The Middle Man [A Broadway Romance]

by Gregory A Kompes

  "Thank you, Sir." He opened the bedroom door. "The, ah, lady, is in the sitting room."

  I padded down the staircase enjoying the depth my feet sank into the new, plush carpet. As I passed, I straightened a photograph from my trip to Vienna. Memories quickly flooded my mind of oompa bands and tall glasses of beer.

  "Finally!" the woman screeched. I've been waiting for you for hours.

  Poorly dressed and melodramatic, I thought to myself. This was not what I was expecting Pop’s Lola to look like. I approached her with my hand outstretched, "Duke Donovan," I said.

  "I know who you are. That son-of-a-bitch never stopped talking about you," she gasped.

  "And, who might that son-of-a-bitch be?" I asked, indicating a chair for her with my unshaken hand. I didn't wait for her to sit, but took a place for myself across from where I'd indicated and fished a cigarette from the box.

  "Your father!" She didn't sit.

  "Oh, you must be Lola."

  "That's Miss Hampton, to you."

  Her makeup was too heavy, especially for late morning. Her dress was too tight, especially for a woman of her top and bottom widths. I always admired women with obviously large, obviously natural breasts who piled them up and spilled them out. Truly an asset, at least as far as men such as my father were concerned.

  I lighted my cigarette. "Miss Hampton, to what to do I owe the honor of your visit? A thank you, no doubt, for my kindness and generosity?"

  Her heavily pancaked jaw dropped. The weight was so great, in fact that the rest of her followed and squeezed into the chair. It might have creaked under the weight, but sometimes my imagination runs a bit wild.

  "Kindness? Generosity?" she stammered.

  We sat in silence.

  Aristotle came into the room, sniffed the air. He took a spot at my feet, ever my protector.

  I waited. The ball was clearly in her court.

  "Your father is an asshole," she finally said.

  "Agreed," I replied.

  Again the silence gathered dust. She regained her composure. Malcolm, ever with perfect timing, appeared in the door with a tray. "Coffee?" he asked.

  "That would be lovely," I said as he carried the tray into the room, placed it between us, poured for each.

  "Anything else, Sir?"

  "Miss Hampton?" I asked. She shook her head "no." Malcolm retreated. I picked up my cup, sipped the strong, black coffee. She did the same. "Miss Hampton, if I might be a bit bold?" She nodded the affirmative over her cup, now lipstick stained. "Why is it that you've come here?"

  "I can't get ahold of your father."

  "The asshole? That would seem to me to be a good thing."

  She set her cup down, picked up a napkin, stained it with her orange-red lipstick. "I think I love him."

  "I'm so sorry," I said, knowing the set of napkins was now ruined. That brash color would never come out.

  "I can't explain it. He treated me rather badly in Atlantic City. I had no choice but to leave him there. The thing is," her tone went from calm to hushed, "I find I can't stop thinking about him."

  "Well, all I can say is that you should never expect him to change. He's been an asshole my whole life. I suspect he'll maintain his assholishness behavior and continue to treat you poorly."

  "Can't help it, I guess. But, the thing is, I love him."

  I couldn’t tell if she was trying to convince me or herself.

  There was a knock at the door. As Malcolm opened it, my father stormed in. "Out of my way, fancy man!" He stopped short at the doorway to the sitting room. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

  "Dad, I live here."

  "Not you, queer boy; her, the painted lady." His finger wagged in Lola's direction.

  "Visiting. Having a cup of coffee, a cookie or two, visiting." I said, enjoying the floor show taking place in my home. "Would you like some coffee, Dad?"

  "Get out!" he shouted.

  "Who are you talking to?" I asked, amused.

  "The bitch there."

  "Miss Hampton says she loves you. And, based on the boyish charm you're exhibiting, I can now see why."

  We three were silent. Aristotle shifted, placed his head on my foot.

  Now, you might be wondering why I put up with my father. He threw me out of the house when I was sixteen, uncomfortable with my sexuality. To be honest, at that time I wasn't all that comfortable with it either. My thinking now though is that I am content with who I am and who I choose to love. When my mother died, my brother moved out to Los Angeles. By then I’d made a little cash, he turned up again. Lonely, with no one else to kick, the old fucker wandered back into my life. I just keep thinking to myself, maybe, just maybe, the old asshole will come around, too. And, if he doesn't, there are always amusing scenes like this one, unfolding in my life because of him. Sure, it's more expensive than a movie ticket or a visit to the theater to keep the old man, but how often do we have the opportunity for the actors to come right to us?

  "I am, Frankie. I am in love with you," Lola said with a heave of her massive bosoms, a corner of the linen napkin now stained with dark mascara.

  "Can I bring her to your party?" the asshole asked.

  "You're not invited. You wouldn't have any fun. It's going to be a room full of dykes, faggots, fancy pants men."

  "Lola, come with me. We've got to do some shopping so we're up to the audience here on Sunday."

