Jim Gavin - Middle Men - Stories

Adam felt himself blush. He adored Melanie. When he got the job, Adam had confessed his creative ambitions, something he had always kept hidden from his other employers like a preexisting medical condition. As a former actress, she understood the necessity of his double life, but now he couldn’t quite read her tone. Did she actually think it was only a matter of time before he departed for a brighter world, or was she gently preparing him for the daily grind of this one?

“This is the best job I’ve ever had,” said Adam.

“Five years guaranteed,” said Melanie. “Nobody in television has that.”

Later, Adam made a run in the Benz, delivering a box of tapes to the postproduction facility, where the editors worked in perpetual shadow. He walked down a darkened hallway, passing every few feet through a penumbra of soft blue light. It felt like an aquarium and the editors, with their sluggish movements and wide, unblinking eyes, were like those strange fish that live at the bottom of the ocean. Adam entered one of the editing bays and quietly dropped off the tapes. The editor, a squat man in his fifties with headphones on, who had spent nearly two decades appending applause to the image of Max Lavoy, looked at Adam, slowly, without expression, and returned to his work.

On the drive back, he ran into Doug, who was wandering around in his gimp mask.

“What are you doing?” Adam asked.

“Getting some exercise.”

“Do you want a ride?”

Doug got in and Adam told him about his trip to Max’s house.

“He talked about the Thirty Years’ War, or the buildup to it, anyway.”

“Did he do his whole thing on Ravaillac and Oswald?”

“Oswald? Wow. He didn’t get to that. The phone rang.”

“That’s lucky.”

“No, I was sort of into it. I mean, not really, not at all, but still. His voice. It’s so smooth. He’s got that flow.”

“When he talks about what he likes talking about, he sounds like he knows what he’s talking about. But I guess that’s true of everybody.”

“Who’s Joanne?”

Doug turned quickly. “His ex-wife. Holy shit — did he actually talk about her?”

“No. She called while I was there. Max got pretty upset on the phone.”

“They divorced a while ago, but I don’t know much about it. Nobody does. Max is pretty guarded about his private life. Which I admire.”

“Me too.”

“But if you happen to find out something, I’d love to hear about it.”

“Of course.”

They turned a corner and found themselves in a traffic jam involving a catering truck and a Teamster flatbed loaded with two giant spools of black cable, and another truck pulling a star trailer. Everyone started honking and yelling.

“You’ll lose this battle,” said Doug. “Pull in through the elephant doors.”

Adam didn’t know what he meant at first, but then, turning around, he saw the giant open doors of an empty soundstage and had a sudden flash of intuition. He imagined some harrowing production from the Golden Age, a frazzled director with slick hair and a megaphone, trying to coax a pack of elephants onto his set.

“That’s lingo from the old days, right?” Adam said, spinning the steering wheel. “The doors have to be big enough to fit elephants.”

“The doors have to be big enough,” said Doug, “to fit the egos of the men who walk through them.”

“Who said that?”

“I said that.”

“No,” said Adam. “That sounds like something somebody said.”

“Maybe it is. I don’t know. I don’t have a single original thought in my head.”

They took a spin around the dark soundstage. Adam floored the Benz and did a long skid out on the slick concrete slab, scaring off some pigeons nesting in the catwalks. A security guard walked through the doors, her figure cast in silhouette against the blazing square of light; but once she saw Doug — everyone on the lot recognized Doug when he had his mask on — she gave them the high sign to continue. They got in a few more nice skids and then drove around in circles for a while.

“There’s a lot of rich history around here,” said Doug, lighting a cigarette. “Did you know this is the soundstage where they filmed Anaconda II: The Hunt for the Blood Orchid ?”

• • •

The next day, at three o’clock, Adam’s phone rang. He was busy making copies for one of the publicists; as the papers collated, he did punch-ups for his set later that night. On the third Wednesday of every month, one of the big comedy clubs on Sunset held a lottery for amateurs. If your name was picked out of a hat, you got two minutes before the early show, and if the promoters liked it, you got called back to open the late show. You paid ten bucks for a ticket in the lottery, and if you didn’t get picked, the ticket got you into the late show, a consolation prize that nobody wanted. So far Adam’s name had never been pulled out of the hat. Every time he lost out he felt foolish and vowed never to go back. But he always went back.

Adam picked up the phone on the last ring.

“It’s me,” said a familiar voice.

“Mr. Lavoy?”

“Is this you?”

It sounded like a trick question. Adam said, “Yes.”

“The one from the other day.”

“It’s me. Adam.”

“What you have to understand is that all our modern assassins descend from Ravaillac. One of the first men to understand this was Philippe Sonck. Have you read Sonck?”

“No.”

“That doesn’t surprise me. Nobody reads Sonck, and yet he’s probably the greatest spy novelist that Belgium ever produced. His oeuvre charts the history of continental espionage, from Cardinal Richelieu to Reinhard Gehlen. The Lost Tide is probably his best book. It’s all about the final months leading up to the death of Henry IV. There are some historical inaccuracies, and too often he indulges in the kind of baroque flourishes that are so typical of the Flemish”—Max laughed softly at his joke—“but it’s still a beautiful work of fiction and I’m proud to say that in many subtle ways it anticipates my own imaginings on the subject. Now, listen. You’ll like this. In 1928, he sent a letter to his good friend John Buchan. Or was it 1929…?”

There was a long pause. Adam could hear Max flipping pages. “Yes, I was right: 1928. He told Buchan… do you know Buchan?”

Adam felt like he had been given a chance to win some points. He was about to say that, yes, he had read The Thirty-Nine Steps , though in truth he had only seen the movie. In any case, he was definitely aware of the work of John Buchan. But before he could say anything Max continued: “This is one of my favorite quotes. Sonck said, ‘For the novelist, mood is the only historical truth. Hence the persistence of fog in all our books.” Max took a deep breath. “Some men just understand things. Do you know what I mean?”

“I’d like to read something by Sonck.”

“All his books are out of print,” said Max. “Every single one of them.”

There was another long pause. Finally, Adam said, “Is there anything I can help you with?”

“Hold on,” said Max. “Someone’s on the other line. I’ll get rid of them.”

Adam heard a sharp, piercing tone, and then Max’s voice. “Goddammit, Joanne. Not now.”

“Mr. Lavoy. I’m not sure you switched over. I think you pushed the wrong button.”

“There must be something wrong with the phone. Don’t go anywhere.”

The line went silent. Ten minutes passed, then twenty, but Adam kept the phone close to his ear. A full hour passed; it was four o’clock and the woman from publicity came into the office to get her copies. Adam apologized for not getting them done.

“I’m on hold with Max,” he told her, but she didn’t seem to believe him. Later, the line from Melanie’s office blinked on and he was afraid to pick it up. After a while she came into the copy room.