Small Town

fourteen

Auction time.

He didn’t see why he should feel anxious. He remembered something Lee Trevino had said in response to talk about the pressure involved in trying to sink a putt in a tournament playoff: Pressure? If you make it you get a million dollars, but if you miss it you still get half a million. That’s not pressure. Pressure’s when you’re in a two-dollar Nassau with five bucks in your pocket.

And where was the pressure for him? Esther Blinkoff at Crown had already given a floor bid of more money than he had ever expected to find on a contract with his name on it. The worst that could happen, the absolute worst that could happen, was that the other four prospective bidders would hear the numbers Crown had put on the board, shrug their shoulders, and go home. And he’d get an advance of $1,100,000.

He’d been up late the night before, fooling around on the computer, then channel surfing. AMC was running Casablanca, and he told himself he’d just watch it for a few minutes, but he’d never been able to turn that film off and couldn’t this time, either. He got misty when they played “La Marseillaise,” the way he always did, and he was still there and still paying attention when Bogart told Claude Rains that it looked like the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

It must have been close to three when he got into bed, and not quite eight when he rolled out of it. He was working on his second cup of coffee when the phone rang at ten after nine, and it was Roz.

“The horses are at the starting gate,” she said. “Actually they’re just leaving the paddock, because I don’t start making calls until ten o’clock. Is this your first auction, John? Well, do you know how it goes?”

“The high bidder gets me.”

“I mean the mechanics of it. They’re all at their desks, and I call one of them and tell them where the bidding stands, and they go into a huddle and get back to me, and then I call the next one. It’s not like sitting in the gallery at Christie’s and bing bang boom it’s over. It can take all day, and sometimes more than a day.”

“So this could be continued on Monday?”

“No,” she said, “because everybody’s on notice that today is the day, and by five o’clock you’re going to have a new publisher. Or a new old publisher, if you wind up with Esther.”

“At one point one.”

“Or at x-point-x, if she exercises her topping privileges, which she got by giving us the floor.”

“Do the others all know about the floor?”

“Honey,” she said, “everybody in America knows about the floor. It was in Publisher’s Lunch yesterday. Believe me, all four of them know they can’t play for less than seven figures.”

Publisher’s Lunch was a daily e-newsletter, full of industry news and gossip and free on request. He’d subscribed for a while, then unsubscribed when he realized how much time it was draining out of his day. The fact that they’d reported the floor bid somehow made it more real.

“John,” she was saying, “what I want to know is whether or not you want me to keep you in the picture. I can call you whenever somebody bids or passes, but I know you’re working on the book, and maybe you’d rather not be interrupted, in which case you won’t hear from me unless there’s something I need to clear with you. Or until the auction is over, whichever comes first.”

He said the latter sounded like a good idea. She agreed, and they wished each other luck, and after she rang off he realized she’d sounded faintly disappointed by his choice. And why wouldn’t she be? She was sitting all alone in her office, running a drawn-out auction over the phone, and he was telling her no, he didn’t want to share the excitement with her.

Far as that went, she wasn’t the only one he’d just disappointed.

He rang her back. “Changed my mind,” he said. “Yes, keep me posted.”

“If it’s gonna interfere with your writing—”

“Who are we kidding? What am I going to get written today, whether or not the phone rings? You know what I realized? I’m in a profession that’s supposed to be glamorous, and maybe it is, if you’re sitting upstairs of a garage in Moline, Illinois, typing away and dreaming of someday seeing your words in print. But when you’re doing it, all it is is a combination of daydreaming and word processing.”

“And?”

“And here’s the one time in a writer’s life when it’s genuinely exciting, and the horses are leaving the paddock, and I’ve got a fistful of tickets, and here I am telling you I don’t want to watch the race, just call me when it’s over. So I changed my mind.”

He’d figured work was out of the question, but decided there was no reason why he couldn’t tinker with what he’d written earlier that week. He went over what he’d printed out, noting typos, finding and fixing the occasional infelicitous phrase. He was entering his changes on the computer when she called at ten-fifteen.

“I drew lots,” she said, “and called Putnam first, and they didn’t have to go into a huddle, they’d already gone into their huddle because they knew what the floor was. They bid one point two.”

“That’s more than one point one.”

