Hot Properties

by Rafael Yglesias

  “You sound relieved.”

  “I am.”

  “Has it been very hard on you? Staying here and working?”

  Below, Garth gestured toward him. Redburn looked at Tony, his eyes squinting as he concentrated on the sight. The look was almost a product’s logo—the distant glance of a hero regarding the future fearlessly, or the past with brave regret. Garth dramatically held his arms out at full length and applauded Tony. Redburn smiled. Tony nodded and held his glass up in acknowledgment.

  “He loves you,” Helen said. “He told me last night, he’ll miss you terribly when you go. Made me feel jealous.”

  Tony turned her way, his eyes drawn (despite the constant warning lights he flashed them) to her firm full breasts, languidly arrogant in repose. He forced them up with effort, like pulling away from a magnet (it could be done, but it required steady pressure), and looked at her wonderful face. Her green eyes were bright and cheerful. “He’s been very nice to me,” Tony answered in the tone of an ancient retainer speaking of his master.

  “He said he thinks you could make a great director. Says you really understand actors.”

  Tony ignored the compliment. Hollywood prophesied future success only slightly less casually than it offered absolute predictions of utter failure. “It must have been hard on you to have a houseguest for two months. You’ve been very patient.”

  “Aren’t we both wonderful?” she said.

  Tony smiled. “I mean it.”

  “You don’t really like us,” she said. Not argumentatively, accusingly, but not stating a fact, either.

  “Oh, no, no,” Tony said, startled by her comment.

  “Don’t feel you have to—”

  “I don’t. If I’ve behaved distantly, it’s only because of my problems. He’s a great star—you are a great beauty. For someone like me—vain, greedy, childish—it’s pretty hard to take.”

  This little speech was the first time he had spoken informally, intimately. She sat up—Tony’s eyes slipped their leash for a moment and looked at her crotch, barely covered, the surrounding skin of her hips and thighs unblemished, without a ripple of fat or looseness—and looked at him eagerly. “You don’t seem anything like that. You’re self-confident, you’re very at home with yourself.”

  Tony giggled. He couldn’t believe she meant that about him—he felt so uncomfortable with himself, as though his ego was infested by fleas: he was scratched raw from the restless itch of its countless wounds. “You’re kidding,” he said, and giggled again.

  “No,” she said. “Both of us have talked about it. We wondered if it was our life here.” She nodded at the beach and the house. “Everybody here is conscious of being judged, talked about … you seem to be sure of your value, no matter how things are going.”

  “God, I wish that were true. Thank you. But all I’ve felt since I came here is envy.” Tony looked out at the dynamic duo below. “He’s got everything. Fame, money, talent, power.” Tony looked at her, letting all his lust and longing show. “And you. He even has you.”

  She showed neither encouragement nor dislike. She simply seemed to accept his comment as a fact.

  “I’m sorry to talk about you like that,” Tony said, now nervous that he had said something which was both offensive and possibly untrue. He barely knew this woman. She was stunning, but he felt no love for her. He had spoken, as always, exaggerating a momentary feeling into a dramatic speech. It was his curse, his addiction to taking center stage no matter what, even if it cost him respect and love. He wanted to be interesting to her. He had played the part of modest, patient servitude to her husband for eight weeks of the run. Now he wanted the lead. “I know you’re not a possession of his. That makes it even more irritating. If he had your love simply because he’s famous, then I could be contemptuous. I’m fond of being contemptuous. But I can’t. You really love him.”

  Now she was the one to laugh, pause, and then laugh again. “You really mean that to be a question. If you want to go to bed with me, why don’t you just say so?”

  “No, no.” Tony pleaded. He felt terror. He had blundered his way into a mess, trying to show off. He put his glass down and put his hands out to plead. “I didn’t mean that. Going to bed with you wouldn’t make me envy him less. I meant simply that being with the two of you is hard. You have everything. I’m just here for a while. Then I’ll go back—to what? To the absence of all this.” He pointed to the house like a magician indicating the objects he was soon to make disappear. “What you both have is a constant reminder of my …” What? What was so terrible about his life? “… my … my mediocrity.”

  She had resumed her normal manner: calm, interested, welcoming. “You’re not a mediocrity,” she said sharply, as though someone had insulted a close friend of hers.

