It

‘Oh, come on now!’ Richie said. ‘That’s hardly — ‘
‘Be soft, be soft,’ Mike said, holding his hand up and smiling faintly. ‘I’m not accusing you of anything, just trying to get the facts out on the table. You are rich by the standards of a small –town librarian who makes just under eleven grand a year after taxes, okay?’
Rich shrugged the shoulders of his expensive suit uncomfortably. Ben appeared deeply absorbed in tearing small strip s from the edge of his napkin. No one was looking directly at Mike except Bill.
‘None of you are in the H. L. Hunt class, certainly,’ Mike said, ‘but you are all well-to-do even by the standards of the American upper-middle class. We’re all friends here, so fess up: if there’s one of you who declared less than ninety thousand dollars on his or her 1984 tax return, raise your hand.’
They glanced around at each other almost furtively, embarrassed, as Americans always seem to be, by the raw fact of their own success — as if cash were hardcooked eggs and affluence the farts that inevitably follow an overdose of same. Bill felt hot blood in his cheeks and was helpless to stop its rise. He had been paid ten thousand more than the sum Mike had mentioned just for doing the first draft of the Attic Room screenplay. He had been promised an additional twenty thousand dollars each for two rewrites, if needed. Then there were royalties . . . and the hefty advance on a two-book contract just signed . . . how much had he declared on his ’84 tax return? Just about eight hundred thousand dollars, right? Enough, anyway, to seem almost monstrous in light of Mike Hanlon’s stated income of just under eleven thousand a year.
So that’s how much they pay you to keep the lighthouse, Mike old kid, Bill thought. Jesus Christ, somewhere along the line you should have asked for a raise!
Mike said: ‘Bill Denbrough, a successful novelist in a society where there are only a few novelists and fewer still lucky enough to be making a living from the craft. Beverly Rogan, who’s in the rag trade, a field to which more are called but even fewer chosen. She is, in fact, the most sought –after designer in the middle third of the country right now.’
‘Oh, it’s not me,’ Beverly said. She uttered a nervous little laugh and lit a fresh cigarette from the smoldering stub of the old one. ‘It’s Tom. Tom’s the one. Without him I’d still be relining skirts and sewing up hems. I don’t have any business sense at all, even Tom says so. It’s just . . . you know, Tom. And luck.’ She took a single deep drag from her cigarette and then snuffed it.
‘Methinks the lady doth protest too much,’ Richie said slyly.
She turned quickly in her seat and gave him a hard look, her color high. ‘Just what’s that supposed to mean, Richie Tozier?’
‘Doan hits me, Miz Scawlett!’ Richie cried in a high, trembling Pickaninny Voice — and in that moment Bill could see with an eerie clarity the boy he had known; he was not just a superseded presence lurking under Rich Tozier’s grownup exterior but a creature almost more real than the man himself. ‘Doan hits me! Lemme bring you anothuh mint joolip, Miz Scawlett! Youse goan drink hit out on de po’ch where it’s be a little bit cooluh! Doan whup disyere boy!’
‘You’re impossible, Richie,’ Beverly said coldly. ‘You ought to grow up.’
Richie looked at her, his grin fading slowly into uncertainty. ‘Until I came back here,’ he said, ‘I thought I had.’
‘Rich, you may just be the most successful disc jockey in the United States,’ Mike said. ‘You’ve certainly got LA in the palm of your hand. On top of that there are two syndicated programs, one of them a straight top-forty countdown show, the other one something called The Freaky Forty —
‘You better watch out, fool,’ Richie said in a gruff Mr T Voice, but he was blushing. ‘I’ll make your front and back change places. I’ll give you brain-surgery with my fist. I’ll — ‘
‘Eddie,’ Mike went on, ignoring Richie, ‘you’ve got a healthy limousine service in a city where you just about have to elbow long black cars out of your way when you cross the street. Two limo companies a week go smash in the Big Apple, but you’re doing fine.
‘Ben, you’re probably the most successful young architect in the world.’
Ben opened his mouth, probably to protest, and then closed it again abruptly.
Mike smiled at them, spread his hands. ‘I don’t want to embarrass anyone, but I do want all the cards on the table. There are people who succeed young, and there are people who succeed in highly specialized jobs — if there