“You could have been an accountant, did anybody ever tell you that? The important thing is they’re in. I’d rather have a slight increment from them than a big jump now.”

“Why’s that?”

“Psychologically I think it’s better at this stage. Anyway, I knew Gloria wouldn’t try a preemptive overcall, if you don’t mind a bridge term in the middle of an auction, because it’s not her style, which is why I called her first.”

“I thought you drew lots.”

“No, why on earth would I do that? I know what order I want them in. I said I drew lots, because that makes it sound fair, and they pretended to believe me, but I didn’t and they know I didn’t.”

“Wheels within wheels,” he said.

“Now I’m waiting to hear from St. Martin’s. Having fun?”

“Uh-huh. Are you?”

“Time of my life,” she said. “Stay close to the phone, okay?”

In the beginning, a rejection slip with a handwritten Sorry! on it was encouraging, while an actual note saying that they’d liked his story (albeit not enough to publish it) was cause for minor celebration. His first sale was to a little magazine that paid in copies, but it was his first sale, for God’s sake, and what difference did it make how much they did or didn’t pay him?

It was never about the money. He hadn’t gotten into the business to get rich — and, indeed, hadn’t thought of it as a business when he got into it. It was what he wanted to do, and he had the unwarranted self-assurance to believe he’d be able to make a living at it.

And, one way or another, he had. Somebody (he was pretty sure it was James Michener) had said somewhere that a writer could make a fortune in America, but couldn’t make a living. It was a great line, and there was truth in it, because the men and women who hit the bestseller list did make a fortune, and the overwhelming majority who ground away at it, and who were good enough to publish one book after another, had to have professorships or day jobs or trust funds to get by.

But there were others who didn’t hit the list or line up for food stamps, people like him who came out with a new book every year or two, and wrote short stories, and did some reviewing, wrote the occasional article. Picked up a few dollars running the odd workshop at a writers’ conference, critiquing manuscripts, looking good for the wannabes. Knocking out a novelization of a film, or a TV tie-in, or whatever someone would pay you to write quickly and under a pseudonym.

Writing, and turning a buck at it. Never getting rich, always getting by.

But it had gotten harder in recent years, and not just for him. Increasingly, the top and bottom grew at the expense of the middle. Michener’s half-truth was becoming unqualified fact. You could make a fortune as a writer, but you couldn’t make a living.

And it was beginning to look as though he was going to be one of the ones who made a fortune. Of course, whether or not he would get to spend any of it was an open question.

“St. Martin’s just bid one point three.”

“A subtle pattern begins to emerge.”

“Next up is Simon & Schuster, then Little, Brown.”

“This could be a long day.”

“Jesus, let’s hope so,” she said.

Trevino might be right about pressure, but there was a difference between pressure and excitement. He wasn’t under any pressure right now, there was nothing he had to do, nothing expected of him. After the deal was done, when he had to sit down and produce a book to justify an advance of one point one or two or three or four million dollars, that’s when the pressure would come in.

Right now it was exciting. He couldn’t work on the book, not even on polishing what he’d written. As edgy as he felt right now, he’d wind up changing things for the worse.

He stood up, paced the floor, went over to the shelf with his books, and took down a copy of Edged Weapons. He read the front matter — the dedication, the acknowledgments, and an epigraph quote from “The Death of the Hired Man,” by Robert Frost. He’d paid something like a hundred dollars for permission to use it — authors had to pay for permissions themselves, he’d been chagrined to learn — and, reading it now, he wondered why he’d spent the money. He loved the poem, he’d reread the whole thing not that long ago, but the lines he’d quoted didn’t seem to him to have much to do with his stories.

Maybe he’d just wanted Robert Frost’s name in a book of his, and maybe it was worth a hundred bucks to make it happen.

“John? How are you holding up?”

“I’m fine,” he said. “I was just reading my favorite author.”

“John O’Hara, if I remember correctly.”

He laughed out loud. “Well, you’re right,” he said, “but I was reading a guy named Blair Creighton.”

“Ah, my favorite author. But not Simon & Schuster’s, I’m afraid. They decided to pass.”

“Oh.”

“I’m not surprised. Claire was hot to trot, but she didn’t get the support she wanted upstairs. Don’t be disappointed.”

