MOUNDS OF newspapers and telegrams lay piled on the dining room table like drifts of snow. Flugelhorn, looking less ferrety than usual in a new sculptured haircut, was snipping an item from the New York Post and reading it aloud while Bonnie and Manny half-listened as they rummaged through the deluge.
“ ‘ … wept when Federal Judge John J. Assumpsit delivered the favorable verdict. At her side were her husband and co-plaintiff, Emmanuel, their attorney, D. E. Deever, Jr., and Mrs. Ehrlich’s personal manager, Milton Flugelhorn. The thirty-nine-year-old Mrs. Ehrlich …’ ”
“Oh, that’s beautiful,” Bonnie interrupted.
“ ‘ … who is currently appearing in the film version of her own best-selling novel, “The Broadbelters,” wore a loose-fitting camel hair suit, a leopard hat …’”
“Okay, skip the fashion show,” Manny said, “and let’s hear what they said about the decision.”
“Um … oh, here it is,” Flugelhorn said, skimming the column for the right paragraph. “ ‘In awarding the plaintiff release from her contract and $1,158,000 in damages, Judge Assumpsit said, “The court finds that David Shmeer did in fact employ scurrilous language against Mrs. Ehrlich for the purpose of humiliating and insulting the plaintiff and that Mr. Shmeer overstepped his rights as an employer by requiring the plaintiff to perform sexual intercourse on television and other obscene acts in public for the purpose of promoting the sale of her novel, The Broadbelters. It is the opinion of the court that these improper and demeaning …” ’ ”
“Say, look at this!” Manny broke in, laughing. “We got a telegram from The Swinging Nun.”
“Oh, really?” Bonnie said. “What does it say?”
“It says: ‘BLESSINGS STOP GOD’S WILL IS A GROOVE!”
“That’s very nice of her,” Flugelhorn commented. “She’s got a lot of soul.” He finished with the Post item and picked up a copy of Variety. “Hey, listen to the wild headline they gave you in here: ‘BONNIE BROADBELTER BELTS BLOCKBUSTER BARON! ’ ”
“That’s cute,” Bonnie nodded, scanning a telegram. “Here’s a wire from Sydney Crotchnick: ‘CONGRATULATIONS AND KUDOS TO OUR FAVORITE NYMPH.’ ” She laughed. “I wonder how he meant that.”
“And here’s one,” Manny said, picking up another wire, “from our old friend, Percy B. Hack.”
Bonnie glanced up sharply. “Oh? Here, let me see it.”
Manny handed it to her, and she read aloud, “ ‘CONGRATULATIONS ON AN INSPIRED EPILOGUE.’ ”
“What the hell does that mean?” Manny asked.
Bonnie pursed her lips. She thought of Hack—warm, tender thoughts that curled inside her like tendrils of smoke—and she smiled mysteriously. “I guess he means he’s glad we screwed Shmeer,” she said.
Flugelhorn looked up from the UPI wire release he was scissoring out of a newspaper. “This Hack,” he asked, “is he the same one who wrote the new hit Shmeer’s got out now: TV Is a Person?”
“Yeah, and he’s the same Hack who wrote The Broadbelters,” Manny said.
A look of enlightenment flashed across Flugelhorn’s face. “Oh, so that’s who did it. I never thought to ask.” He turned to Bonnie, who was staring wistfully at Hack’s telegram. “Well, it looks like you’ll have to find yourself someone else to do the sequel,” he told her. “With a hit book of his own on the market, I think your boy Hack’s out of the ghostwriting business.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Bonnie drawled, a cagey look on her face. “He still might do it for me if I asked him.” She studied her fingernails impassively. “Percy and I had a very close relationship.”
“Close, shmose,” Manny said. “If we make him the right proposition, he’ll do it.”
“Well, then you’d better make it to him pretty fast,” Flugelhorn said. “We can’t wait too long to come up with a sequel if we want to capitalize on The Broadbelters’ publicity.” He thought for a moment. “I figure it’ll take a year to write the book and about a year to bring it out. Now two years …”
“Why should it take a year to come out?” Manny asked. “Christ, Shmeer brung Bonnie’s book out in three months.”