  Lola stood so fast the chair rose with her. She paused in her lift, letting the chair drop back to the floor. Miss Hampton scooted around the table, flinging herself into my father's arms. After a kiss I choose not to describe to you, the two left without a goodbye. I contemplated changing the night of the party otherwise, there might be fireworks. Then again, most of my guests were familiar with my father's antics, not to mention his choice of girlfriends. A floor show is a floor show. Yet, we already had a show planned with Clara Tells in attendance and she’d never been subjected to my family before. Well, it was what it was.

  "Sir?" Malcolm appeared, phone in hand. I looked up at him. "Ms. Tells for you." I couldn't read his emotion, took the phone.

  "Ms. Tells…as you wish Clara, please call me Duke. I was truly just thinking of you." I listened, enjoying the anticipation mixed with fear emanating from Malcolm as he hovered in the room, rearranging coffee cups on the tray. "Well, I'm so pleased to hear that." Malcolm stood up straight, looked at me. I gave him nothing, instead rubbing Aristotle's offered head that now rested on my knee. "Excellent. May I ask you something?" Was Malcolm smiling? "I know this is presumptuous, but would you favor us with a song or two? My boyfriend is a fan, not to mention a pianist." I listened to her excuses. Malcolm picked up the tray and left the room. Was that tap dancing I could hear in the kitchen? "Sam. Sam Teak…why yes, the Broadway conductor…I'll be sure to tell him; I know he'll be thrilled." We rang off with the usual pleasantries.

  "Duke!" Sam shouted. "Duke!" He bound up the stairs, several at a time, bursting into my office.

  I smiled and held my finger up to my lips.

  "Sorry," he mouthed before backing out of the room, closing the door behind him.

  "No, Sir. No, I think this is absolutely the wrong time to invade. I know, Sir, but they're telling me no. A young woman in your hire, a young redhead, Minnie or Missy…Millicent, do you have a secretary named Millicent?" I waited for him to tell me about her. "She's a spy sir. Everything you've been planning is being taken back to those you conspire against. She's not alone. There's a man, too. He's in and about as her boyfriend." I listened to the magistrate and then to my spirit guides. "The first thing to do is to get rid of them. Then, you need to create an entirely new plan of action. Plan for something deeper in the country because they're preparing for you to hit them at the border, near the lakes…I know that the same way I know everything, Sir…very good….hold on, let me get my book. Yes, that works for me." I raised my hand from Aristotle's head and wrote the time in the schedule book for our next phone call. "Oh, Sir, your wife is
considering a new hair color. Tell her to go with the darker shade, she'll be much happier and it will look better with the dress she'll be wearing to the state dinner next week." I laughed politely at his demeaning joke about his wife. "Very good, Sir. I'll speak with you next week." I hung up the phone with the knowledge that a large sum was just deposited in my Swiss bank account.

  Many of the psychics I know won't help certain people. It's a different list for all of them. Me, I'm happy to talk to anyone interested in the services I provide. That is, of course, if they can cover my large fee. My spirit guides don't seem to mind either. Although, they do draw the line at me connecting with both sides of a conflict, like two parties who are waging war against each other or doing illegal business with each other.

  I lit a cigarette and left the office in search of Sam. I discovered him eating a snack in the kitchen. Sam was talking to Malcolm, who wasn't, in his usual form, saying anything back.

  "Hello, Boy," I said to Sam, kissing his neck.

  "Sorry, I didn't mean to burst into your office like that." Sam wouldn't make eye contact. "I was just so excited about the party being on Page Six."

  "You've got to be more careful," I said, watching him flush a bit. I changed the subject. "Malcolm, how is everything coming for Sunday?"

  "Fine, Sir." He consulted his little black notebook. "With your father and that woman we're up to fifteen."

  "How have we ended up with an odd number?" I asked.

  "Ms. Tells is coming unattended," the butler said placing a fork into the drawer and picking up a spoon to polish next. It was easy to tell that he found a woman attending a party without an escort unacceptable.

  “She’s coming?” Sam asked as potato chip crumbs escaped from his mouth.

  I glanced at Malcolm who ignored me. “It was going to be a surprise,” I said. That hadn’t been my plan, but any opportunity to take a fun poke at Malcolm was worthwhile to me. For the briefest moment, I enjoyed the glimmer of excitement in my lover’s eyes.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  "You’re welcome, Sam. I want you to have everything you can dream of.” Those words came out of my mouth without thought or intention. It wasn’t until that moment that I realized I’d fallen in love with him. That was something that never happened to me, yet here it was. I could feel my heart expand. I could feel the love of the universe flow through me. I did my best to ignore the warning coming from my team of spirit guides. To quiet them, I asked: “Have you invited anyone?"

  "Most of my friends work on weeknights. But, Silas found a sub and will be bringing a date." Sam went back to chomping on his sandwich.

  "We may need to go to the client list." I reached for Malcolm’s book and he handed it to me. "We haven't got any writers."

  "I invited both Ms. Whittemore and Mr. Spence. Both are out of town on tour with their latest."