  “Well,” Tony said, wanting out of this conversation, turning back to look at the tableau under him, more than ten million in talent chatting against the surf, “I feel like one here.” He felt his chest tremble. He breathed out slowly to rid himself of it. At last he had spoken the truth. To an almost total stranger, he had confessed what he dreaded about Hollywood. Not Joe McCarthy or his father’s coldness. Not his mother’s smothering insanity or Garth’s narcissism. Here, he was insignificant—an amoeba in an ocean of whales. He expected at any moment to be swallowed whole—a tasty hors d’oeuvre for the giant mammals.

  The flight to Brazil seemed to take forever. Chico accepted all the drinks that were offered, from the champagne before takeoff to the pre-lunch cocktail, to the wine during the meal, straight on through to the cordial. David matched him sip for sip, although he was quite drunk just from the cocktail. Chico passed out near the end, his head sliding off the seat and resting against the window. David felt sick during descent but he fought the nausea off by calling to mind the Mistress and her punishments—guaranteed to arouse him and prove a distraction.

  On the ground they were met by the Newstime stringer, Ken Michaelson. Their condition was obvious. “First class is murder, isn’t it?” he said, laughing, taking Chico’s carry-on.

  “It’s hot here,” was all the bleary-eyed Chico said.

  It was. And humid. The strange land passed by David soundlessly in the air-conditioned car—because of the cars, architecture, and old-fashioned neon signs. Rio looked as though it were existing in a time zone ten years in the past. He felt like a vulgar American. It seemed as though everyone who looked at them knew exactly who they were— American businessmen loaded with dough and prissy assumptions. But I’m not, David wanted to answer. I’m a writer.

  “You guys better get some sleep,” Ken said as he pulled into the Hilton. “Our man may want to meet tonight.”

  “Where?”

  “He didn’t want to talk about that until you arrived.”

  They checked in. The Hilton seemed to be trying to fool its customers into believing they were really in the United States. There was barely an accent in the staff’s talk, the technology all looked up-to-date, and there was an absence of Latin decor—the only false note was the excessive deference added to the usual respect with which they were treated. There was a distinctly un-American servility to it— a subservience that made David nervous again. The gross Americans who have to be placated or they bomb the hell out of you, he imagined them thinking. Chico’s reaction was the opposite. Once in their undistinguished two-bedroom suite (Chico thought they should be accessible to each other at all times), he commented: “I love it here! They’re so friendly.”

  Yeah, Chico thinks abject slobbering is friendship, David thought, his eyes burning from drunkenness and fatigue. He had a foul metallic taste in his mouth and every swallow brought up an aftertaste of the wine, the gin, the soggy meat, the sweet Drambuie. “I’ll let you guys nap and get in touch with our man,” Ken said before going.

  Chico rang the desk and asked them to put all calls through and keep ringing no matter how long it took. “See you,” he said to David, and disappeared into his bedroom. David cons
idered unpacking and then fell on the bed—he toppled onto it like a statue falling, the way he used to as a kid. The room shifted in his vision when his head settled on the pillow. “I’m gonna be sick,” he said to himself, and clutched the bedspread to hold on, squeezing his eyes tight. A thought, playing clearly above all this nausea, came into his mind: I could kill him. I could get a knife from dinner and kill Gott. He tried to laugh. But whether it was the booze or his seriousness, he couldn’t. His mind winked out on a vivid picture of him plunging a silver hotel knife into a rather small old man’s belly. Just as he passed out, the blood pouring over his fantasy hand, Chico stood up outraged, yelling: “Wait until after the interview, you idiot!”

  Fred stood still and the world gathered speed, whirling faster and faster about him, a tornado forming to elevate him above all he had known, beyond anything he had ever dreamt. Bob Holder made up a story about a woman tennis star, discussed it with Gelb, offered Bart a hundred-thousand-dollar hardcover contract for Fred to write it, and besides the rather tentative “Yeah, okay” that he spoke in acceptance, that ended his participation in the incredible event. When he told Tom Lear the news. Tom’s reaction was almost as astonishing: “I think Bart may have sold you cheap. After your book comes out, maybe you could have gotten a quarter-million.”