“Yes, but that’s Shmeer. We won’t be using him this time, remember?” Flugelhorn sighed and shook his head regretfully. “I’m afraid there aren’t too many other fully IBM publishing houses around.”
“Yeah, and there ain’t too many other greedy bastards like that around either,” Manny said.
Bonnie looked annoyed. “Oh, what’s the point in worrying about a publisher now? I’m sure we won’t have any trouble finding one,” she asserted. “What we need now is an author.”
“You’re right. First things first,” Flugelhorn said. “Let me get in touch with this Hack guy, and I’ll set up a meeting as soon as I can.”
“The sooner the better.” Bonnie picked Hack’s telegram up and looked at it again. After a moment she began to smile. “Maybe the Epilogue hasn’t been written yet,” she said.
It was a jolt. If she hadn’t been expecting him, she would never have believed that the tall, artily sideburned stranger standing in her living room in a paisley shirt, outsize tie, and trousers belted with multiple chains worn hip-hugger style, was Percy Hack.
She came toward him happily and they embraced. “Percy! It’s so good to see you again.”
“Oh, it is!” he said, smiling with obvious pleasure.
“You’ve changed a little, haven’t you?” she laughed. “God, let me look at you.” She stood back from him, and she could see at a glance that the difference in the “New Percy” was more than a matter of style. He had about him now a certain air of resilience—a jaunty stoicism—the kind of weathered look that comes of standing around in the public eye. But she thought she saw, too, some tiny telltale signs, little hints of diffidence here and there, that his old nebbish self was still alive and kicking inside its mod cocoon and was not dying without a struggle.
“Good to see ya, boy,” Manny said, clasping an arm around him. He glanced at his watch. “But you’re a half hour early. What didja do, fly?”
“No,” Hack laughed. “As a matter of fact, I came by elevator.”
“By elevator?” Manny looked puzzled. “Whatta you mean?”
“Didn’t Mr. Flugelhorn tell you?” he asked, surprised. He grinned in an embarrassed way that was pure Early Hack. “I live in your building now. On the fifth floor.”
“You’re kidding!” Bonnie exclaimed in astonishment “When did you move in?”
He looked at her contritely. “We’ve only been living here a week.”
“You mean you’ve been living here a whole week and you didn’t call us?” Bonnie reproached him. “That’s terrible!”
“Well, I knew how busy you were with the trial,” Hack apologized, “and I didn’t want to bother you.”
“Yeah, thanks for the telegram,” Manny said. “We appreciated it.”
“Oh, you’re welcome.” Hack smiled warmly. “I hate to sound disloyal, but I was so happy when I heard the outcome of your falling out with Shmeer.”
Manny guffawed. “That was a fall-out all right—there ain’t been another one like it since strontium 90.”
Hack laughed. “I know. I’ve been following the case with avid interest, as you can imagine.” He paused and added, rather self-consciously, “The newspaper is the only thing I get a chance to read these days, now that TV Is a Person is out.”
“Oh, yes, congratulations!” Bonnie enthused. “I hear it’s selling like crazy.”
“Number five on the List,” Hack beamed. “Of course, it’ll never be another phenomenon like The Broadbelters,” he added quickly.
“Nothin’ will,” Manny said, swelling with pride like a blowfish. “And the movie is gonna be an even bigger smash hit than the book. It’s doing $250,000 in Chicago, $200,000 in Los Angeles, $150,000 in Philadelphia—ask Milt Flugelhorn when he gets here. He’ll tell ya.”
“I’m sure he will,” Hack said. He looked at Bonnie and smiled shyly. “You were quite good in the movie. I saw you in it.”
Bonnie was obviously pleased, but Manny cut in, laughing, “You mean you saw a lot of her in it. For a small part it sure covered a lot of ground.”
“Oh, Manny,” Bonnie said testily, “why don’t you shut up for a minute and go fix us some drinks.”
She led Hack over to the sofa while Manny trundled off to the bar. “I think it’s wonderful that you’re living here now, Percy,” she said when they were seated. She gave him a close look. “How did you happen to pick this place?”
