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ld let me administer it。 Hey； I don't want to bore you with my troubles。 I just wanted to tell you that I won't be home for a few days； in case you call。 Send me a letter or something。 And remember about the train； okay？ We gotta do that again。'
The boy promised to write； to work hard； to not worry about his father or Lily Cavanaugh or Jack。
And sometime when this obedient son was； say； in his senior year at Stanford or Yale； Sloat would introduce him to the Territories。 Richard would be six or seven years younger than he had been himself when Phil Sawyer； cheerfully crack…brained on grass in their first little North Hollywood office； had first puzzled； then infuriated （because Sloat had been certain Phil was laughing at him）； then intrigued his partner （for surely Phil was too stoned to have invented all this science…fiction crapola about another world）。 And when Richard saw the Territories； that would be it…if he had not already done it by himself； they'd change his mind for him。 Even a small peek into the Territories shook your confidence in the omniscience of scientists。
Sloat ran the palm of his hand over the shiny top of his head； then luxuriantly fingered his moustache。 The sound of his son's voice had obscurely； irrelevantly forted him： as long as there was Richard politely ing along behind him； all was well and all was well and all manner of things was well。 It was night already in Springfield； Illinois； and in Nelson House； Thayer School； Richard Sloat was padding down a green corridor back to his desk； perhaps thinking of the good times they'd had； and would have again； aboard Morgan's toy train line in coastal California。 He'd be asleep by the time his father's jet punished the resistant air far above and some hundred miles farther north； but Morgan Sloat would push aside the panel over his first…class window and peer down； hoping for moonlight and a parting of the clouds。
He wanted to go home immediately…home was only thirty minutes away from the office…so that he could change clothes and get something to eat； maybe snort a little coke； before he had to get to the airport。 But instead he had to pound out along the freeway to the Marina： an appointment with a client who had freaked out and was on the verge of being dumped from a picture； then a meeting with a crowd of spoilers who claimed that a Sawyer & Sloat project just up from Marina del Rey was polluting the beach…things that could not be postponed。 Though Sloat promised himself that as soon as he had taken care of Lily Cavanaugh and her boy he was going to begin dropping clients from his list…he had much bigger fish to fry now。 Now there were whole worlds to broker； and his piece of the action would be no mere ten percent。 Looking back on it； Sloat wasn't sure how he had tolerated Phil Sawyer for as long as he had。 His partner had never played to win； not seriously； he had been encumbered by sentimental notions of loyalty and honor； corrupted by the stuff you told kids to get them halfway civilized before you finally tore the blindfold off their eyes。 Mundane as it might be in light of the stakes he now played for； he could not forget that the Sawyers owed him； all right…indigestion flowered in his chest like a heart attack at the thought of how much； and before he reached his car in the still…sunny lot beside the building； he shoved his hand into his jacket pocket and fished out a crumpled package of Di…Gel。
Phil Sawyer had underestimated him； and that still rankled。 Because Phil had thought of him as a sort of trained rattlesnake to be let out of his cage only under controlled circumstances； so had others。 The lot attendant； a hillbilly in a broken cowboy hat； eyed him as he marched around his little car； looking for dents and dings。 The Di…Gel melted most of the fiery ball in his chest。 Sloat felt his collar growing clammy with sweat。 The attendant knew better than to try to buddy up： Sloat had verbally peeled the man's hide weeks ago； after discovering a tiny wrinkle in the BMW's door。 In the midst of his rant； he had seen violence begin to darken in the hillbilly's green eyes； and a sudden upsurge of joy had made him waddle in toward the man； still cutting off skin； almost hoping that the attendant would take a poke at him。 Abruptly； the hillbilly had lost his momentum； feebly； indeed apologetically suggested that maybe that…there l'il nuthin of a ding came from somewhere else？ Parking service at a restaurant； maybe？ The way those bozos treat cars； y'know； and the light ain't so good that time a night； why 。 。 。
'Shut your stinking mouth；' Sloat had said。 'That little nothing； as you call it； is going to cost me about twice what you make in a week。 I should fire you right now； cowpoke； and the only reason I'm not going to is that there's about a two percent chance you might be right； when I came out of Chasen's last night maybe I didn't look under the door handle； maybe I DID and maybe I DIDN'T； but if you ever talk to me again； if you ever say any more than 'Hello； Mr。 Sloat' or 'Goodbye； Mr。 Sloat；' I'll get you fired so fast you'll think you were beheaded。' So the hillbilly watched him inspect his car； knowing that if Sloat found any imperfections in the car's finish he would bring down the axe； afraid even to e close enough to utter the ritual goodbye。 Sometimes from the window that overlooked the parking lot Sloat had seen the attendant furiously wiping some flaw； bird dropping or splash of mud； off the BMW's hood。 And that's management； buddy。
When he pulled out of the lot he checked the rear…view mirror and saw on the hillbilly's face an expression very like the last one Phil Sawyer had worn in the final seconds of his life； out in the middle of nowhere in Utah。 He smiled all the way to the freeway on…ramp。