  His phone rang each day with new people and more surprises. The publicist from Garlands called daily with new requests for TV appearances, newspaper and magazine interviews, laughing when Fred confessed, “What am I gonna say?”

  “Just tell them what the book’s about,” she answered breezily. “You’ll be great.”

  Four weeks before publication, Longacre Books, the largest paperback publisher in the country, made a floor bid for The Locker Room of two hundred thousand dollars in exchange for a ten-percent topping privilege. It meant simply that if no other house made an offer, they were obliged to buy it for that amount; and if there were higher bids, they had the right to top them by coming up with ten percent more.

  Fred hung up, returning to the dinner table (Marion and he were eating fish sticks), and told her the news. “Tom was right!” she cried out. “Bart undersold you on the tennis book.”

  “Marion!” Fred shouted. “Last year I earned twenty thousand dollars.”

  “I know,” she said, smiling. “We’d better talk to somebody about the money.”

  “You mean, like taxes?”

  “I mean, like, what to do with it.”

  “Yeah,” he mumbled, worried. He sat up late, adding the figures. He would get fifty percent of the paperback sale: a hundred thousand, less Bart’s commission, making it ninety. There would be another ninety from the tennis novel. A hundred and eighty thousand so far, and not a single copy of his book had yet been sold, had yet been put in a box and shipped to a bookstore. And he reflected that Marion had a point: Garlands, with this paperback floor, in essence now owned his next novel for free. He wondered if Bart was such a good agent. That Holder was a brilliant editor was obvious—perhaps Bart was living off Fred’s and Holder’s efforts here.

  The money was more than he had ever expected, and now he wanted more. If his novel hit the bestseller list, the paperback sale would be higher—other houses would come in and the auction could end up at a million.

  The next morning, Bart called. “Congratulations.”

  “It’s incredible, isn’t it?”

  “It’s not over yet. Listen, do you have an accountant?”

  “Just my father’s. You know, my—”

  “Is he experienced at handling writers?”

  “No, he’s just a little old guy who—”

  “I think you’re going to need special care now. Probably you should be incorporating. You’ve got close to two hundred thousand already for this year—and it could be a great deal more. Hollywood is now interested. I’ve been at work on them for months, whetting their appetite. Now with the book club, the promo tour, the paperback floor, they’re hot. I hadn’t wanted to get your hopes up—but four producers have now asked studios to buy the book.”

  “You’re kidding.” That was all Fred seemed to be able to say these days.

  “I always had good feelings about this book. It’s a lightning rod and you’re lighting up the sky. I think Bob’s right when he says it’ll be the big book of the season.” There was a buzz from his intercom. “I told you to hold the calls while I’m talking to Fred,” Bart shouted, irritated.

  Fred smiled to himself. He wanted a cigarette. “Bart, could you hold on for a second? I want to get a cigarette.”

  “Sure.”

  Fred strolled across the living room, picked up his pack, lit one, returning slowly. He didn’t know why, but this pause in the talk made him feel strong and adult. It was amazing how a little success draped a new confidence over him. He felt dressed in kingly robes. “Bart,” he said casually, but as though talking to someone he controlled, “I wonder if we made a mistake, signing the new deal with Bob. If we’d waited, we might have gotten a lot more.”

  There was a silence. Whether it was ominous, or shocked, or wounded, Fred didn’t know. To his surprise, he didn’t care. He wanted to hear Bart’s answer, no matter how Bart felt about being questioned. “Well, it’s worked out that way. Maybe it wouldn’t have if we hadn’t made the deal.”

  There was an edge to Bart’s calm tone—as though suggesting Fred not continue, not probe below the surface of his tranquil pond. He might find monsters swirling in the deep. “I don’t understand. There’d still have been a paperback—”

  “You don’t know. You know, how Garlands feels about you is important. Now they stand to make a lot of money by promoting the hell out of Locker Room. They own your next book. If they succeed with this one, they’ve got another bestseller for a mere hundred thousand—”

  “But that’s why I think—”

  “They’ve been hyping you to death, which sends a message to the industry, to the book clubs, to the paperback houses. They know Garlands is gonna promote your novel. So they can pick you as an alternate, make a floor bid, with confidence. Right now. Fred, the agents I work with in Europe are collecting offers for Locker Room. We’ve turned down, turned down, mind you, a quarter of a million dollars in foreign advances.”