Hack paused for a moment before answering while he lit up a thin, black cigar. The TRAP course had obviously taught him a thing or two about timing. “Well, you know,” he said finally, averting his eyes as he puffed on the cigar and delicately blew out a whorl of bad-smelling smoke, “this building has some very pleasurable associations for me.” He turned and faced her directly. “And then, too, it’s close to my psychiatrist.”
Bonnie looked abashed. “Don’t tell me you’re still seeing him? My God, your money problems should be over now.”
“But they’re not,” he frowned. “They’re just of a different degree.” He shrugged helplessly. “Now I have too much.”
Bonnie shook her head and laughed. He was still the same old Hack—a sheep in a wolf’s clothing. “Oh, you nut,” she said affectionately, “how can too much money be a problem?”
“Guilt,” he said simply. “I have unresolved conflicts about earning it … this way.” He sighed. “But if you listen to what Brunhild says …”
“Yeah, how is Brunhild?” Manny asked, back with the drinks. “Wasn’t she the dame you were supposed to marry?”
“I did marry her,” Hack smiled, “and she’s fine, thanks. She’s pregnant.”
“Oh, congratulations,” Bonnie cooed.
“That was fast work,” Manny chuckled, slapping him on the back.
Hack laughed. “Yes, I guess it was rather fast,” he said. “They’ll be eleven months apart.”
Manny’s eyes popped. “You mean you already have a kid?” He looked at Hack with new admiration. “Christ, you got more on the ball than I thought.”
The doorbell rang, and Flugelhorn hurried in, crestfallen at having arrived after Hack. “Gosh, I hope I haven’t kept you people waiting,” he said.
“Oh, that’s all right. We had a lot of news to catch up on,” Bonnie said. She shot a wry glance at Hack. “It seems Percy’s been pretty busy lately.”
Flugelhorn slipped into a seat and turned to Manny questioningly. “Have you approached Mr. Hack about the proposition yet?”
“Uh, no,” Manny said, nursing his drink. “We didn’t get around to it yet.”
“I see.” Flugelhorn quickly took charge in his linear fashion and pointed himself at Hack, who was puffing benignly on his cigar with an air of mild expectancy. “Mr. Hack, Mr. and Mrs. Ehrlich would like to engage you as a collaborator on the sequel to The Broadbelters. They feel that you …”
Hack choked on his cigar smoke. When he had stopped coughing, he stared at Bonnie and Manny in pained disbelief. “But you know I can’t accept a job like that now! How could you even ask me?” He sounded like an ex-alcoholic being offered a drink by trusted friends. “I mean, I’m sure you realize,” he added defensively, “that I’m a well-known author in my own right now. I can’t afford to compromise myself by writing other people’s books.”
“Yes, of course we’re aware of your reputation,” Flugelhorn said, breaching the awkward silence, “but your share in the book will be guarded with the same absolute secrecy as it was the last time.”
Hack shook his head. “No, it’s too risky. Look what happened with TV Is a Person. I wrote it under a pseudonym, and yet everyone knows I’m the author.”
Bonnie looked at Hack, a puzzled expression on her face. “But your books says Percy Byshe Hack on the cover. Isn’t that your real name?”
“No, it’s Bysshe,” he said. “With two s’s.”
“Oh, boy, it’s a wonder anyone guessed it,” Manny laughed. He studied Hack skeptically. “And if you was so anxious to hide, why’d you let ’em plaster that big picture of your face all over the back?”
Hack reddened and said uncomfortably, “That was Shmeer’s idea. He thought no one would recognize me in sideburns.” He stubbed out his cigar as though trying to eradicate it. “Look, I’d really like to help,” he appealed to them, “but it’s absolutely impossible. I just haven’t got the time right now.”
Bonnie sighed. “Well, I guess I could probably get someone else to do it”—she paused and gave Hack a meaningful look—“but you know how well we worked together, Percy.”
Hack’s face ripened into a tomatoey hue. “Yes, I haven’t forgotten,” he said. A plaintively desperate note edged into his voice. “It’s a pleasure I hate to forego, but what else can I do? After I finish pushing TV, I’ve got my own sequel to do.”
“You can always get someone else to do it,” Flugelhorn said.
Hack stared at him, shocked. “What? You mean hire a ghostwriter?” He began to laugh in a disconcerted way. “No, no. I couldn’t do that. It’s dishonest.”
