Rafael Yglesias - Hot Properties

“I’ve told you I play poker,” Fred said, to let Karl know that he knew this invitation was a symbol of a change in their relationship.

“Well, you know,” Karl said, “usually we’re full up. We have seven regulars. But one of them’s dropped out. It’s tonight. Can you make it?”

“What time?”

“Seven. And you have to play until at least midnight. It’s a house rule.”

“Even if I’m down a hundred dollars, I gotta stay?” Fred asked, laughing, as if that was an absurd idea.

“Yes,” Karl said. “Even if you’re down a hundred dollars. Nobody ever limits their winnings, so we don’t let people limit their losses. I don’t care if you just end up anteing every hand and folding, but you gotta stay until midnight.”

“Sounds pretty serious,” Fred said.

“It is. It’s really serious poker. No kibitzing or stuff like that. So if you don’t like that, you shouldn’t come.”

“No, no. That’s fine. Tell me, how much money should I bring?” Fred asked, hoping in this way to find out what the stakes were without implying that he was frightened of losing too much.

Karl’s voice was matter-of-fact: “Biggest loser we’ve ever had was three hundred dollars. The average losing night is about one hundred and fifty to two hundred. And, also, you should know, we play a lot of high-low games—”

“I’ve never played them.”

“Oh,” Karl said, as if that were a big blow.

“Don’t worry. I’ll learn fast.”

“Well …” Karl sighed and paused.

Schmuck, Fred said to himself, why did you say you’d never played them? You could have announced that at the game. “Don’t worry,” Fred said again.

“I think you’d better come at six. I’ll teach you some high-low games … the guys aren’t real patient about explaining while the game is going.”

“Great. Okay. I’ll be there at six.”

“All right, see you — oh, you’d better eat before you come. There are no snacks. That’s another rule.”

Fred rang off ecstatic and nervous. He had wanted into that game for almost a year. Tonight would be like an audition. If they liked him he would become a regular. He dialed Marion once again.

“Fred?” she said with despairing impatience when her secretary let him through.

“Listen. Karl just called and invited me to play poker tonight. So you can edit your nouvelle cuisine book.”

“His weekly game?” she said. “But that’s a very expensive game. Karl’s always talking about how much money people lose—”

“Honey,” he said with great confidence, “don’t worry. I’ve played plenty of poker on the road with the ball teams. I’m sure a bunch of writers aren’t that tough, okay?”

“All right. As long as you know what you’re doing. So do we have to eat early?”

“I can’t eat with you. I’ve got to go over early so Karl can teach me how to—” He caught himself. He stopped talking and closed his eyes in frustration at his slip.

“Teach you what? I though you knew how to play.”

“No, no. You wouldn’t understand. They play some silly games — kid stuff, like wild-card games — and they don’t like to slow things down to explain, so Karl wanted me to come early. I don’t think that’s the real reason. He heard from Bart about my outline. He probably wants to chat about that.”

“Why? Wouldn’t he just say he wants to talk about your outline?”

“Forget it. It’s not important. Go back to work.”

“So you’ll be gone by the time I get home?” She sounded petulant; suddenly a neglected child.

“Yeah, I have to be at Karl’s by six.”

“When will you be home?”

“Honey, I don’t know. It’s a poker game. It’ll probably go on till late.”

“Oh,” she said. A disappointed moan.

“What? What is it?”

“I’ll miss you. I wanted to see you tonight.”

“What? Earlier, when I asked if you wanted to go to the movies, you acted totally uninterested.”

“I did not! I said I would go.”

“After I insisted.”

“Okay, I’m sorry. Good-bye. I’ll see you later — or I won’t. Good- bye—”

“Come on!”

But she had hung up. “Jesus Christ!” he yelled at the walls. “She’s gonna drive me out of my fucking mind!”

But his anger was quickly dissipated once he got down to the business of dressing for the poker game. Jeans, a black turtleneck, and sneakers were his choices: they made him look slim and tough, he thought, like a street-smart kid. And he felt like a kid, a happy kid, going over to the Upper West Side where Karl lived. Heading for a night out with the boys — the writing boys.

The Scotch tastes like metal. Cheap metal, Tony thought. He looked around the tacky dark-wood-paneled living room. Lois, judging from the decoration of her house, fancied herself a Spanish duchess. There were big ungainly chairs with elaborate carved wood designs and a big dark wood couch with thin cushions that failed to rescue its occupant from discomfort.

“Too megalomaniacal?” she asked, indicating the room with her eyes.

So she did think it was grand, he thought to himself, feeling despair. Not simply over the prospect of being alone with her, but being alone in this city, where ugly furniture could house pathetic delusions.

He smiled at her knowingly, as if to say, “I understand, I approve, but I’m too bright to take anything too seriously.” He looked out the big window behind her. There was a sweeping view of Hollywood and the valley. Lights lay below like a twinkling bed, bejeweled for a princess. “How long have you lived here?” he asked.

“A year. When I was made producer on your mother’s series, I started making so much money my manager told me to buy something. I couldn’t believe it. Felt weird. Being single and owning a house.”

“Your manager?”

“My money manager. Not a personal manager.”

“Do you have a talent manager also?”

“Well, I have an agent.”

“Isn’t that the same thing?”

“No. They’re different.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Your mother’s got all those things. An agent, a personal manager, a money manager, a lawyer — hasn’t she told you the facts of life?” Lois asked, laughing.

“Only the sexual ones. That’s why I’m happy but poor.”

“Yeah.” She nodded and looked off as if she had taken his comment to heart.

“So why don’t you tell me?” Tony said.

“Well. A manager gets you work.”

“Don’t agents do that?”

“Top agents have lots of clients and you have to fight for their attention. A personal manager will do it for you.”

Tony thought about this and then shook his head wonderingly. “Seems like a Rube Goldberg way of going about it. You hire somebody to watch somebody you hired. It’s bizarre.”

“Who’s your agent?”

“Gloria Fowler.”

Lois looked impressed. “She’s the kind of agent who’s got so many name clients that somebody like you might hire a manager to call her and bug her. Saves you the embarrassment. But it’s not something writers do. Actors do it. A writer only needs attention on one or two projects at most.”

There was a silence. Tony realized he had wanted to be with Lois to gather this sort of information. His mother and father could have supplied him with these details of the movie business, but he didn’t want to ask them, to give them the pleasure of playing at being his teachers. She had him here for sex. Or something. Maybe just company. But he wanted facts. He was scared to walk into that meeting tomorrow without knowing something, anything, about how Hollywood operated.

“Are you tired?” he asked.

“What?” she said with a smile. She looked different now. The hard angles of her high cheeks were softer here in the dim light of her Spanish living room.