HE BEAT ALL THE WAY around the bush, trying to ascertain without actually asking pointblank whether I could spend a few moments, and, if so, would I like a drink.
One must not anticipate, so I waited until he’d made his meaning clear. Then I accepted his offer of some bourbon, refused his offer of a cigar and settled myself into the chair he waved at.
I tasted the highball, smiled in approval, and opened the conversation by saying, “Your daughter tells me that you write, Mr. Wood.”
He smiled wistfully. “Well, I’m not at the stage where the mere announcement that I am working on a novel causes an immediate pre-publication sale of seventy thousand copies. You see, I’m still trying to work out a good association gimmick.”
“A what?”
“An association gimmick. The name Erle Stanley Gardner,