“I’ll pay for it,” Manny said. “The same $10,000 I gave you.”
Hack frowned and shook his head. “No, no. It’s out of the question.”
“And I’ll tell you what else I’ll do,” Manny went on imperturbably, “I’ll pay you a fee of a quarter of a million …”
Hack’s eyebrows shot up. “Out of the question,” he said again, but with less conviction.
“… plus 10 per cent of the movie rights—another quarter of a million.” Manny forgot Hack for the moment and began to chortle gleefully as he thought aloud. “With a smash like The Broadbelters on the books, we can hit the studio for two million and a half this time. And we won’t go to no schlock house like Shmeer who’ll want a cut. Nah, this time we’ll find ourselves a high class publisher—a real educated dumbbell.”
Flugelhorn cut in tersely, driving the bargain home like a jockey in the stretch. “Mr. Hack, Mr. Ehrlich is offering you a half million dollars to do his wife’s book. And he’s agreed to pay an additional $10,000 for a ghost … uh, subcontractor … to do your own book. You’ll be getting the price of two books for the work on one.” He waited a long moment. “Well, what do you say?”
Hack sighed deeply, dredging his breath up from some dark place in his soul. “Oh, why not,” he said at last. “What have I got to lose besides a half million dollars’ worth of integrity?”
Bonnie threw her arms around him. “Oh, Percy, I’m so happy! I knew you would!”
Manny and Flugelhorn took turns pumping his hand, and when they had all settled down again Hack asked quietly, “Do you have any idea what you want in the book?”
“Yeah,” Manny laughed. “Sex.”
“Oh, he knows that,” Bonnie said with annoyance, “but what kind of a story should we work in?” She turned to Hack. “Shmeer wanted me to do the sequel on some famous television personalities, if that’s any help.”
“Hmmmmm,” he said, pondering, “in my sequel he wanted me to enlarge upon the transvestite theme of TV Is a Person.”
“I’ve got an idea. Why don’t you combine the two,” Flugelhorn suggested, “and make it about some famous TV personalities who change sexes the way other people flip channels?”
Hack nodded excitedly. “That sounds good … very good … great!” He sat up and moistened his lips. “And to give it some contemporary social value,” he began plotting, “we’ll make the central character a beautiful Negro actress-singer who becomes the star of the first black situation-comedy on TV …”
“And has an unhappy love affair,” Flugelhorn went on eagerly, “with the white host of the highest-rated nighttime talk show on a rival network …”
“… and is so decimated by it that she has herself changed to a man,” Hack concluded triumphantly, “and winds up as the star of the first black Western series!”
For a moment no one dared speak, and then all at once the four of them were laughing and shouting simultaneously. “Fabulous! Fantastic! Sensational!” Bonnie shrieked, hugging herself and the other three in an ecstasy of enthusiasm.
Manny was the first to come down from the high. “It’s terrific,” he said solemnly, “but who the hell is gonna publish it?”
His question resounded in a sudden vacuum of silence. Then a long, loud groan from Bonnie rushed in and filled it. “Oh, my God, here we go again.”
Hack chewed his lip, deep in thought. “The only other publisher I actually know,” he said slowly, “is Augustus Bleak of Bleak House.”
“Bleak … Bleak … ?” Manny repeated the name, trying to place it. Then, riding in on a whiff of distaste, it came to him. “Oh, no! Not that old cocker. I met him at The Broadbelters’ opening party.” He made a vinegary face. “Christ, he’s one of them fancy holier-than-thou jackasses who’s always cornin’ on with the big words and don’t know the first goddam thing about makin’ money.”
“Perfect!” Flugelhorn exclaimed. “He sounds like just the man we want.”
Manny stared at him. “Are you crazy? He’s a dope.”
“But we want a dope—you said so yourself,” Flugelhorn pointed out. “Who else could we wrap around our finger?”
“Yeah, but he’s such a square,” Manny objected.
“He has been in the past,” Hack said, “but I think he may be amenable to change at this point.”
Manny looked surprised. “You mean he’s ready to go commercial?”
“No, he’s ready to go bankrupt,” Hack said. “He needs a dirty book to put him in the black.”
