They chatted a bit, about nothing in particular, and then Fielding fixed his eyes on Gerald. “You probably notice that there’s something different about me,” he said.
“Now that you mention it,” Metzner said, “I did notice that.” Years of pitching doubtful premises to studio heads and network execs had taught him to think on his feet — or, more accurately, on his behind. What, he wondered, was different about the man? Same military haircut, same horn-rimmed glasses. No beard, no mustache. What the hell was Fielding talking about?
“But I’ll bet you can’t quite put your finger on it.”
Well, that was a help. Maybe this would be like soap opera dialogue — you could get through it without a script, just going with the flow.
“You know,” he said, “that’s it exactly. I sense it, but I can’t quite put my finger on it.”
“That’s because it’s abstract, Gerry.”
“That would explain it.”
“But no less real.”
“No less real,” he echoed.
Fielding smiled like a shark, but then how else would he smile? “I won’t keep you in suspense,” he said. “I’ll tell you what it is. I’ve got peace of mind.”
“Peace of mind,” Metzner marveled.
“Yes, peace of mind.” The agent leaned forward. “Gerry,” he said, “ever since I opened up for business I’ve been the toughest, meanest, most miserable sonofabitch who ever lived. I’ve always wrung every nickel I could out of every deal I touched. I worked sixty, seventy hours a week, and I used the whip on the people who worked for me. And do you know why?”
Metzner shook his head.
“Because I thought I had to,” Fielding said. “I really believed I’d be screwed otherwise. I’d run out of money, I’d be out on the street, my family would go hungry. So I couldn’t let a penny get away from me. You know, until my lawyers absolutely insisted, I wouldn’t even shut down the Personal Collaboration dodge. ‘Byron, you’re out of your mind,’ they told me. ‘That’s consumer fraud, and you’re doing it through the mails. It’s a fucking federal offense and you could go to Leavenworth for it, and what the hell do you need it for? Shut it down!’ And they were right, and I knew they were right, but they had to tell me a dozen times before I did what they wanted. Because we made good money out of the PC clients, and I thought I needed every cent of it.”
“But now you have peace of mind,” Metzner prompted.
“I do, Gerry, and you could see it right away, couldn’t you? Even if you didn’t know what it was you were seeing. Peace of mind, Gerry. It’s a wonderful thing, maybe the single most wonderful thing in the world.”
Time for the violins to come in, Metzner thought. “How did it happen, Byron?”
“A funny thing,” Fielding said. “I sat down with my accountant about eight months ago, the way I always do once a year. To go over things, look at the big picture. And he told me I had more than enough money left to keep me in great shape for as long as I live. ‘You could shut down tomorrow,’ he said, ‘and you could live like a king for another fifty years, and you won’t run out of money. You’ve got all the money you could possibly need, and it’s in solid risk-free inflation-resistant investments, and I just wish every client of mine was in such good shape.’”
“That’s great,” said Metzner, who wished he himself were in such good shape, or within a thousand miles thereof.
“And a feeling came over me,” Fielding said, “and I didn’t know what the feeling was, because I had never felt anything like it before. It was a relief, but it was a permanent kind of relief, the kind that means you can stay relieved. You’re not just out of the woods for the time being. You’re all of a sudden in a place where there are no woods. Free and clear — and I realized there was a name for the feeling I had, and it was peace of mind.”
“I see.”
“Do you, Gerry? I’ll tell you, it changed my life. All that pressure, all that anxiety — gone!” He grinned, then straightened up in his chair. “Of course,” he said, “on the surface, nothing’s all that different. I still hustle every bit as hard as I ever did. I still squeeze every dime I can out of every deal I touch. I still go for the throat, I still hang on like a bulldog, I’m still the most miserable sonofabitch in the business.”
“Oh?”
“But now it’s not because I have to be like that,” Fielding exulted. “It’s because I want to. That’s what I love, Gerry. It’s who I am. But now, thank God, I’ve got peace of mind!”
“What a curious story,” said the priest. “I’m as hard pressed to put my finger on the point of it as your young man was to recognize Fielding’s peace of mind. Fielding seems to be saying that his greed had its roots in his insecurity. I suppose his origins were humble?”
“Lower middle class,” the doctor said. “No money in the family, but they were a long way from impoverished. Still, insecurity, like the heart, has reasons that reason knows nothing of. If he’s to be believed, Byron Fielding grew up believing he had to grab every dollar he could or he risked ruin, poverty, and death.”
“Then he became wealthy,” the priest said, “and, more to the point, came to believe he was wealthy, and financially secure.”
“Fuck-you money,” the policeman said, and explained the phrase when the priest raised an eyebrow. “Enough money, Priest, so that the possessor can say ‘fuck you’ to anyone.”
“An enviable state,” the priest said. “Or is it? The man attained that state, and his greed, which no longer imprisoned him, still operated as before. It was his identity, part and parcel of his personality. He remained greedy and heartless, not out of compulsion but out of choice, out of a sense of self.” He frowned. “Unless we’re to take his final remarks cum grano salis?” To the puzzled policeman he said, “With a grain of salt, that is to say. You translated fuck-you money for me, so at least I can return the favor. A sort of quid pro quo, which in turn means...”
“That one I know, Priest.”
“And Fielding was not stretching the truth when he said he was the same vicious bastard he’d always been,” the doctor put in. “Peace of mind didn’t seem to have mellowed him at all. Did I mention his brother?”
The men shook their heads.
“Fielding had a brother,” the doctor said, “and, when it began to appear as though this scam of his might prove profitable, Fielding put his brother to work for him. He made his brother change his name, and picked Arnold Fielding for him, having in mind the poet Matthew Arnold. The brother, whom everyone called Arnie, functioned as a sort of office manager, and was also a sort of mythical beast invoked by Byron in time of need. If, for example, an author came in to cadge an advance, or ask for something else Byron Fielding didn’t want to grant, the agent wouldn’t simply turn him down. ‘Let me ask Arnie,’ he would say, and then he’d go into the other office and twiddle his thumbs for a moment, before returning to shake his head sadly at the client. ‘Arnie says no,’ he’d report. ‘If it were up to me it’d be a different story, but Arnie says no.’”
“But he hadn’t actually consulted his brother?”
“No, of course not. Well, here’s the point. Some years after Gerald Metzner learned about Byron Fielding’s peace of mind, Arnie Fielding had a health scare and retired to Florida. He recovered, and in due course found Florida and retirement both bored him to distraction, and he came back to New York. He went to see his brother Byron and told him he had decided to go into business. And what would he do? Well, he said, there was only one business he knew, and that’s the one he would pick. He intended to set up shop on his own as a literary agent.