Small Town

“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.”