Hot Properties (19 page)

The phone rang and Fred picked it up casually. He had been standing in front of the stove, pouring water into his coffee filter, thinking bitterly of Friday’s poker game. Regret, resentment, and anger over his losses had snaked itself around his trepidation about Holder reading his outline. By Sunday night his obsession with his defeat at the hands of those successful writers had strangled his own career anxieties. Fred had lied to Marion about the game, telling her he had lost a little, which forced him to call Karl and ask him never to mention that he had dropped three hundred bucks.

“You shouldn’t play, Fred,” Karl had said, “if you can’t afford—”

“Are you kidding? I got fourteen grand in the bank—”

“Really?” Karl said with a tone of surprise—annoyed surprise—that worried Fred.

“Well, yeah, I mean, it’s our savings, but still … Look, she would bust my ass about it—”

“Don’t worry. I won’t tell her.”

“And I want a shot at getting my money back, right?” Fred said, his irritation at losing overcoming any delicacy he might have felt about demanding another invitation.

Karl had tried to convince him he shouldn’t play again. When Fred pressed him, Karl told him flat out that he was a terrible player and would consistently lose.

“Well, let’s just say I like losing to famous writers, okay?” Fred said, somehow thinking this would put Karl in his place.

And so Monday morning, while pouring the boiling water into his Melitta, when the phone rang, for once Fred didn’t anticipate that it was his million-dollar call, the career-transforming moment. Usually, when he was waiting for news, his heart skipped every time the phone rang, but this time the fantasies of pulling an endless succession of full houses on Sam Wasserman opiated him, and he picked up the receiver dully. “Hello?”

“Fred Tatter?” It was the neutral voice of a secretary.

“Yes?”

“Bob Holder calling. Could you please hold?”

“Sure,” he said, and his soul knew despair, triumph, terror, and awe—all within the few seconds it took for Bob Holder to come on.

“Hi!” said a young aggressive voice. “Fred?”

“Hello.”

“Glad I got ya. Read your outline last night. Had to talk to ya first thing. I love this concept. Think it could make a great book. What do you think?”

Fred said nothing, confused, thinking momentarily that a third person must be on the phone somewhere, and that Holder’s question was directed at this stranger. But the silence told him it was meant for him. “Oh. Yeah,” he said. “I think it’s great.”

“Well,” Holder said. “I don’t think it’s great now. See, your outline doesn’t hit it, doesn’t hit it hard enough. I want to meet and talk about it. Okay?”

“Sure.”

“I got some free time this morning. That’s why I called first thing. Can you come up at eleven? I have a lunch at twelve-thirty. But that’s all the time I’ll need.”

“Sure.”

“Great. Know where we are?”

“Sure.”

“Great. See you at eleven.”

And Holder was off the phone. Fred hung up slowly. He had the feeling that the call hadn’t occurred. He stood in front of the stove watching the water drip through, his mind unable to apprehend what had been said by Holder.

The phone rang. Fred picked up sluggishly, a woozy fighter dumbly wading in for the final punishing blows. “Hello?”

“Fred? It’s Janice. Bart’s calling.”

“Okay,” he said slowly, but she was already off and Bart was on:

“Fred? Did you hear from Bob?”

“Yes. He just called.”

“He’s really excited. I think we’ve got a deal.”

“Really?” Fred asked in disbelief.

“Wasn’t that your impression?” Bart said, his voice impatient. “What did he say?”

“Well, he said he liked the idea—actually he said ‘concept’—but he didn’t think the outline had—”

“Oh yeah,” Bart said, bored, as if this came as no surprise. “He doesn’t think the outline is right. You and I discussed that. Remember, Fred? Not making the hero Jewish. Setting it somewhere other than New York. Bob has some other ideas. He said he wanted to meet with you. Did he arrange a meeting?”

“Yes. I’m seeing him at eleven. But he didn’t say why.”

“Well, that’s the reason. He wants to tell you some of his ideas and see if you guys are in sync. If so, then I think you’ve got a deal.”

“Huh,” Fred said. He wanted to ask if he would have to write another proposal after talking with Holder about his ideas, but he felt inhibited, as if the question was impolite, as if he were prying into affairs that weren’t his business.

“Okay, Fred. I think we’re rolling. Call me after the meeting.”

