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?
But he, unlike the rest of the magazine, forced these worries down. He told himself that pretending lofty disinterest in the magazine’s power struggle would eventually redound to his credit. (He was right. Later, the nervous, gossipy behavior of some writers was remembered bitterly by the Marx Brothers.)
On Friday, everyone was taken by surprise. All the newshounds of New York had failed to pick up even a hint of what Mrs. Thorn did. She named an outsider as the new editor in chief. He was Richard Rounder, a six-foot-five blond, blue-eyed ex-Navy commander who had no background as a journalist but had been the founding editor in chief of New South magazine, one of the startling successes of the last decade. Everything about Rounder was unprecedented. Editors in chief of Newstime had always been both Northern and Eastern—Rounder was born and bred in Atlanta—and worked many years either as journalists or as editors of strictly news-gathering organs. And all but one had worked at Newstime for many years before being promoted to the top job. Rounder not only had never worked at Newstime, and had no background as a journalist, he also had no experience with weekly newsmagazines. New South was a slick, glossy monthly devoted mostly to lifestyle features, with an occasional exposé.
The gossips at the magazine (namely everyone), though they were taken by surprise—few had considered an outsider as a candidate, and those who had, picked former Newstime employees—adjusted instantly, as is the habit of journalists, with authoritative explanations. Rounder’s success had been with a feature magazine, therefore Mrs. Thorn obviously intended to improve Newstime’s “soft cover stories.” A remarkable number of people who only a day before had been insisting that Steinberg was fired because he did too many “soft covers” were now looking wise and grave as they pronounced that Rounder was hired to ensure that Newstime do more. Among the political writers, David’s immediate colleagues, Mrs. Thorn’s decision went over badly.
“Better pack up, David,” said Bill Kahn, deputy senior editor of Nation, walking into David’s office on Friday at dinnertime. Kahn was the fellow whose deficiencies as a potential senior editor of Nation David and Chico had discussed so confidently only four days ago.
David smiled while continuing to glance over the latest rewrite of his cover story, checking to see if he had dealt with all of Chico’s irritable changes. “Yeah. I’ve been fired? Just in time. I’ve had it with this bullshit.”
“No. Worse than fired. This guy Rounder, he only likes stories about cheerleaders or how to get rid of crabs without your mom finding out you had ’em.”
David got serious. He put the blues down and looked at Kahn. “Is it really that bad?”
“Listen, some people think we may not cover the eighty-four election.”
Kahn was smiling, but he meant it, David knew. “Have you seen Chico?”
“What’s left of him. Guy’s only about three feet tall now.”
David laughed. Chico’s size did seem to fluctuate depending on his fortunes as a Marx Brother.
“Haven’t you seen him?” Kahn asked. “You’re doing the cover.”
“No, I’m just getting changes from Syms.”
Kahn glanced toward Syms’s office and lowered his voice. “Everybody says he’ll be gone too. They think Rounder’s gonna clean out all the senior editors and bring in happy-time news bozos from New South.”
Kahn left after ten minutes of gallows humor, climaxing with his claim that the only reason they might cover the eighty-four election was that the incumbent was a former actor. In a low voice, glancing suspiciously toward the hall, he wrapped up his analysis: “You know why she brought in an outsider? To get rid of the deadwood. Rounder doesn’t owe anybody anything, so he’ll willingly play the part of hatchet man. You’ll be all right. But fat old drunks like me—we’re gone.”
Kahn walked out and then spoke to the other cubicle offices in a stentorian voice: “ ‘Never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.’ ”
That was greeted with game laughter and David knew what they all knew: threats of change always exceeded the eventual reality. Kahn say
ing he expected to be fired was a lie; he was upset because he knew Rounder being hired meant he would probably become irrelevant, pensioned into a job that only a few weeks before he thought was a rung on a ladder, and now had become the zenith of a rather small ascent. For David, Rounder’s hiring meant something similar. Chico would not become a major power, and therefore David’s promotion might never come.
David’s cover story was closed early, by nine o’clock on Friday. But the usual excitement that accompanied finishing a cover successfully was absent. In general that week, the actual putting together of Newstime had been neither news-worthy nor timely.
