“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.