Hot Properties (13 page)

Fred Tatter was waiting again. This time in Bart’s outer office. He had handed in an outline for
The Locker Room,
his novel on the incompatibility of men and women, two days after thinking of the idea. Bart had taken the weekend to read it, called to say he liked it, and made an appointment to see Fred the next morning. So Fred had spent a sleepless night trying to deduce what Bart intended from his terse comment of praise on the phone:

“It’s good, Fred. Come in tomorrow at ten and we’ll talk.”

A cryptographer handed a top-secret code could not have found more significant hidden meaning than Fred did in those two sentences. He began euphorically; decided that Bart was going to present him with an offer from a publisher and simply wanted to do it face to face. That fell by the wayside when Fred realized it was impossible. Not enough time had passed for Bart to get the outline to an editor and have it read. By three in the morning he had become pessimistic: Bart wanted major changes in the outline and simply wished to begin by softening up Fred with praise. By five in the morning Fred decided that “It’s good, Fred” was a pretty weak compliment, so halfhearted that it was no better than saying “It stinks, Fred.”

I poured my heart into that outline, Fred thought. It’s got my guts in it. And all he can say is, “It’s good.”

Fred fell asleep on the couch at six, furious and despondent, resolved to break off with Bart if he suggested any changes, and prepared to demand why he was so abrupt and high-handed on the phone.

But by the time Fred, bleary-eyed, his back aching from sleeping on the soft couch, arrived at the town house in the Village that Bart had bought—the bottom two floors for his office, the top three for living—he felt so worthless, so convinced that his only hope of success lay with the backing of a hot, powerful agent like Bart, that he was ready to throw out the outline and apologize for having handed in such a miserable piece of work.

Fred looked at the beautiful built-in maple shelves that surrounded the marble fireplace in the waiting room. A hundred years ago it had been a fancy parlor room, and Bart’s architects had kept and restored that feeling, except for the Xerox machine that glistened on top of a large oak table near Bart’s secretary’s elegant desk. The shelves were filled with books by clients. Even if Fred had come in cocky, the sight of seven bestsellers within the last two years would have punched it out of him. In his state of mind, it almost felled him to his knees. He felt lucky that Bart’s secretary smiled at him, grateful he had been offered coffee, and terrified of the closed door to Bart’s office.

When it did open, Fred got up quickly, forgetting his cup of coffee was filled to the brim and would spill. It did, most of it going on his best beige pants.

Bart’s secretary exclaimed.

Bart merely stared impassively.

The hot coffee burned into his thigh painfully.

The secretary rushed over with a roll of paper towels from her desk, handed Fred some, and bent down to mop up what had landed on the white rug. She looked up at Fred. “Are you okay? Is that burning you?”

“No,” Fred said angrily.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” He had dabbed at the wet spot on his pants, but that made the burn hurt more, so he stopped and held out the paper towel to the secretary. “Sorry about the rug.”

“Won’t hurt it,” she said. “Maybe you should put some water on the pants. It’ll stain.”

“Nah.” Fred waved his hand as if he usually wore a pair of pants only once and then threw them out. His leg hurt. He got an image of it swelling into an enomous pus-filled blister.

Bart, still standing at the door calmly, said, “Come in, Fred.”

“Sure,” Fred said, now carrying the coffee in both hands.

Bart’s office must have been the dining room. It had tall, elegant windows, a large fireplace, and elegant moldings in the center of the ceiling that once supported a chandelier. There were no books in this room, but there were two large leather couches—distinctly inconsistent with the dominant motif of French country antiques—a large armchair opposite Bart’s desk, and an enormous globe underneath the nearest window. The world was literally at Bart’s fingertips.

Fred winced as he sat in the armchair.

“Are you all right?” Bart asked in a tone suggesting surprise that he could possibly be in pain.

“Oh, yeah.”

“I just got off the phone with Bob Holder at Garlands. We were discussing your outline. I’m sending it to him this afternoon. He’s promised to give an answer in two days, if I give it to him exclusive.”

Bart’s tone was matter-of-fact, so listless that Fred didn’t react. He nodded slowly.

“I think he’s a good choice, don’t you?”

“Uh, Bob Holder?” Fred repeated.

“Yeah, he’s the hot young editor at Garlands. And they’ve really been the aggressive packager of fiction in the last couple years.”

“It’s great.” Fred said in a stunned tone.