“Okay.”

“Because I called Geoffrey at Little, Brown, and he didn’t have to go into a huddle, he knew what he was going to bid. You want to hear?”

“Do I want to hear? No, why on earth would I want to hear?”

“Two million dollars. John? Are you sitting down?”

“I am now.”

“That’s why I wanted to call him last, I figured he’d jump. My guess, that’s as high as we’re going, unless Esther exercises her topping privileges. Are you okay? You’re not saying anything.”

“I’m speechless.”

“You have a right to be. My next call’s to Putnam, but everybody’ll be at lunch now.”

“Is it lunchtime already?”

“It’s almost one o’clock. Make yourself a sandwich. Or pick up the phone and order something.”

“I don’t think I can eat.”

“Ha! Neither can I. If you go out—”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Well, if you do, be back by two-thirty, okay? And keep the line open.”

The acknowledgments page of Edged Weapons thanked the magazines in which each of the stories had previously appeared. He couldn’t remember what each had paid him, but one $5,000 sale to Playboy accounted for well over half the total. (They’d never bought another, and the one they took wasn’t particularly sexy or, he thought, especially strong. He guessed the editor had just liked it.)

He’d received a $5,000 advance for the collection, and it had earned that and a few thousand dollars more, between the hardcover and trade paperback editions. And there’d been some foreign sales, and every once in a blue moon someone would reprint one of the stories in an anthology, and he’d get a check for one or two hundred dollars.

Of course he got some reviews, he drew some attention. One of the stories, about a young man concerned about his sexual identity, drew several fan letters, all of them from young men with similar concerns. He hadn’t written back, or kept the letters, but he’d been glad to receive them.

“Putnam just weighed in with two point two.”

“No kidding.”

“They surprised me. I thought Geoffrey’s bump would knock Gloria out of the game. It’s not horse races or bridge anymore, did you notice? All of a sudden it’s poker.”

“And now it’s up to...”

“St. Martin’s. They’ll have to think about this one. Last thing they knew they were looking good at one point three, and that was a whole nine hundred thousand dollars ago.”

When he got to the contents page he remembered how he’d agonized over it, arranging and rearranging the stories, trying to put them in the perfect order. He’d first considered arranging them chronologically, but in the order they were written or the order they were published? Then it struck him that no one cared about the chronology, that there should be a flow to the collection. He’d shuffled the poor stories like a deck of cards, and couldn’t remember why he’d settled on the final lineup.

If he had it to do over again, he’d put them in alphabetical order. It was clear-cut, it was wonderfully arbitrary, and how could you argue with it?

That would have put “A Nice Place to Stop” first, if you counted the A, and a title like that on the book’s leadoff story was sort of a setup for the critics. Creighton’s first story is called “A Nice Place to Stop,” and believe me, you’ll be glad you did...

Of course it was the story he wanted to read, but he’d avoided doing so ever since he started work on the book, and didn’t want to change things now. He read the one Playboy liked, and followed it with the only story in the book that hadn’t managed to have a magazine appearance. Maybe it was the contrarian in him, but he liked the unpublished one better.

“Two point four.”

“From St. Martin’s?”

“From St. Martin’s. And a very regretful pass from Little, Brown.”

“Really?”

“I expected it, John. Geoffrey made his best offer at the start. He loves your work, he liked it before all of this, and he told me to congratulate you on finally getting the kind of money you’ve deserved all along. He just can’t see how they can make money paying out any more than two million. He thought that would be enough to get it, and frankly so did I.”

“I almost wish...”

“I know. He genuinely likes your work, and they’d publish you right. But anybody who pays this kind of dough will publish you right, because they’ll have to. And they’ll like your work, too. They’ll love it. They all get into the business so that they can sell the books they like, and they all wind up liking the books they can sell. I think it’s going to be St. Martin’s, and I think it’s going to be two point four. Can you live with that?”

He said he’d force himself.

He read another story, one of the earlier ones, and decided it wasn’t bad. He’d do it differently now because he’d learned a lot, he’d probably compress some of the earlier material and enlarge some of what came later. And there were elements that seemed simplistic, but that might be nothing more than the judgment of middle age upon his youthful self.

