ever met. Don’t be jealous, Henry. You have your own style. There’s room enough in the world for both epic poets and writers of haiku.”
“Is that what I write? Haiku? Even
Think Big
?”
Pamela, like many a woman before her, saw that it had been a mistake to get him on the subject of his writing: he took it too seriously, more seriously than sex or money. You cannot flirt with a writer about his books. She changed the subject: without even a shift of those wide-open eyes of hers, she grabbed a bulky man passing by in a double-breasted blue blazer. “Henry, I don’t think you met my brother when you were here before. Zeke loves your books. He says you write rings around my darling husband.”
“He’s just teasing you,” Bech assured her, shaking the big puffy hand extended into his. Zeke Towers, Jr., had one of those practiced handshakes that don’t quite come into your grip but somehow withhold the palm, giving you just the fingers. The family freckles covered his big face so thickly he looked diseased, or clad in a Tom Sawyer mask.
“
The Travellers
,” young Zeke pronounced, his boyish face betraying a deep mnemonic effort. “It knocked me out, back when I was in college. It was assigned in two different courses.”
“
Travel Light
, I think you must mean. About a motorcycle gang cruising from town to town in the Midwest, raping and pillaging.”
The fascinating face, which, like a plate of
nouvelle cuisine
, was bigger than it needed to be to contain what was on it, lit up with relief. “Yeah, terrific—I’d never been hardly west of the Hudson, and here was all this sex and violence.”
“All made up,” Bech assured him.
“And then that other one, set in New York, with the scene where the television crew—”
“
Think Big.
I’ve always been kind of embarrassed about that book—it became a best-seller.”
“And that was bad?” Zeke Jr. asked in genuine puzzlement. Bech gathered that the man’s brother-in-law didn’t talk this perverse way. For Izzy, worldly success was a legitimate goal.
“Pretty bad. And then it ruined my perfectly fine marriage. My wife’s sister was so indignant I had written a best-seller and appeared in
People
that she seduced me and her sister kicked me out.” He confessed all this partly to interest and offend Pamela; but she, as was her way, had ducked off, leaving him with the conversational companion of her choosing.
It was hard to tell with Wasp males how old they were; they don’t stop being boys. Zeke Jr. must have been fifty or so, and he blinked as if he had never heard self-deprecating doubletalk before. “That sounds rough,” he said. “Hey, listen, I bet you’ve been asked this before, but what I’ve always wondered about you writer types is, Where the hell do you get your ideas?”
More and more, as Bech went out to parties, he found himself being interviewed. It was a mode of conversation he disliked but had become adept in. “A good question,” he said firmly, repeating it: “Mr. Bech, where do you get your ideas?” Having given himself a moment to think, he now answered: “Your ideas are the product, generally, of spite. There is somebody you want to get even with, or some rival you want to outdo. The fiction then is what the psychiatrists call a working out. Or is it an ‘acting out’?”
“You’d have to ask Pam about that. Until she got linked up with Izzy, she was on the couch five days a week.”
“But she’s the picture of health now.” Rosy cheeks, buoyant dappled breasts, seamless plastic surgery. Was Bech falling in love yet again?
“Izzy’s done wonders for her, I can tell you. My dad died happy, seeing his daughter in good hands at last.”
“He sounds like an easy man to make happy.”
Zeke Jr. was again puzzled, but had already built puzzlement into his expectations of Bech, and was determined to be polite. Why? Uneasily the unprolific author wondered what charm he held for this financial buccaneer,
“Is that what I write? Haiku? Even
Think Big
?”
Pamela, like many a woman before her, saw that it had been a mistake to get him on the subject of his writing: he took it too seriously, more seriously than sex or money. You cannot flirt with a writer about his books. She changed the subject: without even a shift of those wide-open eyes of hers, she grabbed a bulky man passing by in a double-breasted blue blazer. “Henry, I don’t think you met my brother when you were here before. Zeke loves your books. He says you write rings around my darling husband.”
“He’s just teasing you,” Bech assured her, shaking the big puffy hand extended into his. Zeke Towers, Jr., had one of those practiced handshakes that don’t quite come into your grip but somehow withhold the palm, giving you just the fingers. The family freckles covered his big face so thickly he looked diseased, or clad in a Tom Sawyer mask.
“
The Travellers
,” young Zeke pronounced, his boyish face betraying a deep mnemonic effort. “It knocked me out, back when I was in college. It was assigned in two different courses.”
“
Travel Light
, I think you must mean. About a motorcycle gang cruising from town to town in the Midwest, raping and pillaging.”
The fascinating face, which, like a plate of
nouvelle cuisine
, was bigger than it needed to be to contain what was on it, lit up with relief. “Yeah, terrific—I’d never been hardly west of the Hudson, and here was all this sex and violence.”
“All made up,” Bech assured him.
“And then that other one, set in New York, with the scene where the television crew—”
“
Think Big.
I’ve always been kind of embarrassed about that book—it became a best-seller.”
“And that was bad?” Zeke Jr. asked in genuine puzzlement. Bech gathered that the man’s brother-in-law didn’t talk this perverse way. For Izzy, worldly success was a legitimate goal.
“Pretty bad. And then it ruined my perfectly fine marriage. My wife’s sister was so indignant I had written a best-seller and appeared in
People
that she seduced me and her sister kicked me out.” He confessed all this partly to interest and offend Pamela; but she, as was her way, had ducked off, leaving him with the conversational companion of her choosing.
It was hard to tell with Wasp males how old they were; they don’t stop being boys. Zeke Jr. must have been fifty or so, and he blinked as if he had never heard self-deprecating doubletalk before. “That sounds rough,” he said. “Hey, listen, I bet you’ve been asked this before, but what I’ve always wondered about you writer types is, Where the hell do you get your ideas?”
More and more, as Bech went out to parties, he found himself being interviewed. It was a mode of conversation he disliked but had become adept in. “A good question,” he said firmly, repeating it: “Mr. Bech, where do you get your ideas?” Having given himself a moment to think, he now answered: “Your ideas are the product, generally, of spite. There is somebody you want to get even with, or some rival you want to outdo. The fiction then is what the psychiatrists call a working out. Or is it an ‘acting out’?”
“You’d have to ask Pam about that. Until she got linked up with Izzy, she was on the couch five days a week.”
“But she’s the picture of health now.” Rosy cheeks, buoyant dappled breasts, seamless plastic surgery. Was Bech falling in love yet again?
“Izzy’s done wonders for her, I can tell you. My dad died happy, seeing his daughter in good hands at last.”
“He sounds like an easy man to make happy.”
Zeke Jr. was again puzzled, but had already built puzzlement into his expectations of Bech, and was determined to be polite. Why? Uneasily the unprolific author wondered what charm he held for this financial buccaneer,
Similar Books