“Off an outline I don’t know how big an advance I can get—”

“You think he’ll buy it?”

Bart stared at him. “Why not?”

“You think the outline’s really good?”

“It’s fair. You’re not terrific at writing outlines. But it’s been my experience the best outline writers come out with lousy novels. And vice versa. I told that to Bob. He agreed. He’s had the same experience.”

Fred laughed nervously. Fair. He said the outline was fair. “He knows I haven’t written a novel?”

“If Bob likes the idea, he’ll trust my judgment that you can pull it off. We’ve done very well together.”

Fred nodded, stupefied by this strange conjunction: Bart thought the outline was fair, but he had given it to his big-money editor at one of America’s most prestigious publishers, and was confident he would make a deal. Was Bart that influential? Could this man whose rug Fred had just spilled coffee on really announce to an editor that someone was a good writer and be taken at face value? If so, rather than reassuring Fred, it made him very nervous. He tried to think how he should react: with profuse thanks? Or was that too craven, indicative of a total lack of confidence in himself? But if he took it in stride, mightn’t Bart feel Fred was ungrateful, ignorant of how big a favor Bart had given away?

“This is great,” Fred said, still in the slow speech of a victim of bad news.

“Of course Bob agrees with me that you should make some changes when you get to the actual writing of the novel.”

“I don’t understand. Has Bob read the outline?”

“No. But I told him the story line. We both think the hero shouldn’t be Jewish—”

“But I’m Jewish.”

Bart paused. “Tatter?” he asked.

“My great-grandfather’s name was Teittlebaum. He couldn’t speak English, so the official gave him the name of Tatters. ’Cause of the condition of his clothing. By the time my great-grandfather found out what ‘Tatters’ meant, he had grown fond of it. He dropped the S so people wouldn’t make the connection.”

Usually this story brought a smile to people’s faces. Bart contemplated it rather as if Fred had told him an intriguing and sobering paradox. “Why does that mean your hero has to be Jewish?”

“It doesn’t. Just that for my first book I thought I should …” Fred trailed off. He really didn’t know why. “You know.”

“Do you see this as an autobiographical novel?”

“I guess not.”

“ ’Cause if you do, maybe we could make it nonfiction. A male answer to
The Second Sex.”

“No, no. It’s definitely a novel.”

“All right. Bob and I think it’s better if the hero is non-Jewish. There are too many complaining books about Jewish men and sex.”

“You’re right,” Fred agreed, embarrassed. Did the proposal give away how frustrated and inadequate he felt in bed? Just another Jewish boy upset that he doesn’t have a big prick?

“In fact,” Bart continued, “maybe the book shouldn’t take place in New York. Seems to me almost every novel I read is located in New York. You know, I was brought up in Detroit and, uh. New Yorkers think of the rest of America as provincial, but the fact is it’s New York that’s insulated. New York books are too self-conscious. I think readers would be more interested to find out how men feel in the rest of the country. Maybe you could set it in my hometown. Ever been to Detroit?”

“Yeah, sure. I did a couple pieces on the Tigers for
Sport.”
Detroit’s a shithole, Fred said to himself bitterly, mostly because he couldn’t say it out loud.

“What do think about setting it there?”

Fred swallowed and looked away from Bart’s cold eyes. He felt as if these weren’t merely suggestions. That the timing of this conversation—immediately before submitting the outline to Bob Holder—implied a threat if Fred didn’t go along. Perhaps Bart would use his influence with Holder only if Fred agreed to these plot and character changes. He hated them, though.

“You want to set the book in New York,” Bart said in what seemed like an impatient and disappointed tone.

“No, no,” Fred said quickly, meaning to answer Bart’s impatience. He realized—with horror—that he had just accidentally agreed to setting it elsewhere.

“You’re just not sure about Detroit?” Bart prompted.

Fred nodded, abashed. Why didn’t he argue? Why was he letting his novel be changed without a fight?

“Detroit was just a notion. The important thing is to keep it out of New York. As long as you agree, that’s fine.” Bart leaned back with a satisfied expression. “This is going to be a big book, Fred. I considered making a hard-soft deal with Bob. He already brought it up—but now I don’t think so. We may get seven figures for the paperback rights if you can pull it off.”

Fred was electrified. Not by the talk of seven figures; that he knew was gossamer. It was Bob Holder bringing up a possible hard-soft deal. That meant he was already partly disposed toward making a deal even before seeing the outline. Jesus, why hadn’t he worked on the outline harder and longer? “Holder’s really excited, huh?”

