“What the hell do you want, Bert?” Altar said. “I was in the shower.”
“Dry off, and I’ll call you back later.”
“Call me back, my ass. The floor’s soaking wet already.”
“It’s nothing important anyway,” Bert said.
“What is it?”
“That assignment of copyright.”
“What assignment of copyright?”
“You know. On ‘The Mouse Trap.’ That short-short you had in Esquire?”
“Well, what about it?” Altar asked impatiently, watching the spreading puddle at his feet.
“Nothing. We just got the assignment of copyright. In case we ever want to use it in a collection or something.”
“Great!” Altar said. “Call me sometime when I’m in bed with a girl and tell me I misplaced a comma. Do that, Bert.”
“Well, I’ll be talking to you,” Bert said, chuckling. He seemed ready to hang up. “Oh, yes, there was one other thing,” he said.
“What?” Altar asked wearily.
In a rush, unable to hold it back any longer, Bert said, “We just sold serial rights to The Fall of a Stone for fifty thousand dollars!”
“What!” Altar said.
“To Good House. A five-part serial. How does that sound? You glad I got you out of the shower?”
“Yeah, I’ll say.”
“Okay. Who’s the best literary agent in America?”
“William Morris,” Altar answered.
“Screw you,” Bert said. “They offered forty, and I jacked them up to fifty. That’s agenting.”
“Agenting is getting an assignment of copyright on ‘The Mouse Trap,’” Altar said. “That’s real agenting.”
“No gratitude,” Bert said jokingly. “Picked him up out of the gutter. Aw, no gratitude.”
“I love you,” Altar said. “Send the check.”
“It’s good news, isn’t it, Rog? Seriously.”
“It’s great news. Good work, Bert.”
“Any trouble on this check tax-wise? They’re paying it in two installments, but both’ll be this year.”
“So what can we do?”
“I can deposit part of it for you.”
“That’s illegal,” Altar said.
“You’re so legal?”
“I’m legal. I don’t want to be writing from Cell 21.”
“Okay. Go write another book. I want a new Cadillac.”
“How long a book?”
“Three hundred, four hundred pages.”
“When do you want it?”
“Tonight too early?” Bert asked.
“No, fine,” Altar said, “but first I want to finish my shower.”
Bert chuckled, and Altar chuckled, both men captured in the glowing camaraderie of just having made fifty thousand simoleons. At last they said goodbye, and Altar hung up.
He stood looking at the cradled receiver for a few moments, and then he stood looking at the puddle of water on the floor. In an exciting instant of sudden awareness, he thought, It’s started!
And then he went into the bathroom to finish his shower.
With the weather changing around them, they felt the need for more time together, more time to share. They had known autumn, and then winter, and now spring was rushing up to greet them, and they wanted to hold it close.
He told Eve that Altar wanted a sudden change in the plans, a change which might prove difficult now that the foundation had been poured. Allegedly, he was to meet Altar in the city for dinner and then thrash out the problem until it was solved — even if it took all night. Maggie told Don she was going to a dinner-baby shower in Brooklyn, and that she would not be home until very late. He’d offered to drive her, but she saw no need to pay for a baby sitter, especially when all the girls were meeting at the house of a girl in the next development who would drive them all to Brooklyn.
They met at five-thirty.
It was one of those days. It was just one of those days. The air was mild and balmy, and you wanted to say hello to strangers. You wanted to find a place where you could pick wild flowers. You wanted to kiss the air. It was just one of those days.
They had called Pat, the motel owner, and asked him to save a cabin for them, and he’d promised he would. It was only five-thirty, and the evening and the night were ahead of them. He was wearing a dark-blue suit with no topcoat, it was that mild, and she wore a red dress with a scoop neckline and cap sleeves, simulated ruby earrings on her ears. She looked quite beautiful and he felt very handsome in his blue suit. They felt as if they were really going out. It was strange, but this Tuesday night had the air of an occasion.
They ate at a small place with a pond and swans. There was candlelight at the table, and he ordered martinis first, with olives please, and the waiter brought them martinis with lemon peels, please. When they repeated their request for olives, he brought them a soup bowl full of olives. They each put four into their drinks and then ordered steaks and a bottle of Burgundy.
She did not do justice to the meal. She confessed later that she’d had a bite with Don before leaving the house; it was bad enough she’d rushed out like that, the least she could do was have dinner waiting for him when he got home from work. But she watched Larry eating, and she sipped at the Burgundy, and the color of the wine caught the color of her mouth and the glowing red of the earrings so that he leaned over the table once and kissed her fleetingly. They talked about everything they’d done that week, like a husband and wife who’ve been separated and have hundreds of stories to relate.
They talked and drank and smoked, and they watched dusk fingering the pond, watched the swans’ white down turn blue-purple smoky as the late sun faded. When they finished their meal, they walked around the pond to the car. A piano was going in the cocktail lounge, and they listened to “I’ll Remember April.” Neither spoke. He walked with his arm around her; she with her head on his shoulder.
They did not see the yellow Buick which pulled out behind them when they left the restaurant.
On the way to the motel, she remembered that she’d promised to call Don when she got to Brooklyn. They drove until they spotted a small roadhouse with the round telephone plaque outside. The place was one of those which never seem to do any business. The dining room was off to the left, dim except for a small light burning over a separate entrance door at the far end. There were no diners in the room. The telephone booth was set against the wall near the swinging doors to the kitchen. Maggie squeezed his hand and walked toward the booth; Larry went into the bar to get a package of cigarettes from the machine there. The bar was empty, except for the bartender. When he got his cigarettes, he sat at the bar, his back to it. Through the windows, he saw a yellow Buick pull off the road and then cut in to park alongside the dining room.
He sat for a few moments, noticed the juke box, went over to it, and studied the selections. He wondered if he should play a record while Maggie was talking to Don. Well, she was supposed to be at a shower. Surely girls at a shower could play music. He made his selection and went back to the stool.
“Help you, sir?” the bartender asked.
“No, thanks,” he said.
He opened the package of cigarettes, lighted one, and blew out a great cloud of smoke. Sitting and smoking, he listened to the record. When it ended, he put another coin in the juke and made another selection. It did not occur to him until the second record had spun through that Maggie was taking an inordinately long time in the phone booth. His first thought was that Don was giving her static. Figuring she could use some moral support, he stubbed out his cigarette and started for the dining room.
The boy was no older than nineteen.