Although Tony had flirted relentlessly during dinner, still he was surprised when Lois boldly announced outside Joe Allen’s valet parking that she should take Tony to the hotel, since she lived in Benedict Canyon and it was right on the way. Billy and Helen nodded quietly. Tony knew they would be suspicious; their place was also on the way. But that didn’t matter—since their suspicions would be about her, and besides, he hadn’t decided to fuck her, he had merely wanted her to want him.
In her BMW he stared at the digital clock, amazed that it was only eleven-thirty. Stupidly, he had to slowly count the time difference to realize it was two-thirty in the morning for his body. Lois pulled away sharply from the curb, her bony hand arched above the shift knob, so that she gripped it with her long fingers.
“Tired?” Her voice was cool, distant.
Maybe he was wrong. This might just be taking home the boss’s son, ordinary brownnosing, not the sexual kind. Anyway, that was all wrong. Lois knew, or must, that Tony wasn’t close to his mother. He had shocked them over dinner with the revelation that his parents had found out about his trip from other people in the business and that Tony hadn’t returned their messages when he arrived in his hotel room.
“You don’t like your parents?” Billy’s girlfriend, Helen, had asked.
“They’re great material for my plays—but I don’t want to be an actor in their drama,” Tony had said, consciously pretentious about it, because somehow he knew that would impress Lois. It had. He remembered the look of wisdom and approval in her eyes, as if she were saying: “You’re so right. I understand.” But his line was bullshit. He meant to call his mother and father during those three days in New York after he knew his itinerary, but kept finding trivial excuses not to. He wanted to have tomorrow’s meeting with Garth before speaking to them. Why? He didn’t know.
Lois laughed. “You must be tired.”
“What?” he said, startled. “I’m sorry. No, I’m not tired. I’m sort of—I guess this is jet lag. My legs want to sleep but my mind wants to see the city.”
“But you know LA.”
“Not as an adult. Not really.”
“You want to get a drink somewhere?” she asked tentatively. She meant more than merely a drink. He knew it from the slight edge of scared girlishness that crept in. She felt exposed by the question.
“Does LA have a nightlife?” he stalled. Not because he hadn’t decided—it was just a drink after all, no matter what she thought: he could always cool off later. He delayed because he wanted to tease her slightly. See how eager she was.
“Not really. It has comedy clubs, discos, and massage parlors.”
“No Elaine’s?”
“I guess there’s Spago’s.”
“No jazz clubs? No bourgeois nightlife?”
“I don’t think so,” she said doubtfully. She was embarrassed by her city’s failure to provide sophistication in this circumstance. Tony knew he had her on this score: she had made it in television; it bred insecurity when faced with a tired, cynical New Yorker. At least it would until she was forty, when the simple pleasure of having money usually overcomes any doubts about its environment.
“Amazing,” Tony said.
She glanced at him. “No drink?”
She was eager enough. “Oh yes. Sure. But where?”
There was a pause. Then, in a cool tone: “We could go to my house.”
“Okay,” Tony said, like someone concluding an amiable negotiation. They were on Sunset by now, leaving Hollywood’s garish billboards and bold hookers and giving way to quiet rows of tall palms. She took a right and they began their ascent onto one of Beverly’s hills.
CHAPTER 5
Patty lay on her bed staring at the stuff from Shadow Books. It had been too good to be true. Sure, as Betty had predicted, they did pay five thousand for a romance novel, the plots and characters were all a matter of formula, but Patty would have to write something on spec in order to land an assignment. Joe McGuire, the top editor (“word processor” might be more accurate) of Shadow Books, had been sweet. He said normally they asked for an entire novel before making a commitment, but all he would ask of Patty—since Betty thought so highly of her—was a sample chapter and an outline.
So now she lay on the bed surrounded by titles like Dark Harvest, clutching a guide sheet from Shadow Books on what elements ought to be in a romance novel.
But it wasn’t so bad. She felt excited, like the first day of school. The formula was so rigid that the task seemed easy, and a sample chapter would mean no more than twenty pages. Surely she could do that in a few days.
