He turned, despairing, and returned the receiver to its cradle. It rang instantly.
“Fred?” said a deep but tentative voice. “It’s Karl.”
“Hi.”
“How did the meeting go?”
“You knew about it?”
“Yeah, Bart told me he read an outline of yours. He said he liked it. Thought he could sell it.”
The poison of Marion’s pessimism left Fred’s system, as if wiped out by a miracle drug. “He did?”
“Yeah,” Karl said. ‘Didn’t he say that to you?”
“Yeah. He did. I’m crazy. You know, it happened three hours ago. I was high as a kite. But just now I was really feeling down—”
“Why? Isn’t he sending it out?”
“Yeah. He’s sending it to your editor.”
“Oh.” Karl sounded taken aback. “You mean Holder?” he asked idiotically, as if hoping against hope that Fred had made a mistake.
“Yeah. Does that bother you?”
“No, no,” Karl said so quickly that it was obvious he was disturbed.
“It shouldn’t,” Fred said almost pleadingly. It flashed in his mind that Karl might speak to Holder during the next few days (Karl’s novel was due out in five months and contact between them was probably frequent) and say something denigrating about him. Point out that Fred has never written a novel, that his experience as a writer was limited to twenty pieces on sports — and most of those were interviews, which hardly put great demands on Fred as a writer.
“No, of course not. I was thinking whether I should speak to him, tell him I know you—”
“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” Fred said anxiously, but as he spoke, he looked at the situation the other way. Holder obviously admired Karl; if Karl spoke well of Fred to Holder, perhaps it would add to the favorable impresssion of Bart’s recommendation. “Unless — do you think it would bother Holder?”
“Bother?” Karl said in a bewildered tone.
“I think you shouldn’t. He’d think I put you up to it.”
“Okay. I won’t say anything.”
“So,” Fred said, clearing his throat. He wanted to keep Karl on the line. Talking to Karl — Karl the novelist — made him feel his ambitions were real, answered the worry inside him that he was a victim of a delusion. But there was nothing in his mind other than talk of the outline, talk of the meeting with Bart, worry over what Holder would think.
“I was calling to invite you to a poker game. Do you play?” Karl asked.
Fred was delighted. He had heard Karl, on the social occasions they had spent together, refer to his weekly poker game, whose members were all established writers. Several times Fred had mentioned to Karl, rather awkwardly, how much he liked to gamble (Marion would always exclaim, “You do?” incredulously, humiliating him), hoping to provoke an invitation, but his comments were returned with blank looks from Karl, and, more ominously, after a while Karl stopped even mentioning his poker game.
“I’ve told you I play poker,” Fred said, to let Karl know that he knew this invitation was a symbol of a change in their relationship.
“Well, you know,” Karl said, “usually we’re full up. We have seven regulars. But one of them’s dropped out. It’s tonight. Can you make it?”
“What time?”
“Seven. And you have to play until at least midnight. It’s a house rule.”
“Even if I’m down a hundred dollars, I gotta stay?” Fred asked, laughing, as if that was an absurd idea.
“Yes,” Karl said. “Even if you’re down a hundred dollars. Nobody ever limits their winnings, so we don’t let people limit their losses. I don’t care if you just end up anteing every hand and folding, but you gotta stay until midnight.”
“Sounds pretty serious,” Fred said.
“It is. It’s really serious poker. No kibitzing or stuff like that. So if you don’t like that, you shouldn’t come.”
“No, no. That’s fine. Tell me, how much money should I bring?” Fred asked, hoping in this way to find out what the stakes were without implying that he was frightened of losing too much.
Karl’s voice was matter-of-fact: “Biggest loser we’ve ever had was three hundred dollars. The average losing night is about one hundred and fifty to two hundred. And, also, you should know, we play a lot of high-low games—”
“I’ve never played them.”
“Oh,” Karl said, as if that were a big blow.
“Don’t worry. I’ll learn fast.”
“Well …” Karl sighed and paused.
Schmuck, Fred said to himself, why did you say you’d never played them? You could have announced that at the game. “Don’t worry,” Fred said again.
“I think you’d better come at six. I’ll teach you some high-low games … the guys aren’t real patient about explaining while the game is going.”
“Great. Okay. I’ll be there at six.”
“All right, see you — oh, you’d better eat before you come. There are no snacks. That’s another rule.”
Fred rang off ecstatic and nervous. He had wanted into that game for almost a year. Tonight would be like an audition. If they liked him he would become a regular. He dialed Marion once again.
“Fred?” she said with despairing impatience when her secretary let him through.
“Listen. Karl just called and invited me to play poker tonight. So you can edit your nouvelle cuisine book.”
“His weekly game?” she said. “But that’s a very expensive game. Karl’s always talking about how much money people lose—”
“Honey,” he said with great confidence, “don’t worry. I’ve played plenty of poker on the road with the ball teams. I’m sure a bunch of writers aren’t that tough, okay?”
“All right. As long as you know what you’re doing. So do we have to eat early?”
“I can’t eat with you. I’ve got to go over early so Karl can teach me how to—” He caught himself. He stopped talking and closed his eyes in frustration at his slip.
“Teach you what? I though you knew how to play.”
“No, no. You wouldn’t understand. They play some silly games — kid stuff, like wild-card games — and they don’t like to slow things down to explain, so Karl wanted me to come early. I don’t think that’s the real reason. He heard from Bart about my outline. He probably wants to chat about that.”
“Why? Wouldn’t he just say he wants to talk about your outline?”
“Forget it. It’s not important. Go back to work.”
“So you’ll be gone by the time I get home?” She sounded petulant; suddenly a neglected child.
“Yeah, I have to be at Karl’s by six.”
“When will you be home?”