experience,” said Mack, warming to the idea. “A literary agent’s basically just a middleman, same as a priest. Only instead of making deals for sinners with God, you make ’em with editors who just
think
they’re God. They’d be a pushover for a guy like you who’s used to dealing with the real thing.”
Tommy thought about it for a moment. “What kind of dough do they make?”
“Ten percent of whatever their clients get, usually,” said Mack.
“Sounds like a piece of cake,” said Tommy. “Providing you got clients, that is.”
Mack looked at Tommy and wondered what would happen to a priest who quit and became a literary agent. Turning real people into fictional characters was instinctive to Mack, and when he came across the right ones, professionally profitable. Tommy Russo was one of those people.
“I’ll make you a deal,” he said. “Right now I’ve got a proposal for a new novel called
Light Years
. It’s with my editor at Gothic, Artie Wolfowitz. He’s offering an eighty-thousand-dollar advance.I want a hundred. Get it for me and I’ll take you on as my agent. How about it?”
“What the hell do you need me for?” asked Tommy. “You already know the guy.”
Mack grinned. “He’s my best friend, which is why I can’t negotiate with him. I don’t want to fight with him over money. You fight with him.”
Tommy returned the grin, but his mind was on the phrase “my best friend.” Earlier Mack had confessed that he was sleeping with his best friend’s wife. “Just out of curiosity, aren’t you worried about this Wolfowitz finding out about you and his old lady?”
“It’s no big thing,” said Mack, frowning. “Just recreational sex, that’s all.”
“Yeah, then why did you pick that particular thing to confess?”
Mack laughed. “I figured it was the kind of thing a priest would consider a sin,” he said. “I didn’t know I’d run into one who gets laid in Poughkeepsie.”
“I’m not so sure you’re right about this Wolfowitz,” said Tommy. “I’m just a wop from Bensonhurst, but where I come from, when a guy buddy-fucks his best friend there’s usually trouble.”
“That’s another reason you’ll make a great agent,” said Mack. “You’ve got primal Sicilian instincts. So, have we got a deal?”
“Yeah, I’ll give it a shot,” said Tommy, extending his hand. For years he had been dreaming of a way out of the priesthood and now a stranger named Mack Green was offering him one. He was drawn to the young author’s careless charm, but it was the money that excited him—10 percent of a hundred thousand bucks seemed like a fortune. If the agent thing didn’t work, he could always go into the insurance business, but for that kind of dough it was worth taking a flyer. Looking back later, Tommy Russo realized that it was at that precise moment that he stopped being a priest and became a player.
Seven
As a new husband, Artie Wolfowitz spent his time and money indulging his pregnant wife. He went into debt to rent a place on Central Park West large enough for a nursery and a study for Louise, took her to expensive restaurants and Broadway openings, watered and fed her supercilious artistic friends. She responded with an offhanded affection that more than satisfied him. Louise Frank was a prize, greater than any he had dreamed of attaining, and he never awoke in the morning without a feeling of intense love and amazement at his good fortune.
The birth of Josh, seven months after the wedding, brought changes. Louise, who had passionately wanted a child, now insisted that an English nanny move in to care for him, and she paid the infant what Wolfowitz considered scant attention. She also limited their sex life to an occasional, grudging quickie. And, for the first time in their marriage, Louise began to go out at night on her own.
“I’m a writer, Arthur, not a hausfrau,” she told him. “I need stimulation.”
“Why can’t we be stimulated
think
they’re God. They’d be a pushover for a guy like you who’s used to dealing with the real thing.”
Tommy thought about it for a moment. “What kind of dough do they make?”
“Ten percent of whatever their clients get, usually,” said Mack.
“Sounds like a piece of cake,” said Tommy. “Providing you got clients, that is.”
Mack looked at Tommy and wondered what would happen to a priest who quit and became a literary agent. Turning real people into fictional characters was instinctive to Mack, and when he came across the right ones, professionally profitable. Tommy Russo was one of those people.
“I’ll make you a deal,” he said. “Right now I’ve got a proposal for a new novel called
Light Years
. It’s with my editor at Gothic, Artie Wolfowitz. He’s offering an eighty-thousand-dollar advance.I want a hundred. Get it for me and I’ll take you on as my agent. How about it?”
“What the hell do you need me for?” asked Tommy. “You already know the guy.”
Mack grinned. “He’s my best friend, which is why I can’t negotiate with him. I don’t want to fight with him over money. You fight with him.”
Tommy returned the grin, but his mind was on the phrase “my best friend.” Earlier Mack had confessed that he was sleeping with his best friend’s wife. “Just out of curiosity, aren’t you worried about this Wolfowitz finding out about you and his old lady?”
“It’s no big thing,” said Mack, frowning. “Just recreational sex, that’s all.”
“Yeah, then why did you pick that particular thing to confess?”
Mack laughed. “I figured it was the kind of thing a priest would consider a sin,” he said. “I didn’t know I’d run into one who gets laid in Poughkeepsie.”
“I’m not so sure you’re right about this Wolfowitz,” said Tommy. “I’m just a wop from Bensonhurst, but where I come from, when a guy buddy-fucks his best friend there’s usually trouble.”
“That’s another reason you’ll make a great agent,” said Mack. “You’ve got primal Sicilian instincts. So, have we got a deal?”
“Yeah, I’ll give it a shot,” said Tommy, extending his hand. For years he had been dreaming of a way out of the priesthood and now a stranger named Mack Green was offering him one. He was drawn to the young author’s careless charm, but it was the money that excited him—10 percent of a hundred thousand bucks seemed like a fortune. If the agent thing didn’t work, he could always go into the insurance business, but for that kind of dough it was worth taking a flyer. Looking back later, Tommy Russo realized that it was at that precise moment that he stopped being a priest and became a player.
Seven
As a new husband, Artie Wolfowitz spent his time and money indulging his pregnant wife. He went into debt to rent a place on Central Park West large enough for a nursery and a study for Louise, took her to expensive restaurants and Broadway openings, watered and fed her supercilious artistic friends. She responded with an offhanded affection that more than satisfied him. Louise Frank was a prize, greater than any he had dreamed of attaining, and he never awoke in the morning without a feeling of intense love and amazement at his good fortune.
The birth of Josh, seven months after the wedding, brought changes. Louise, who had passionately wanted a child, now insisted that an English nanny move in to care for him, and she paid the infant what Wolfowitz considered scant attention. She also limited their sex life to an occasional, grudging quickie. And, for the first time in their marriage, Louise began to go out at night on her own.
“I’m a writer, Arthur, not a hausfrau,” she told him. “I need stimulation.”
“Why can’t we be stimulated
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