"I won't let you," Dermitt went on in a much calmer tone. "I'll put you on paper, and you'll have to stay there until I'm done with you. You can't dictate to me. I'll write night and day. I'll take pills to keep me awake, and...."
"I was afraid you might take this tack," Fleetwood said. "But it won't work. As you've said yourself, you've been having all sorts of trouble with me lately. That means I've developed a will of my own, even on paper. If you shove me back into that story you're going to have more trouble than you ever dreamed of. You'll never get the story finished. I meant it sincerely when I said I bear you no ill will, but you've got to remember I'm here to fight for my life."
"I see," Dermitt said, deflated. He leaned back, then sharply forward again. "Look, Cassidy, why can't we just make a friendly deal over this thing? There isn't much left to do on this yarn, hardly anything at all really. It's just a matter of finishing up. Why don't you stick it out with me until I'm finished? I'll never write about you again, I swear. I'll develop a whole new character." He looked to Fleetwood hopefully. "I'll pay you a regular salary, too, so much an hour—retroactive."
Fleetwood shook his head. "Huh-uh. I'm tired, Dermitt. If I have to mix it up with any more gunmen or double-dealing dames I'll have a nervous breakdown. I'm not kidding." His gaze moved to the window and the glittering vista stretching out into the eternal distance of the night. "Besides, I've met a girl...."
"A girl?" Dermitt said, incredulous. "How could you meet a girl? When did you have the chance?"
"This afternoon. In a drug store. But...."
"My God, you work fast, don't you? You didn't do anything unprintable, did you?"
"Of course not," Fleetwood said with sudden primness. "Besides, it's none of your business what I do outside of working hours."
Nonetheless, Dermitt pursued the subject further. "What's she like?" he asked. "Limpid eyes, full of subtle invitation? Green flecked with gold?"