Saturday, Halsey Neck Lane. Stanford Blatch is sitting by the pool, talking on the phone and watching his brother's girl-friend, whom he hates, trying to read his New York Observer. He's talking in an especially loud voice in the hope that she might go away. "But you have to come out," he says into the phone. "It's ridiculous. What are you going to do? Sit in the city all weekend and work? Get on the seaplane. I'll pay.
"Well, bring the manuscripts. You agents, you work too damn hard. Of course there's plenty of room. I have the whole upstairs."
Stanford hangs up. He walks over to his brother's girlfriend. "Do you know Robert Morriskin?" When the girl looks at him blankly, he says, "I didn't think so. He's the hottest up-and-coming literary agent. He's adorable."
"Is he a writer?" she asks.