a rather threatening tone.

He sent a man named Riley-the same man who went before, I think-to check out Carlos, and he (Iverson, not Riley) called me back in ninety minutes. It seems that Detweiller served his notice almost right after being released from custody, and the Barfield woman has even advertised for a new florist's assistant in the local newspapers. One mildly interesting thing: Riley checked on the guy in the “sakrifice photos,” and came up with a name I know: It was Mr. Norville Keen, the same guy, I'm pretty sure, that Detweiller mentioned in his first two letters (“Why describe a guest when you can see that guest,” and other pearls of wisdom). The cop asked her a few questions about the staging of those photos, and the Barfield woman clammed up, ka-bang, just like that. Asked him if it was an official investigation, or what. It isn't, of course, so that was that... and in my mind, the whole subject is closed. Iverson told me that Riley can't “make” the Barfield woman from any of the photos, so there was no handle to question her further... not that anyone there in Central Falls really wants to, I think. Iverson was very frank with me. “Let sleeping weirdos lay,” was what he actually said, and I agree two hundred per cent.

If the new Anthony LaScorbia novel turns out to be Plants from Hell, though, I'm quitting.

I'll write you a more normal letter later in the week, I hope, but I thought you'd want to know how it all turned out. Meanwhile, I'm back to spending my nights on my novel and my days looking for a bestseller we can buy for $2500. As I believe President Lincoln once said, “Good fucking luck, turkey.”

Meantime, thanks for your phone call, and your last missive. And in answer to your question, yeah, I'm also H*O*R*N*Y.

My love,

John