Bonnie pounded the sofa with her fist. “Let’s try him!” she cried. “What the hell. We know all the angles. It’s about time we went after someone who’ll give us a little class.”
“She’s right,” Flugelhorn said. “We need Bleak to take the stigma off us. With our know-how and his prestige we’ll have the whole market cornered—both the mass and the intelligentsia. Think what a coup that’ll be!” He began to chuckle with delight. “Can you imagine Bonnie on the required reading list in high school some day?”
The idea appealed to Manny. “Hey, that is good,” he said, grinning broadly. He nodded in assent. “Okay. Let’s give it to Bleak.”
“Good! That settles it,” Flugelhorn said. He turned to Hack. “I’ll make the presentation to him, but winning him over will be your job. If he balks at doing pop pornography, you’ll have to talk him out of his objections with a lot of fine-sounding academic arguments.”
“I’ll do my best,” Hack said, nodding with assurance, “and personally, I don’t think I’ll have any trouble.” He added with a wistful little smile, “When it comes to rationalizing a sellout … I’m an expert.”
Bleak leaned back in his Thonet chair with the Flemish brocade cushion on it and studied the Daumier print on the wall above Flugelhorn’s head. He pursed his lips meditatively as his fingers fiddled with the gold-gleaming keys on his vest chain. Finally he lowered his gaze and spoke, syllabizing his words with drastic emphasis. “Un-think-able, my good man. Ab-so-lute-ly un-think-able.”
“But sir,” Flugelhorn began …
Bleak cut him off with an imperious wave of the hand. “My dear fellow, did you actually believe that a house of our stature and distinction would allow itself to become a panderer of prurience for profit … a purveyor of perversions and profanity …”—he paused and gathered a few more P’s on his tongue—“… a prophet of pornography?”
Flugelhorn remained silent, appealing dumbly to Hack with his eyes.
“Just a moment, sir,” Hack said, rising. Looking like a barrister in his tailor-made London suit and shirt, he faced Bleak squarely and began to argue his case. “You do us a grave injustice, Mr. Bleak, by confusing pornography with erotic literature. The book we’re asking you to publish may seem like pornography because of the plethora of sexual scenes—147 in all—but there the resemblance ends. Far from being the ordinary sex novel mechanically designed for titillation, ours is a pre-planned best-seller built like a classical nineteenth-century novel—a Bildungsroman, if you will—with all the erotic elements organically related to the abstract structural design of the book.”
Bleak eyed him guardedly. “A ‘Bildungsroman,’ eh? And do you see nothing antithetical, dear boy, in ‘pre-planning’ such a novel?”
“Certainly not, sir,” Hack answered with calm certainty. “I find it no more contradictory to subject a book—any kind of book—to standardized production methods than any other consumer product. No one complains about his car being pre-designed—why should he object to it in a book?” He smiled archly. “Maybe what we need are novels with bucket seats.”
Bleak looked shocked. “But my dear fellow, a book is a genuine creative work, not to be equated with a product manufactured for profit. Profits are the pursuit of commerce, not of the arts.”
“But in a free enterprise society,” Hack countered, “profit-making is a perfectly legitimate endeavor for everyone—artist and artisan alike. One might even call it the bulwark, in our competitive system, of democratic principles. As Calvin Coolidge said, ‘The business of America is business.’ ” He paused like a marksman taking aim. “In essence, Mr. Bleak, putting out books that sell, as opposed to books of quality or significance, is actually the more American thing to do.”
“You gotta sell, Bleak,” Manny put in earnestly, “or the public’ll think you’re a Commie.”
Bleak snapped his head back, as if deflecting a blow. “But we have our reputation …”
“ ‘Reputation,’ ” Hack quoted, “ ‘is an idle and most false imposition; oft got without merit, and lost without deserving.’ ”
“... not to mention our responsibility to the public …”
“Your responsibility to the public, if I may say so, sir,” Hack retorted, gathering steam, “is to reach them. A good book, as we both know, is seldom read by anyone except the author. But there are millions of people out there beyond the gates”—he pointed out Bleak’s huge, dingy window—“who must be served. This is the kind of book they read, and Mrs. Ehrlich is the kind of author they acclaim.”
