“Pleased to meet you,” Rounder said to David. “Just finished reading your cover. Good job.”
David glanced nervously at Kahn, momentarily fearing he would tell on him. But Kahn looked pale and apprehensive. David was dismayed at how little strength Kahn’s age and experience gave him to resist the uncertainty of this moment: meeting a man who controlled your fortune seemed to frighten everyone regardless of age or rank. Was there no escape, David wondered despairingly, from this craven insecurity? Even Chico, grinning like a court jester and nervously pretending that being with Rounder delighted him, was obviously eager to please the new editor in chief.
David studied Rounder. He seemed alien. He was at least four or five inches taller than Chico, and Chico was over six feet. Rounder, however, had none of Chico’s stockiness. He looked trim and muscled, at ease with his body, and that, combined with his blond hair and brilliant blue eyes, gave an impression of command, of absolute self-assurance, and implied that he was judgmental, perhaps harshly so. But more than that, he was physically atypical. Not dark, or short, or pudgy, like most of the ethnic types. And not florid-faced or distracted like the usual magazine WASP. Rounder was an American. The talk had made fun of his image: former Navy pilot, all-American in college. But he looked the part, and his steady eyes, his coldhearted blue eyes, convinced David that Rounder was the part.
“I’m making an informal tour,” Rounder said. “Wanted to meet the key personnel. I know there’s a great deal of worry when a new man comes in. I hope to put that fear to rest. Of course, there’ll be changes. But only some shifting about at first. We do intend to make organization changes eventually, but only after I’ve had a chance to learn how the magazine operates. After all, Newstime comes out every Monday, so you all must be doing something right.” Rounder smiled and they reflected the light of his bright big teeth with their own duller versions. “You’re both essential to what makes this a terrific magazine,” he said, looking first at David and then at Kahn. “I’m a newcomer. Never been a writer. So I need input from men like you. If you’ve got ideas, or maybe just good observations, about how to improve things, I’ll be grateful and glad to hear ’em.”
Rounder looked expectantly at them. David, still stunned by the coincidence of their entrance into the middle of his complaining, nodded stupidly. Kahn looked at him, though, as if he should talk, and David plunged in: “Well, we only know about our little corner of the universe—”
“But you know it very well. Better than anyone else can,” Rounder said, his voice eager, jumping on David’s words as if trying to force them open with a knife. “I don’t care if it’s just meaningless bitching”—he smiled brilliantly at David, his blue eyes staring into David’s eyes—“I want to hear it.”
“Well, to tell you the truth,” David began. He saw Chico straighten. He was standing behind Rounder and he looked alert, as if he might have to wrestle David to the ground, a Secret Service agent protecting his Chief. “Just as you came in I was in the middle of meaningless bitching. But it’s nothing you can do anything about. I wasn’t happy with my cover story. The Weekly’s was almost identical, and that always bothers me.”
“I liked your piece,” Rounder said, as if someone had challenged him about it. “And there’s not much you can do on a major national story to distinguish your stuff from the Weekly. What fellas like you need are more chances to do think pieces, more general stuff that’ll allow you to grow and shine.” Rounder smiled at him dazzlingly. “So you see, your bitching wasn’t all that meaningless.”
David smiled back stupidly, a dog eagerly waiting for more petting. Rounder said it was good to meet them, that he had to continue his tour, and they would talk more soon. Chico winked at David when he left behind Rounder. Syms followed them outside to the hall and said good-bye there.
David and Kahn looked at each other. The visit had the feel of a presidential tour and they both felt like naive visitors to the White House. Golly gee, their faces seemed to say, we just met the commander in chief. Steinberg had never had that effect. Rounder was radiant with energy and confidence. David felt, abruptly, that Newstime was going to be a very good, very exciting place to work.
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.