Not bad, all in all. But if there was anything that hinted the author would one day be in line for a seven-figure advance — nine, if you counted the two zeroes that came after the decimal point — well, he was damned if he could see it.

“Putnam’s out.”

“You figured they would be.”

“I never thought we’d get that last bid out of them, but once we did I couldn’t really guess which way they’d jump. But they’re out, and wish you well.”

“So it’s St. Martin’s.”

“Unless Crown decides you’re worth that plus fifteen percent. That’s what they have to come up with to top the auction and take you home with them.”

“In other words, they have to pay your commission.”

“Hey, I never thought of it that way. I like that. Now let’s see if Esther likes it.”

While he waited, he called the deli. He was out of cigarettes, and it was no wonder, he’d had one going pretty much throughout the morning and afternoon. He told them to send up a carton, and while he was at it he ordered a sandwich and a six-pack.

While he waited, he tried to figure out how much to tip the kid. He usually gave him two bucks, which seemed to please him well enough. But this was a special day. He could give the kid five bucks, or ten. Jesus, why not give him twenty? All of a sudden he could afford it.

And what would the kid make of a twenty-dollar tip? In this neighborhood, a man tipped you twenty dollars, he probably wanted more than beer and cigarettes. And how would the kid feel next time he came by and got the usual deuce? Confused? Disappointed? Pissed off?

By the time the kid showed up, his philanthropic impulses had passed. Here you go, he said, and handed him two dollars.

“Listen,” Roz said, “we’ve got to celebrate. I hope you haven’t got any plans for tonight.”

“You’re kidding, right? I haven’t got any plans, ever, until they set a trial date.”

“You do now. I’m taking you out to dinner.”

“Well...”

“No arguments, sweetie. Tonight, and my treat, and it’s got to be someplace elegant, someplace break-the-bank swank.”

“I gather the auction’s done.”

“Oh,” she said, with studied nonchalance. “Oh, didn’t I tell you? Yes, it’s all wrapped up.”

“And the winner is St. Martin’s at two point four.”

“Wrong twice,” she said. “The winner is Crown, and the price is precisely... hang on a minute, I’ve got it written down here somewhere...”

“They topped the bid, then?”

“They did indeed. I guess Esther Blinkoff really is your new biggest fan. Here we go. Three point one oh five, oh oh oh.”

“Three?”

“Three million, one hundred five thousand dollars.”

“You know,” he said, “when it got above six figures, which it did the minute they gave us the floor, the numbers stopped being real. Do you know what I mean?”

“Uh-huh.”

“But this is... I mean it’s all more money than I can get my mind around, but two million is more than one and three is more than two.”

“My little number cruncher.”

“I’m not making any sense, am I? Three point one oh five. Wait a minute, that’s wrong.”

“It sounds kind of all right to me.”

“St. Martin’s bid two point four, right? Plus fifteen percent — well, I’m not going to figure it out, but it doesn’t come to over three million dollars.”

“You’re right about that, and I’ll explain over dinner. And it’s your birthday, bubbeleh, so where would you like to go?”

“We could go to a diner and it would feel like a celebration to me. I haven’t been out of the house.”

“You haven’t? Literally?”

“I took a walk yesterday, down to the corner and back. And the other day I went out for a beer. To the Kettle of Fish, if you can believe it.”

“Isn’t that where...”

“That’s where. It felt weird walking in there, but that was me. Nobody else seemed to notice, and this one old fart said I hadn’t been around lately, had I.”

“I know where I’m taking you. At first I thought it should be someplace like Le Cirque or Lutèce, or maybe Union Square Café—”

“Any of those would be great.”

“—but this isn’t about food, this isn’t about putting on the Ritz. This is about going out in the world in triumph.”

“Meaning?”

“Stelli’s.”

“God, I haven’t been there in ages.”

“Is it all right? Because if it’s not—”

“No, it’s perfect. What time?”

“Nine o’clock? We’ll make an entrance. Can you hold out that long?”

“I’ve got a sandwich in the fridge. If I get hungry between now and then I’ll work on that. Let me see, Stelli’s. I guess I’ll take the One train to Eighty-sixth and catch a crosstown bus, or am I better off...”

“Very funny. Take a cab, you funny man. You funny rich man.”