“But we’ve always taken the high road …”
“Damn the high road,” Hack responded fervidly. He took a step closer to Bleak and adopted a pleading, compassionate tone. “Please, sir, I have only your interests at heart. You gave me my start as a writer and now I want to repay you—to save you—if I can. In this spirit I ask you, why should you cling stubbornly to the high road, a pathetic and lonely figure, while all around you the Shmeers are dancing in fields of gold?”
A tear of self-pity glistened in Bleak’s eye, and he brushed it away with his finger.
“How much better it would be,” Hack went on relentlessly, “for you to be reaping the big money harvest and plowing the profits into, let’s say, the ‘Bleak Foundation for Impoverished Poets.’ ”
Bleak nodded, a rapt expression on his face. “Yes … yes … the Robin Hood of the book business.”
“And I ask you now, sir, this one last question,” Hack said, coming full circle as he entered his final plea. “How are we to know that the purely commercial book may not, at the same time, be a genuine work of art? Or may not achieve greatness with the respectability of success?” His voice rose to an impassioned pitch. “The scorn of the critics will blow away like chaff, and today’s pop novelists—Harold Robbins, Irving Wallace, Irving Shulman, Bonnie Ehrlich … and Percy Hack—pioneers in a brave new genre that dares to portray reality without artifice or art—may yet become the Faulkners and the Steinbecks of tomorrow. And their books, once dismissed as pornographic trash, may yet stand in history as classics.”
“My God,” Bleak gasped, utterly beside himself, “yours may be the first dirty book to win the Nobel Prize!”
Slowly, as in a trance, he got to his feet and held out his hand to Hack. “My son, Bleak House is honored to have you—and Mrs. Ehrlich—with us.”
When the hubbub of congratulations had died down and tranquillity had been restored, Manny could be seen seated beside Bleak’s desk, earnestly explaining a brochure to him. “Now you see, this here,” he was saying, “is called a ‘Runaway Blockbuster.’ It’s first class, and that’s the kind we’re gonna do.” He stopped for a moment and looked up from the brochure. “Oh, by the way, you’ll hafta get yourself a couple of machines.”
“Machines?” Bleak stared at him. “What kind of machines, my good man?”
“Computers. You know, Univacs and stuff.” Manny smiled knowingly. “For this kind of book they got editors beat a mile.”
Bleak began to sputter. “But I… I …”
“Don’t worry,” Manny laughed, “I’ll underwrite ’em and you can pay me back from the profits.” He turned back to the brochure. “Now with the first class you get a guaranteed minimum of forty-eight …”
Bonnie, sitting alongside Hack now on a small, worn settee and gazing at him with fond admiration, said softly, “Percy, you were wonderful. Really marvelous. I never heard anything like it.”
“I was just wondering,” Flugelhorn piped up from his overstuffed chair, “what do you think we ought to call it?”
Hack frowned, wrinkling his forehead in thought. “I don’t know. Maybe we ought to try something hip this time, something with a Now sound, like … uh … The Sex Bag.”
Flugelhorn shook his head. “That’s no good,” he said. “It sounds like a douche.” He thought for a moment. “Maybe we can tie in the two themes—the TV thing and the transvestite bit—in a double entendre title like … oh, ah … The Crossed Tube.”
“Well … it’s not bad,” Hack said, “but they might think it’s about transplants.” He turned to Bonnie. “What do you think, Bonnie?”
He stared at her. “… Bonnie?”
But she was not answering. Her eyes were dreamily halfclosed, and her head was tilted back, and she was far, far away—in a huge auditorium in Stockholm, Sweden. The King had just presented her with the Nobel Prize, and now, as she made her way up the carpeted stairs to the center stage, the audience rose en masse and applauded thunderously. She stood at the lectern, proud and regal in her St. Laurent see-through gown, and the tears streamed down her cheeks while the ovation rolled over her in a tidal wave of sound. Then the roaring stopped, and an unearthly stillness descended as that vast, resplendent sea of guests waited for her to begin her speech.
She glanced up at the loge, at the radiant faces of Manny, Flugelhorn, and Hack, and in a voice trembling with exultation, she began:
“Your Royal Highnesses, ladies and gentlemen. Today I am the happiest woman on the face of the earth …”