Her phone rang and she picked it up expecting that it would be Betty—widowed by Tony’s trip to the Coast and curious about Patty’s reaction to the material. It was David.
“Hi. I’m sorry.”
“Hi,” she said with genuine surprise and enthusiasm. “What for?”
“Tuesday night. I was a lousy date. I’m sorry. The office was in turmoil—”
“I know! Do you still have your job?” Patty asked with naive seriousness.
David laughed. “I guess so.”
“Do you like this guy Rounder? Who is he?”
“You’re really up on this.”
“I love page six! Read it every day.”
“Well, I haven’t met him. I don’t think anybody has. It was a real mess this week. I was writing the cover and there were all these rumors. I know I was grumpy.”
“You sure were.”
David laughed. “That’s right. Don’t spare my feelings.”
They both laughed. Patty remembered David had started to talk about the changes at Newstime when they met for dinner Tuesday, but she had assumed it meant little to him personally and hadn’t really let him talk. Maybe the stalling conversation and bad sex of the evening were due to her lack of attention. She had been very self-concerned lately.
“Let me take you out to dinner to apologize,” David said.
They met at a bar between her sublet and his loft. He was fun this time. He quickly ordered and put away three drinks while explaining his week. Patty found the names and various alliances confusing, but the general impression, that David was a dynamic force in the midst of a power struggle for control of one of America’s most important magazines, was exciting. She was glad she had her romance novel to discuss when he was done talking about his job. She suspected he thought she was flighty and at loose ends (I am, she thought), but having Shadow Books alleviated that worry.
Indeed, David was interested. He insisted on going back to her sublet—thank God I washed the dishes before leaving, she thought—to look at the guide sheet. He was charming about the whole thing, sufficiently irreverent to read the empty and gaudy prose aloud and yet not snobbish about her plan to write one. “It’s great money,” he said, “if you knock them out in three or four weeks.”
“And if they’re popular, you can be rich!” Patty said in a tone of absolute trust that life could have dramatic and happy changes of fortune.
“You mean it can be more than just a flat fee of five thousand?” David asked. They were on the bed, Patty sitting with her legs under her, David lying down, his head propped up by pillows, his legs stretched out behind her back. He seemed relaxed, friendly. There was little of the judgmental and therefore cautious atmosphere of a date. He behaved like an old friend or lover would. It seemed so l
ong since she had felt this at ease. When she broke up with her college boyfriend five years ago, she had told him that she wanted romance and adventure: their quiet intimacy had become too fraternal. She believed, from their perfunctory and routine sex to their dull social life of seeing movies and going to dancing parties, that their life together was more teenage than adult, and their closeness more a fearful need for company than a desire to be intimate. But in the years since, the loss of that safety had become frightening. Patty often felt desired by men, but rarely loved in the way that her family of two brothers and a sister made her feel. David was prepared to share her fantasy of writing these romances and becoming rich. It was a simple exchange of trust and interest—but it had been a long time since a man had been willing to make the bargain.
“Yes!” Patty said, unafraid to expose her greedy scenario. “If the first two I write are popular, then I can negotiate for royalties. Elizabeth Reynolds makes over a million a year writing them.”
David picked up Dark Harvest. He had read aloud from it earlier, sarcastically intoning the puffed-up prose. He opened it to the middle and silently read a paragraph.
“Foul, isn’t it?” Patty said. “Can I stand doing it?”
“For a million dollars a year? You sure can.” He read another paragraph with a serious and studious air. When he was finished, he put the book down and looked at Patty. His eyes had a distant, thoughtful look. Then he laughed. “It’s not any different than what I do.”
“This junk?”
“Yeah. It’s a formula. Take the heroine to an exotic place so the frustrated housewife feels she’s taking the trips that she knows her husband will never be able to afford. Newstime and the Weekly create the feeling for their readers that they’re in the know. I write my stories about the President and the government in a confidential tone, like the reader is getting inside dope nobody else gets. And it’s bullshit. I’m taking bureau reports from reporters who, for the most part, get handed briefings. To be sure, sometimes some of our better reporters get a real story, but always because someone inside has decided to let the cat out of the bag, and our guy just happens to be there.”
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