Nebraska

Rick said, “That's one of the things that comes with being a traveler. You just assume you're welcome until someone tells you otherwise.”

But how did that square with the uneasiness Rick Bozack felt with his old chum Mickey Hogan? A year ago Mickey had been a high-priced copywriter, but then he had gone out on a limb to take over a smaller house that had been strictly an art and layout jobber, and the gamble had paid off in spades. Mickey turned the firm into a real comer in South Bend, what they call in the trade a “hot shop.”

Of course, Mickey had always been a brain. They had been rugby buddies at Notre Dame, and they used to shoot snooker together and swap tennis shoes and generally pal around like they were in a rowdy television commercial for some brand of light beer. Now Mickey was almost skinny and as handsome as Sergio Franchi, and taking full advantage of it, don't let anybody kid you. They had doubled to the Notre Dame/Army game last season, and Mickey brought along a knockout who kept sneaking her hand under Mickey's blue leg warmer. Rick couldn't keep his eyes off her. Even Jane noticed it. “Boy, I bet she put lead in your pencil,” she said.

So Rick was delighted but amazed when in February Mickey said he'd make the third for a terrific bunch of seats at the Notre Dame/Marquette basketball game. Mickey was even sitting on the snow-shoveled steps of his condominium, like some company president on the skids, when Rick pulled up along the curb. And now Mickey was smoking a black cigarillo as Rick told him how astonished he was these days to see that everyone he met was about his age; they had all risen to positions of authority, and he was finding they could do him some good. You always thought it was just your father who could throw a name around. Now Rick was doing it himself, and getting results! “I'm really enjoying my thirties,” Rick said, and then smiled. “I've got twenty credit cards in my wallet, and I don't get acne anymore.”

Mickey just looked at him, bored.

“Okay, maybe not twenty credit cards, but my complexion's all cleared up.”

Mickey sighed and looked out the window.

Rick had forgotten how much of a jerk Mickey could be.

Rick kept the engine running and shoved the Captain and Tenille in his tape deck so Mickey could nestle in with some good tunes, then he pressed the door chimes to a house the Herdzinas had just bought: eighty thousand smackers, minimum. A small girl in pink underpants opened the door.

“Hi,” said Rick in his Nice Man voice.

The girl shoved a finger up her nose.

Karen Herdzina hugged him hello. The hugging was a phenomenon that was totally new to South Bend and Rick never felt he handled it well. He lingered a bit too long with women, and with men he was on the lookout for a quick takedown and two points on the scoreboard.

“I'll put some hustle into Walt,” she said. “Tell him to get it in gear.”

Walter came out of the bedroom with a new shirt he was ripping the plastic off of. “Mickey in the car?”

Rick nodded. “But it really belts out the heat.”

Walter unpinned the sleeves and the cardboards and shoved the trash into a paper sack that had the cellophane wrappers of record albums in it.

“Look at that,” he said. “My wife. She goes out spending my hard-earned money on records. The Carpenters. John Denver. I don't know what gets into her sometimes.”

“I kind of enjoy John Denver,” said Rick.

“See?” Karen called.

As they walked to the thrumming Oldsmobile, Walter leaned into Rick, fanning three tickets out like a heart-stopping poker hand. “How about these beauties, Richard?”

“Wow! What do I owe ya?”

He frowned and pushed the tickets back into his wallet. “De nada,” said Walter. “Buy me a beer.”

As Rick drove, he and Walter talked about their budding families. You could see it was driving Mickey bananas. Here he was a bachelor, giving up a night when he could've probably had some make-out artist in the sack, and all he was hearing was talk about drooling and potties and cutting new teeth. So as he climbed up onto the highway Rick introduced the topic of college basketball, and Walter scrunched forward to talk about the Marquette scoring threat, but Mickey interrupted to ask Walter if he knew that Rick was considering his own distributor-ship.

“Hell,” the banker said, “I'm the one who put the gleam in his eye.” He settled into the backseat and crossed his kid leather gloves in his lap. “I think that's a tremendous opportunity, Rick. Where've you gone with it lately?”

“He's been testing the waters,” said Mickey.

“I've sort've put it on the back burner until Jane and the kids get a better lay of the land,” said Rick. “I think it might be a pretty good setup, though. Almost no time on the road and very little selling. I'll see what it's like to stay around the house and carry those canvas money bags up to the teller's window.”

Walter grew thoughtful. “I read somewhere that every per- son who starts a new business makes at least one horrible mistake. Something really staggering. If you get through that and you don't get kayoed, I guess you got it made.”

They were quiet then for several minutes, as if in mourning for all those bankrupts who had been walloped in the past. The tape player clicked onto the second side. Mickey tapped one of his black cigarillos on his wrist.

“You really like those things?” Rick asked.

Mickey lit it with the car lighter. “Yep,” Mickey said. “I like them a lot.”