I got up at 9:00 am and drove down to Fritz’s, only to discover when I got there that he didn’t have the handriwtten oginals for the last half. He seemed exasperated but restrained. I drove over to Oakland, and Charlie helped me locate the folders with the handwritten chapters. Then Fritz and I went over them for about two hours, locating mistakes. He was kind of relieved to find I had left out a paragraph. “I’ve been wrong about everything else,” he said. I was glad to hear him talk about rewriting the end — tying up loose ends, etc. Fafhrd’s Gray Mouser really should die, but I would settle for just a good, finished book.

The memorabilia in his place is fascinating. When he stopped to think, I would look around. There was an oil portrait nearby of a pretty woman with high cheekbones, cocked eyebrows plucked into a line, and a small, lipsticked mouth, who watched us from the corner of her eyes. Near her was a photo of an older version of this woman with her hand on a boy’s shoulder. Mrs. Leiber and Justin? Fritz’s father, the first Fritz Leiber, was very present as the bust of a lean, handsome young man, an oil painting self-portrait of FL Senior dressed as a Roman centurion, and a ticket stub for a long-past Shakespeare performance at Tulane.

Fritz Leiber Sr. was a film star and a renowned Shakespearean actor. The resemblance between father and son was so striking I at first thought the picture and the bust were of Fritz Jr.

Fritz Jr. himself did some acting, and can be spotted, uncredited, in a small role as Valentin in Garbo’s Camille. He told me that, in a shot where he stood behind a table next to Robert Taylor, they put him in a sort of hole to prevent him from towering over the leading man. I’m pretty sure Fritz was well over six feet tall.

Fritz’ Jr.’s apartment was in what we call the Tenderloin, a sketchy part of downtown, then and now a place where poor and working class people exist alongside prostitutes and the homeless. Herron’s Literary World of San Francisco includes a photo of Fritz in that apartment, sitting in front of his window, smiling and playing a recorder. This was, I believe, the same apartment (and window) described in Our Lady of Darkness, Fritz’s horror novel about San Francisco, and one of his best.

I was no fun today. Neither was anyone else.

Millie did not call until about 4;00, and there was some confusion about how I would get the forms – at her home, which is close to Charlie’s, or at her office, which isn’t too far from Tehama. I finally agreed to call her at about 5:00, when we both had some idea of how late we would be working. When I called her she was still at work, and she told me to come to the office and call from a pay phone so she could come down and let me in. After picking up Tim, quickly, in Alameda, we drove to The City.

There was some trouble parking near the post office on 1st. I ended up parking on 2nd and walking. There was no trouble finding a pay phone. Since someone was going in, I got to wait in the building lobby until Millie came down with my taxes.

Once I had my stuff, I dropped Tim off at home and drove to the 7^th Street Post office. Very quiet. An oasis compared to the 1^st street office. By some miracle I found parking place and went through my forms, signing them, writing checks, and sealing envelopes. Since I overpaid last year, I didn’t have to pay my first IRS installment at all, and I have an $800 refund only. Not bad.

Went in and got stamps at 7^th Street, along with a few other frantics who fluttered in. I was told by the security guard, however, to go to 1^st Street to get the envelopes postmarked. Thank God I didn’t slide them into a slot of 7^th Street, as I saw one girl do.

1^st Street was still a madhouse. Demonstrators passing out leaflets, people clutching forms and envelopes, security guards… I mailed my stuff, then went home. Tim and I argued about going out to eat, but I finally agreed to go to Houlihan’s. As always, there was a carnival atmosphere at Fisherman’s Wharf. Rambunctious college boys from Boston in the elevator.

I wasn’t hungry. Too strung out. So I just had a spinach salad served in a bowl the size of a small manger.

Got through it all only acting slightly psychotic.