Jim Gavin - Middle Men - Stories

Once again, Adam was impressed by his grip. He handed Max the envelope.

“Wait here,” said Max, and he closed the door. Then it quickly reopened. “Actually, come in. I need your help.”

Adam took a step forward, but Max put a hand on his chest and pushed him back with force.

“Take off your shoes.”

Adam put his Chuck Taylors on a metal rack just inside the door and followed Max into the house. Steps of polished wood led down to a bright and sparsely decorated living room. A sleek sectional couch, gray with burgundy throw pillows, was placed in the middle of the room, facing a glass coffee table and a floor-to-ceiling glass wall that offered stunning views of the canyon. Behind the couch there were two metal bookshelves packed with thick hardcovers from the sixties and seventies, their plastic spines gleaming in the sunlight. The walls were white and empty, except for Godfrey de Bouillon’s coat of arms. Adam was struck by the contrast between the medieval tapestry and the house’s modern design. It seemed just right. He tried out a couple vague architectural terms in his head: Modular? Orthogonal?

“This is great,” said Adam.

Max turned around, looking slightly confused, as if he weren’t sure who was talking. “What?”

“Your house is beautiful.”

Max nodded and made a quick slicing motion with his hand. “Clean lines. That’s what I wanted. Clean lines . Have you heard of the painter Paul Delvaux?”

“No.”

“Nobody has. Which pains me. His grandnephew designed this house. Based on my own imaginings.”

Max turned the corner into the kitchen and sat down at a small alcove desk, which had another framed photo of Max and the German shepherd. Max opened the envelope, spread out the papers, and started signing them. For a while he seemed to forget about Adam, who leaned casually against the granite countertops; but then, catching himself, he stood up straight, trying to look attentive and respectful. He could see a ghost of himself faintly shadowed in the stainless steel refrigerator. At his feet were five or six grocery bags full of empty soda cans, all of them Diet Rite. Behind Max the glass slider was open, letting in a breeze that brought tidings of a dead skunk somewhere in the canyon. Outside there was a large cast-iron table on the balcony, but next to it only one chair. Adam kept waiting for someone to join them from another room, a wife, a child, a maid, but the house was quiet. Max was alone here, prospering in the eerie stillness of a Tuesday afternoon.

Adam looked at his watch and wondered how long he would have to wait. He couldn’t decide if this felt like a privilege or a chore. It was fun standing in the kitchen of a famous man, but he worried that, even just standing there, he was doing something wrong. It was probably rude, he thought, not asking Max more questions about himself. He couldn’t think of anything to ask, so he continued to stand there, stiff and mute. Max quietly examined every page, reading the fine print, making checkmarks; but then, suddenly, he raised his head and grabbed a spiral notebook that was sitting on the desk next to his charity documents.

“You mean this?” said Max.

“What?” said Adam. “I didn’t say anything—”

“Just a bit of divertissement ,” said Max, shrugging. He stood up. “Do you know who Ravaillac was?”

“No.”

“He was an assassin. He killed Henry IV of Navarre, which helped precipitate the Thirty Years’ War. Of course, this had a lasting effect on the Low Countries, both good and bad.” Max opened the refrigerator and grabbed a Diet Rite. “Do you want one?”

“Sure.”

Max closed the refrigerator, opened his soda, and leaned against the counter. Adam wasn’t sure if Max had heard him or if he was supposed to just grab his own soda. He decided to stay put.

“I’m addicted to the stuff,” Max said. “I know it’s a big joke at the office. They think I don’t know, but I know.” Max took a long gulp of his soda and wiped his mouth. “Now, we’re talking about a fascinating moment in history. Dueling monarchies, religious turmoil, it was all happening. And into the middle of it stepped a frothing lunatic named Ravaillac.”

He paused for another gulp, and then said, “Am I writing a book? Yes, of course, but sometimes I think, why bother? Who would read it? A few specialists maybe, but so what?”

Max crushed the empty can, tossed it into one of the grocery bags, and for the next hour he set the scene in seventeenth century Europe, describing the lineage of all the major players and their subsequent territorial disputes. Adam dimly followed the action. The Hapsburgs were involved and, apparently, so was the Margrave of Brandenburg. Henry IV, the King of France, sent a cipher to somebody — Gustavus Adolphus? — saying he was planning war against the Hapsburgs. But Hapsburg agents intercepted the cipher, decoded it, and made plans to assassinate him. The phone rang, but Max, on a roll, didn’t seem to hear it. As he flipped through his notebook to double-check something, Adam marveled at his small and intricate handwriting. The margins were filled with notes and each page was richly adorned with umlauts and cedillas.

“On the afternoon of May 14, 1610, Henry was riding along the Rue Saint-Honoré in his coach — while the grand machinery of an enemy kingdom was plotting his demise, and while his own army was planning a massive strike — when, out of nowhere, Ravaillac, a complete nonentity, who had absolutely nothing to do with the Hapsburg plot, jumped into the coach and stabbed the king to death with his rapier!”

Max burst out laughing. Adam started to laugh too, but the phone rang again and Max’s eyes narrowed in annoyance. He put down his notebook and handed Adam the papers he had signed. “The recycling,” he said, snapping his fingers at the bags. “Help me bring them out to the bins. Otherwise it’s ant city in here.”

Adam picked up half the bags and Max sat down at the desk.

“Through there,” he said, pointing. “Open the garage and drag the bins to the end of the driveway.” He picked up the phone. “What the fuck do you want, Joanne? It’s two in the afternoon.”

The smell of skunk was especially strong in the garage, which was vacant except for the trash and recycling bins. Adam, in his argyle socks, couldn’t see a single drop of oil on the cement slab. He dumped the bags and went back to the kitchen for the rest. Max was pacing back and forth, holding the portable phone to his ear.

“… I thought you were going to honor our agreement. Yes, Jo Jo , we did have an agreement…”

Adam quietly left the kitchen. After dumping the last bag, he opened the garage door and dragged both bins to the end of the short driveway. When he turned around, he saw Max standing at the back of the garage. He was still on the phone. Max waved cheerfully to Adam and pushed the button, closing the door.

Adam waited for a moment and then walked back to his car. He wanted to ring the doorbell to ask for his shoes back, but he didn’t want to make things awkward for Max.

• • •

Adam parked and made his way through the soundstages to the office. He figured if he was walking around in socks, everyone on the lot would be staring and wondering what had happened to him, but no one seemed to notice. Melanie was on the phone when he brought her the envelope. She immediately hung up. “Is everything all right?”

“Sorry it took so long. Max invited me in and we talked for a long time.”

“That’s a first! He must like you.”

“I didn’t do anything,” said Adam. “I just sort of stood there.”

“Well, yeah. But that’s great.” She arched her eyebrows. “Maybe if we’re lucky you’ll stick around.”