Philip Sawyer had underestimated Morgan Sloat from the time of their first meeting； when they were freshmen at Yale。 It could have been； Sloat reflected； that he had been easy to underestimate…a pudgy eighteen…year…old from Akron； graceless； overweighted with anxieties and ambitions； out of Ohio for the first time in his life。 Listening to his classmates talk easily about New York； about '21' and the Stork Club； about seeing Brubeck at Basin Street and Erroll Garner at the Vanguard； he'd sweated to hide his ignorance。 'I really like the downtown part；' he'd thrown in； as casually as he could。 Palms wet； cramped by curled…in fingers。 （Mornings； Sloat often found his palms tattooed with dented bruises left by his fingernails。） 'What downtown part； Morgan？' Tom Woodbine had asked him。 The others cackled。 'You know； Broadway and the Village。 Around there。' More cackles； harsher。 He had been unattractive and badly dressed； his wardrobe consisted of two suits； both charcoal…gray and both apparently made for a man with a scarecrow's shoulders。 He had begun losing his hair in high school； and pink scalp showed through his short； flattened…down haircuts。
No； no beauty had Sloat been； and that had been part of it。 The others made him feel like a clenched fist： those morning bruises were shadowy little photographs of his soul。 The others； all interested in the theater like himself and Sawyer； possessed good profiles； flat stomachs； easy careless manners。 Sprawled across the lounge chairs of their suite in Davenport while Sloat； in a haze of perspiration； stood that he might not wrinkle his suit pants and thereby get a few more days' wear out of them； they sometimes resembled a gathering of young gods…cashmere sweaters draped over their shoulders like the golden fleece。 They were on their way to being actors； playwrights； songwriters。 Sloat had seen himself as a director： entangling them all in a net of plications and designs which only he could unwind。
Sawyer and Tom Woodbine； both of whom seemed unimaginably rich to Sloat； were roommates。 Woodbine had only a lukewarm interest in theater and hung around their undergraduate drama workshop because Phil did。 Another gilded private…school boy； Thomas Woodbine differed from the others because of his absolute seriousness and straightforwardness。 He intended to bee a lawyer； and already seemed to have the probity and impartiality of a judge。 （In fact； most of Woodbine's acquaintances imagined that he would wind up on the Supreme Court； much to the embarrassment of the boy himself。） Woodbine was without ambition in Sloat's terms； being interested far more in living rightly than in living well。 Of course he had everything； and what he by some accident lacked other people were quick to give him： how could he； so spoiled by nature and friendships； be ambitious？ Sloat almost unconsciously detested Woodbine； and could not bring himself to call him 'Tommy。'
Sloat directed two plays during his four years at Yale： No Exit； which the student paper called 'a furious confusion；' and Volpone。 This was described as 'churning； cynical； sinister； and almost unbelievably messy。' Sloat was held responsible for most of these qualities。 Perhaps he was not a director after all…his vision too intense and crowded。 His ambitions did not lessen； they merely shifted。 If he was not eventually to be behind the camera； he could be behind the people in front of it。 Phil Sawyer had also begun to think this way…Phil had never been certain where his love of theater might take him； and thought he might have a talent for representing actors and writers。 'Let's go to Los Angeles and start an agency；' Phil said to him in their senior year。 'It's nutty as hell and our parents will hate it； but maybe we'll make it work。 So we starve for a couple of years。'
Phil Sawyer； Sloat had learned since their freshman year； was not rich after all。 He just looked rich。
'And when we can afford him； we'll get Tommy to be our lawyer。 He'll be out of law school by then。'
'Sure； okay；' Sloat had said； thinking that he could stop that one when the time came。 'What should we call ourselves？'
'Anything you like。 Sloat and Sawyer？ Or should we stick to the alphabet？'
'Sawyer and Sloat； sure； that's great； alphabetical order；' Sloat said； seething because he imagined that his partner had euchred him into forever suggesting that he was somehow secondary to Sawyer。
Both sets of parents did hate the idea； as Phil had predicted； but the partners in the infant talent agency drove to Los Angeles in the old DeSoto （Morgan's； another demonstration of how much Sawyer owed him）； set up an office in a North Hollywood building with a happy population of rats and fleas； and started hanging around the clubs； passing out their spandy…new business cards。 Nothing…nearly four months of total failure。 They had a ic who got too drunk to be funny； a writer who couldn't write； a stripper who insisted on being paid in cash so that she could stiff her agents。 And then late one afternoon； high on marijuana and whiskey； Phil Sawyer had gigglingly told Sloat about the Territories。
'You know what I can do； you ambitious so…and…so？ Oh； can I travel； partner。 All the way。'
Shortly after that； both of them travelling now； Phil Sawyer met a rising young actress at a studio party and within an hour had their first important client。 And she had three friends similarly unhappy with their agents。 And one of the friends had a boyfriend who had actually written a decent filmscript and needed an agent； and the boyfriend had a boyfriend 。 。 。 Before their third year was over； they had a new office； new apartments； a slice of the Hollywood pie。 The Territories； in a fashion that Sloat accepted but never understood； had blessed them。
Sawyer dealt with the clients； Sloat with the money； the investments； the business side of the agency。 Sawyer spent money…lunches； airplane tickets…Sloat saved it； which was all the justification he needed to skim a little of the cream off the top。 And it was Sloat who kept pushing them into new areas； land development； real estate； production deals。 By the time Tommy Woodbine arrived in Los Angeles； Sawyer & Sloat was a multimillion…dollar business。
Sloat discovered that he still detested his old classmate； Tommy Woodbine had put on thirty pounds； and looked and acted； in his blue three…piece suits； more than ever like a judge。 His cheeks were always slightly flushed （alcoholic？ Sloat won