“You know, it’s interesting, Fred. This idea of yours— it’s hot. Minute I heard it, I knew you had something. And Holder, who has, I think, the best instincts for commercial fiction in the country, was hopping. He was terrified I was going to give anyone else a shot at it.” ”

Fred felt scared. He learned forward. “Bart. Listen. Maybe, given all these changes, I should rewrite the outline before Holder sees it.”

“I’ve already sent it to him. Don’t worry. He doesn’t expect much from the outline. I told him you’d done it in a rush, that you’ll be eager to sit down with him before writing and really work out a detailed plot so there’ll be no surprises when you hand in the manuscript. You know, it’s best to involve an editor. Get their ego into the book. Make ’em feel almost as if they wrote it. Then they fight like a motherfucker for a big printing, ad budget. I think if you work closely with Holder, he’ll go to the mat and really fight for the book.”

Fred left Bart’s office thrilled. He hailed a cab and gave his home address. He lit a cigarette and looked out the window at New York City—perhaps too boring and provincial a location for his novel—but the crisp fall day’s sun glistened against the midtown skyscrapers and danced a celebration of welcome. Fred told the driver he had changed his mind, and asked him to steer for Brooks Brothers, and soon he was there, amidst all those insulated New York men; men who ran the banks, the newsmagazines, the television networks; powerful men, who, Fred fancied, glanced at him casually, as if he belonged, despite his coffee-stained pants. Self-confidence rose from him like a mist, obscuring that he was short, Jewish, and all those other insecurities that America had been bored to tears reading of. No, there would be no shouts of intruder from the powerful men, because, Fred believed, he now belonged.

Another major story had been assigned to David Bergman the week that
Newstime
became the subject of the news rather than a purveyor. Every day in the New York
Post
on page six (a garish page of show-business and media gossip) the “scandalous” story of Steinberg’s sudden firing and the confusion over who would be named Groucho—editor in chief—was given big play.

While David puzzled over the bureau reports on Haig’s problems, wild accounts of Mrs. Thorn’s dismissal of Steinberg appeared, were denied, and then reappeared with new embellishments. The original story was: she had walked in out of the blue and, despite Steinberg’s very profitable record, had fired him impulsively when, after she complained about a recent cover story, he told her not to interfere with his running of the magazine.
Newstime
editors and writers found themselves getting calls late Monday and early Tuesday from people at the
Weekly
trying to confirm or deny this. Everybody claimed to have no idea what had happened.

David tried to concentrate on the Haig story. His dismissal had been so widely anticipated that David couldn’t find a single new element to bring in now that the event had actually occurred. By Wednesday the story that Mrs. Thorn had had security guards appear to prevent Steinberg from taking any files and that she had had him led out in disgrace was causing a lot of laughter at the
Weekly
and among newsies in general.

But the attention of
Newstime
employees was on the question of who would be Steinberg’s successor. David was glad that he had his cover story to write, because he could plausibly ignore the nervous speculations in the hall. He had heard nothing more from Chico about his own potential promotion; he had tried to see Patty Lane again and had been too distracted and anxiety-ridden to enjoy her; and so he told himself to focus absolutely on the cover story and let events decide things for him.

By Thursday, contempt for Mrs. Thorn was rampant in
Newstime’s
halls. The writers decided the gossip was true. She must have fired Steinberg without thinking it through because she had not yet picked a new Groucho. By now Steinberg, for whom there had been little love and certainly no passion, was being discussed wistfully, as if his tenure had been a golden era, impossible to recapture.

Everyone’s mood was worsened by the emotional state of the remaining Marx Brothers, who, made restless by a vacancy above them, were suddenly trespassing on each other’s territory, as if to prove that they were qualified to head the magazine. Chico, who had been put in charge for that week’s issue, behaved as though the assignment was permanent. But his manner was irritable and defensive, like someone who suspects that if he should settle on his throne, he would discover that a prankster had moved it away, and he’d end up on his ass—with a roomful of spectators to laugh at him. David found his “blues,” so called because the rough drafts of articles were written on blue sheets that were edited by the appropriate senior editor and Marx Brother, coming back from Chico with crabby and picky margin notes requesting changes. This was unusual and worried David. Had someone convinced Chico that David was a poor choice to senior-edit Business and now Chico was out to cover himself by becoming David’s biggest critic?