“Sure. ‘Bye. Thank you.” But Fred was already talking into silence. Was everybody else speeded up, or was he moving in slow motion?

He finally poured himself a coffee—it seemed a century ago that he had decided to make himself a cup—and drank it. He stood there like the victim of an accident: in shock, unable to fully remember the details or understand the consequences of a terrifying crash. Was this good news? Or was it simply no news? If Holder wanted a brand-new outline with all the plotting changed, why did that mean he was close to a deal? If he failed to write the new outline satisfactorily. Holder would end up turning it down. Why was Bart so pleased by these events? Why was Holder behaving so eagerly and expressing so much excitement, if he didn’t like the outline? There was nothing to be excited about except the outline. The situation made no sense to Fred.

And yet he wanted to believe.

He finished his coffee and realized the meeting was only an hour away.

He began to feel alive. His senses seemed to turn on all at once. His stomach growled, his heart pounded, his mind began to replay the two telephone conversations, and soon he was hurrying to shower, shave, and dress, worried he would be late, worried he wouldn’t be sharp and clever at the meeting, worried that he would blow it, blow his one chance, his only hope.

By the time he hailed a cab to go to Holder’s office, he was a nervous wreck. He entered the editorial reception area for Garlands and asked for Bob Holder tentatively, prepared to be told that Bob Holder had no idea who he was or why he would want to see someone named Fred Tatter.

But he was cheerfully informed that he was expected and that Bob’s assistant would be right out to guide him through the tortuous dusky-glass-walled, gray-carpeted halls to Bob Holder’s corner office with its canyonlike view of Sixth Avenue. And all this happened quickly, too quickly almost. Fred found himself seated across from Holder, nervously fumbling for a cigarette while telling the assistant that he wanted milk in his coffee. Holder sat at his desk, leaning forward on his elbows, looking at him with keen delight, like a kid eagerly ready to play a tough game of Monopoly.

Holder was a plump fellow in his early thirties, his curly hair cut short, so that it seemed tense, a boiling surface for a restless overheated brain. He was squeezed into a gray woolen sweater that made his biceps look powerful and outlined his well-fed belly; and the elbows were well-worn, the right one even showing a bit of his white-and-red-striped Brooks Brothers shirt. His desk was clear, but behind him on built-in shelves beneath his windows were mounds of manuscripts. A large appointment book was open beside the phone and the month was marked with meetings—a whole hour with him seemed luxurious.

“You’re just as I pictured you,” Holder said with a mischievous, energetic smile. Fred kept expecting to be challenged to a friendly arm-wrestling contest.

Fred nodded uncertainly.

“Tell me how you see your book,” Holder went on, and leaned back, putting his arms behind his head and looking pleasantly expectant.

“Uh …” Fred lit his cigarette. He felt like a teenager doing it. As if he were unused to smoking. “Well, I think I say it in the outline. I want to show how all this modern stuff about women and sex is basically bullshit. You can’t fight the fact that men, when they start feeling old or beat in some way, feel like screwing around. And it doesn’t mean they don’t love their wives or that their lives are bad.”

“Are you saying—”

The assistant entered with a cup of coffee for Fred. Holder went on talking. Fred took the cup and felt embarrassed that she might have heard what he said. She was a woman. What if she told Holder it was a disgusting idea? He made a point of thanking her, remembering Marion’s bitching about how casually assistants are treated. She did seem pleased, but Fred missed what Holder said.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “What did you say?”

Holder frowned and let his chair tip forward so he was back to his combative attitude: arms on the desk, leaning toward Fred aggressively. “You’re going to go after … you know, marriage counseling, therapy—be honest—all that.”

Fred hesitated. Maybe Holder didn’t agree with his point of view. Maybe Holder didn’t like the outline because he once had an affair, now regrets it, made up with his wife— he looked and saw a wedding ring on Holder’s left hand— but it was too late anyway because Fred had already nodded yes.

“Great!” Holder said, leaning back and smiling. “That’s what makes this a good book. Get a lot of controversy. Get people talking. We can even get something that’s always a marketing problem with novels, namely some talk-show appearances, if we present it as a kind of confessional from you about how modern young men are. You know, the women writers always get that kind of subsidiary publicity on their books, ’cause they can go on talk shows and discuss their books like their books teach you how to live. Know what I mean?”

“Like
The Women’s Room?”

