![]() ![]() Oh, if only this drunken fool would give me something to work with. “About this feller here?” Arthur nudges the prone gunslinger, who snorts sleepily in retort. “This next book, though! That will stun them all.” My readers - they ask after me, you know.” He takes a sip of his drink and glances at Arthur, as if to reassure himself Arthur is still listening. The publisher has been hounding me as of late. The drink has made Levin chatty - or, equally likely, all these writer types like to hear themselves talk, and he continues without any further prompting: “I will admit, however, that it’s been a while since my last publication. ![]() ![]() “They say I’m one of the greatest novelists to ever come from Baltimore.” “I’m quite famous, you know,” Theodore Levin says, his tone paradoxically unsure. In the Valentine Smithfields Saloon, Arthur shares a whiskey with a harried writer and a half-conscious gunslinger. ![]()
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