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 saying 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.