“Yeah! Exactly. Though with you, we got a much better, much more salable presence. You know? You’d be great on Phil Donahue. Man, does that show sell books. I’ve just brought out
Greenhouse.
About the earth heating up, the ice caps melting. Well, we got the author on Donahue last week. Put the book right on the bestseller list.”

“Really? His show does that?”

“His show.
Nightline, Good Morning America.
The
Today Show
used to be great—”

“But since the ratings went down, they’re no good?”

“They’re still good. I don’t mean to say they don’t sell books.” Holder said this as if he were speaking in public, like a politician afraid to make clear statements. “But they’re not a top priority. Anyway, your book could attract all of them. And that’s great for me. I can really push within the house. I mean, it’s a terrible thing to admit, but a novelist who can get on a talk show is worth the talent of seven Tolstoys.”

Fred laughed appreciatively. “I gotta remember to quote you to my wife. She’s an editor at Goodson—”

“What’s her name?”

“Marion Tatter.”

Holder squinted. “I don’t know her.”

“Anyway, she’ll like that.”

“It’s true. Sad, but true. Anyway, getting back to your book. I’ve got a few problems with it, and I wanted to see if we put our heads together whether we could solve them. First, I don’t like it being set in New York.”

Fred nodded.

“I don’t like the sense,” Holder went on, “that it’s a poor man’s Philip Roth novel—you know, Jewish introverted hero who really, deep down, wants to be fucking his brains out, only he’s too guilty about the Holocaust or something. That’s a distraction from what we’ve discussed. We want this to be the male answer to
The Women’s Room
—”

“We could call it
The John,”
Fred said out of nervousness. He felt left out, lectured to, and he wanted to show he had some intelligence.

It must have been the right comment, because Holder banged his hand on his desk and laughed. Laughed hard, his mouth open, issuing staccato bursts of sound. “Not a bad idea,” he said. “Anyway, the point is, let’s stay away from any superficial resemblance to a whiny Roth book. Make the hero a WASP, set it in the Midwest or maybe California—LA might not be a bad idea, after all that’s where all the fads come from. What do you think?”

“I think you’re right.”

“Good,” Holder said, with a touch of surprise, as if he had expected a hassle. But the victory sat uneasily on his head. “You’re sure you agree? That’s not giving up anything important to you?”

This worried Fred. He wanted to make it clear he would do anything Holder wanted, but without seeming like a hack, a whore who would spread his legs for even a hint of payment. Instinctively Fred knew that no matter how much they junked up the plot of the book, he must convince Holder that he was a serious artist (I am, he insisted to himself), and make even the most calculated and topical novel read like literature. “Well,” Fred said, and pressed out his cigarette. He wanted to say: I can do it, whatever you want, I can do it. “The minute you said to me that the outline made it sound like a Roth novel, I understood. That isn’t what I’m going for. I guess I was worried people wouldn’t think I could do a non-Jewish, non-New York book. Fact is, I’d rather it wasn’t.”

“Good,” Holder said, now convinced Fred’s concession was sincere. “I have another problem with the outline.” He paused, as if this were a delicate moment. “I don’t think it should start in the late sixties and follow the couple up until our hero’s crisis. It should start with the crisis. And stay in the present, using all the current pop psychology that’s around.”

“You mean, start with him having an affair?”

“Or wanting to. Yeah.”

This bothered Fred, but his mind was blank as to why. He had adjusted to the notion of changing the setting and the ethnic background of the hero—after all, were those really changes?—but to throw out the first ten years the book was supposed to cover … ?

“I’ll tell you why,” Holder said after Fred’s silence had gone on for a while. “You want the book to be about this biological incompatibility between men and women, right? Men aren’t monogamous, that’s your thesis, right?”

Fred nodded uncertainly, like a witness being interrogated by a crack lawyer, afraid to admit even the most harmless and obvious fact, lest it lead to a damning conclusion.

“See,” Holder said, leaning forward earnestly, pleading his point, “then doing it with our hero being young, meeting his wife, marrying her, and so on, takes you down the wrong road. You want it to be that he’s happy, he’s settled, all that crap. Deciding to get married, establishing a career, is behind him. His life is settled, he’s okay. He’s got it all. Only—” Holder held up his finger suspensefully and lowered his voice ominously. “Only he wants all those beautiful young bodies out there!”