  “Without even telling me?”

  “Hey, Fred. Make up your mind. You felt we had been premature in selling your next novel. Now you’re worried we’re taking chances? The offers are pouring in, Fred. The foreign publishers haven’t even read your book and they’re making offers.”

  “Come on, that’s impossible.”

  “Maybe a few have read it, but I doubt it. All they know is, if it’s happening here, they should be in on it. A hot book has a logic of its own. The tennis book is a great idea. It isn’t your idea, Fred. If we didn’t make the deal, we couldn’t sell it elsewhere. We’d have been slapping Holder, and therefore all of Garlands, in the face just before a critical time. You know right after the book-club deal was a crucial moment. Garlands could have brought out your book nicely, nothing spectacular, gotten a little profit on it, and gotten out. Holder came to me with the offer then. Right or wrong, he felt you owed it to him. He did work very hard on The Locker Room. Maybe I was wrong, but I felt saying no could have cut off your success before it had a chance to blossom. Besides, you and Bob make a good team. I don’t believe in breaking up winning combinations.”

  Fred needed an ashtray. There wasn’t one nearby. He didn’t want to break off to find one. “Bart, I … are you saying that I’m stuck with Bob—I mean, I like Bob, but—”

  “Of course not. You’re a very talented writer. Once this book is on the list, I’m sure the tennis novel will be great, then we can make our move. Collect a million up front. Maybe more. Come on, Fred. Right now you should be thinking of organizing things so you can handle this money, and getting ready for the book tour.” There was the harsh noise of his intercom. Fred heard his secretary’s voice in the background: “Bob Holder on two.”

&n
bsp; “Well, speak of the devil. It’s Bob on the line. Do you want to hold? Or should I call you back?”

  “No, you can call me back,” Fred answered in a desultory tone. The long ash from his cigarette fell and smashed itself against his pants leg, disintegrating in graceful silence.

  “Cheer up, Fred! You’re rich and you’re going to be famous,” Bart said, and hung up.

  Fred stood with the phone in his hand. The cigarette’s ember was burning into the filter, the red glow shrinking into a shell like a frightened turtle. “Fuck you,” he said to the dead phone.

  Patty spent an uneasy night in the loft. The streets of SoHo—its buildings painted in neon pastels, mobbed by tourists and flea markets—at night reverted to their past: dark warehouse alleys, their wobbly humpbacked gutters glistening with puddles, the occasional drunken voice echoing in the cast-iron tunnels. To be sure, she knew there were expensive restaurants within a block or two—if she looked out the window long enough, the long dark bodies of the limos would pass: restless city sharks on the prowl. But walking in giant space, sensing her small body alone under the high ceiling, was creepy. She kept the television on for company. Gelb had phoned twice. He had told his wife he wanted a divorce, denying there was another woman involved.

  “Good,” Patty had said. “Because there isn’t.”

  “You’ve changed your mind again.”

  “I didn’t promise anything. You bullied me. I need time to think. I don’t want to see you and get confused.”

  He acted as though she didn’t mean it. Called back to say so point-blank. She wanted to ask him why he wasn’t doing anything for her book, but she feared he would think he could buy her body with an ad budget—and she knew now that wasn’t true. She could tell him it would, but she would never keep the bargain. Not because of principle, because of vanity. She didn’t want to succeed as a writer that way— she wanted the accomplishment to be real, to fill her with confidence, not turn into the mush everything else in life had become: every relationship compromised, every achievement diluted. She had always gotten by through the goodwill of men, or friends, or her winning manner. The novel was stripped of these advantages, naked but for her mind and will and talent. The reader could only be seduced by those beauties—her tits, her wondering eyes, her smooth skin would make no difference. The politics of feminism were meaningless to her; its abstractions plastic weapons when in combat with the real world, but this understanding of it, that at last there was something of her own to protect, not simply ideas, was a flag to rally under. No matter how hard or scary, with her novel she was going to do without the men, without the coy plea of helplessness. She had given up the illusion that she could change her dealings with men about sex or love—but about her work, yes. If Gelb didn’t want to advertise her book because it was good, then let it not sell. If she needed him, it would be because of sexual weakness, not the fear of poverty or obscurity.