That got a mild laugh from Esther, and a chuckle from Solomon. Even Grelich gave a sour grunt of approval.

“Boychick,” said Grelich, “I didn’t know you were a writer.”

“Well, scarcely a writer,” Ritchie said. “But I have published a few things in a magazine. An online magazine, no pay, but they get some good names.”

“You’re a writer?” Jakob the waiter asked. He had been listening to the conversation while serving the dishes.

“Well, I do write,” Ritchie said. His recent experiences with real professional writers, who posted messages and comments on his Message Board from time to time, had convinced him that his best policy was to make no public claims for himself, at least not until he had a few professional sales.

“A writer,” Jakob mused, drying his hands on his apron. “I’m in the publishing business myself.”

“You’re a publisher?” Grelich asked.

“No, I’m a translator. From the Rumanian. I have a Rumanian science-fiction writer I translate for.”

“You translate into English?” Grelich asked.

“Of course, English, what else? Urdu?”

Ritchie said, “What is this writer’s name?”

He couldn’t make it out even after several repetitions, so he decided to learn it later, and write it down, see if the name turned out to be of any importance.

“Has he published?” Ritchie asked.

“In English, no. In Rumanian, plenty. It’s only a matter of time before I sell him here.”

“You’re his agent, too?” Ritchie asked.

“I have that honor.”

Ritchie wanted to ask Leiber how good his agent contacts were, and whether he was taking on any new clients. But he couldn’t find a way of slipping it into the conversation. He decided he’d come back to Ratstein’s on his own some other time, go into the matter again, without Solomon and Esther, and, with a little luck, without Grelich. For a beginning writer it was always worthwhile checking out an agent, no matter what else he did.