“Yes.”
“Another genius. I’ve had geniuses up to here.” She studied Larry. “You’re not even a good-looking genius.”
“I’m not even a genius,” he answered.
“The modest ones are the worst kind,” the girl said. “My name’s Marcia.”
“How do you do?”
“Fine. Want a drink?”
“No, thank you.”
“Too early for you?”
“No.”
“What then?”
“I just don’t feel like one.”
“Mind if I have one?”
“Go right ahead.”
“Thanks.” The girl walked to the bar and poured a water glass half full of bourbon. “Choke,” she said, and she drained the glass. From somewhere in the apartment, Larry heard the sound of a typewriter. Marcia looked up, pulled a face, and said, “The Genius.”
“Want to tell him I’m here?”
“Me? If I stick my head in that room, he’ll bite it off. Not me, thanks.”
“What’s he doing?”
“That’s a stupid question, all right. Don’t you hear the typewriter?”
“I don’t know you well enough to insult you,” Larry said, “but I wish you’d cut it out.”
“Cut what out?”
“The aggression.”
“I didn’t realize you were so sensitive.”
“I’m not. Go put on some lipstick. It’ll make you feel better.”
“I feel fine the way I am, thanks.”
“How long has he been working?”
“He got out of bed at two in the morning. He’s been going ever since.”
Larry looked at the dishes on the table. “He stopped for breakfast, didn’t he?”
The girl followed Larry’s glance. “Those are yesterday’s.” She paused. “Are you his friend?”
“I don’t know,” Larry said.
“I think he’s nuts.”
“Maybe he is.”
“You think he’s a good writer?”
“I don’t know.”
“I thought Star Reach stank. As a matter of fact, I didn’t like The Debacle, either. I should have listened to the reviewers.”
“Maybe you should have.”
“Damn right I should have. When I spend money for a book, the author makes a contract to entertain me.”
“And he didn’t?”
“He let me down. I think he’s a lousy writer. The critics think so, too. I read all the reviews, every single one. In the New York area, anyway. They think he stinks. I agree with them.” She paused. “I also think he’s nuts. Or did I already say that?”
“You did.”
“That makes it doubly true.”
A door opened at the back of the apartment, and Roger Altar stepped out. “Hey, Larry,” he said, “I thought I heard you.” He came toward him, his hand extended. “When did you get here?”
“About five minutes ago,” Marcia said.
Altar blinked at the girl. “Are you still here?” he asked. “I thought you’d left.”
“I want to see how long your spurt lasts.”
“Bad way to write,” Altar said to Larry. “By inspiration, I mean. A pro sits down and bangs it out whether he’s inspired or not. Only way to make this crazy racket pay off.” He wiped a hand across his mouth. “This is the first time this has ever happened to me. I’m winding up the first draft of the new book. All of a sudden I had to get up in the middle of the night and get to the typewriter. How do you like that? Has that ever happened to you?”
“No.”
“It’s the goddamnedst feeling. I must have batted out sixty pages since last night, and I’m still going strong. It’s going to be a great book, great! Have you had breakfast yet?”
“And lunch,” Larry said.
“Yeah? What time is it, anyway?”
“It’s past three.”
“No kidding? How do you like that?” Altar rubbed his hand across his chin lazily. He looked very contented and very weary and almost out of touch. “I need a shave,” he said. “I’m also hungry.” He seemed to discover that he was wearing a pajama top with his trousers, and he began unbuttoning it. “Turn your back, honey,” he said to Marcia and then began chuckling. “A great book, Larry, best I’ve ever done. I can feel it right down in my bones, where it counts. Oh, Jesus, it’s going to be magnificent!”
“You look excited,” Larry said.
“I am excited. The words are running off me like sweat in August. I can’t believe I’m writing them, they’re so terrific. I’m not that good.”
“See?” Marcia said. “He admits it.”
Altar looked at her steadily, wearily, his eyes taking in the black costume. “Who’s she playing?” he asked Larry. “The Flowers-for-the-Dead Vendor in Streetcar?”
“He thinks he’s literate,” Marcia said. “He’s the most ignorant genius I ever met.”
“Oh, baby, go fly a kite,” Altar said gently, as if he didn’t have the energy to argue.
“He was lucky with two books, so he thinks he’s an important American writer.”
“I am an important American writer,” Altar said, as if the question didn’t even need discussion.
“The critics blasted both your books,” Marcia said. “I know. I read the reviews.”
“Critics,” Altar said, shrugging.
“They said you wrote commercial tripe.”
Altar shrugged and said nothing.
“They said you wrote for the Hollywood machine.”
Again Altar shrugged, but he no longer seemed to be shrugging from weariness. He seemed instead to be withering before the onslaught of Marcia’s quotations. Altar did not deny the accuracy of the quotations, and Larry instantly realized the girl was not inventing the reviews. But he had not expected Altar to shrink before them. He kept waiting for Altar to strike back at the girl, but he was seemingly quite defenseless in the face of her verbal barrage. He had taken off the pajama top, and he stood now like a shaggy giant dancing bear being whipped by an irate owner.
“One review said, ‘Roger Altar has set the wheels of his fiction factory turning to produce a new vehicle for Tab Hunter.’ Do you remember that one? I got a kick out of that one.”
“Well, critics,” Altar said, retreating still further.
Larry watched him. All of the man’s enthusiasm seemed to have vanished. He had come out of his office feeling confident and sure and excited and weary with honest sweat. The girl had punctured all that, and he stood deflated and unsure now, and he seemed to have completely forgotten that Larry was in the room.
“The one I love the best,” the girl said, as if she were telling a favorite joke, “is the one that started ‘The Debacle is aptly titled.’ That was priceless! A classic!”
“Critics don’t know,” Altar said quietly. “What do they know?” He shrugged aimlessly.
“They said you wrote with facile ease, but they don’t think you have anything to say. Not a thing to say.”
“I have things to say,” Altar said.
“They don’t think so.”
Altar kept staring at the girl. “I have things to say,” he said more firmly.
“Then why don’t you say them?” Marcia goaded. “Why do you write commercial tripe?”
“I don’t write commercial tripe,” Altar said, and he seemed at last to be getting angry. “The critics don’t know. If you believe them, you go nuts. I don’t listen to the critics.”
Fight her back, Larry thought. Come on. Altar, fight her.
“The critics know what they’re talking about,” Marcia said, grinning. “They’re trained to—”
“They don’t know anything!” Altar said angrily.
“You’re dying because the critics pan your books,” Marcia said. “It kills you. It’s destroying you!”