  I picked up the phone, dialed, waited. "Hello, Sara. This is Duke Donovan." I listened to the musak for three seconds. "…hello, dear. Yes, I loved your piece in the New Yorker…That's why I'm calling. I was wondering if you and that charming husband of yours would like to come…you're never second string. Malcolm thought you were in Bermuda next week…well, the Triangle's loss is our gain…Dinner is at Eight." We rang off. "Malcolm, please add Mr. and Mrs. Schumacher to the list. Now, we need a single man." I thought for a moment. I certainly didn't want it to appear that I was setting up Clara Tells, so a married man with an out-of-town wife or a single gay man was required.

  The phone rang and I handed it to Malcolm.

  "Mr. Donovan, it's your aunt Madge."

  I took the phone. "Hello, dear. How nice of you to call." I listened and chain smoked, lighting each new cigarette from the cherry end of the previous, as she told me about corns and boils, escapades about my father and Lola, finally coming to the point of attempting to invite herself to the party. "You've never wanted to come to any of my parties before and I'm sorry to say there isn't room, dear." She told me that she was a fan of Ms. Tells and how much it would mean to meet her. "I'm sure I can get an autograph for you, dear." I listened to how ungrateful I was when the call waiting chimed. "Sorry, dear, I've got to take another call." I hung up on my aunt, forced to answer the phone myself. "Hello?" Silence. "Hello?" I asked again. I hung up the phone after the click.

  "Sir?"

  "Don't know, they hung up.” I looked at the caller ID. It read: “Blocked.” I turned my attention from the phone to my boyfriend. I liked that word. I liked thinking of Sam in that way; it felt comfortable. “Are you having an affair?"

  "Are you crazy? I'm not doing anything to jeopardize meeting Clara Tells!" Sam said with a wink. Whatever ill feelings he’d had about bursting in on me were now gone.

  "You don't have thumbs, Aristotle, so I know it's not you making dates on the phone. How about you, Malcolm?" I asked.

  "No one that would call that line, Sir," the butler said with a wink directed toward the dog.

  "Hmm. I feel like there's a conspiracy here." I lit a fresh cigarette and held the Zippo out for Sam to do the same. "Any ideas who we should invite to fill this spot."

  "There are still three spots, Sir." Malcolm worked his silver polish into another fork.

  I never understood why he didn’t polish all the forks, then all the spoons, and so on. I actually found his randomness annoying, but I would never say anything about it.

  "I'm holding those two spots for the moment, so it's only one. A stag." I glanced at the paper on the counter, open to Page Six. "Elliot Ward is in town?" I picked up the paper and read.

  "Yeah, he's opening the revival of Little Shop in a few weeks," Sam said. "I really wanted that show, but they wouldn't give me the spot. They're too happy with me where I am."

  I quickly dialed. "Elliot? ...This is Duke. I can't believe you're in town and didn't call me." The famous producer made excuses, asked about the party. "Eight," I offered. "Excellent, see you then."

  "Duke, is there anyone in this town whose number you don't have memorized?" Sam asked, astonished.

  "Well, there are about 8 million residents of our fair city, so, yes, there are lots and lots of people whose numbers I don't know."

  Chapter Four

  "Turn the last card and you'll know your fate," he said, watching intently as I turned the card as instructed.

  Death.

  I stared in shock and horror at the withered tarot card with a skeleton riding a horse. All around him were dead and dying people, including a king, a bishop, and commoners. The skeleton carried a black flag emblazoned with a white flower. As I studied the card, something shiny caught the light in my peripheral vision. It came toward me. Slow at first, speed increased. A knife.

  Sure, I was young and inexperienced. But, in that moment I understood life and death like never before. With the flash of that knife coming toward me in what felt like slow motion my youth ended. We struggled. I was stronger than I looked. Instead of entering me, the knife entered him. I'll never forget the look of disbelief on Henry’s face. He fell to the ground, sputtered a little blood, stared into space. I emptied his pockets. There were hundreds of hundred dollar bills. I'd never seen wads of cash like that before. That helped explain why he always wore oversized suits, to hide the lumps created by carrying all this cash. I stuffed my pockets full. I took his tarot deck. We'd only spent a few days together, but somehow, I already understood the game.

  "What have you there, Duke?" Sam asked, rubbing slumber sand from his eyes.

  I allowed the gold pocket watch to swing from side to side. It caught the sunlight and glimmered. "It was a gift long ago." Even with these strong feelings emerging for Sam, I had no intention of telling him the story of how this gift came into my possession.

  Sam steered his morning erection into the bathroom. A long flow ensued. I had the watch; I could have timed it, but didn't. He returned to me, dropped to his knees between my own, pushed open my robe.

  I murmured my approval as he licked my balls and I set the w
atch on the small table next to me. When he took the head of my cock in his mouth, I lit a cigarette, laid my head back, and moved my free hand to the top of his head. I ran my fingers through his hair, guiding his movements with gentle pushes of my fingers. For the next several minutes, the scene played out in slow motion as I smoked, his eyes never leaving mine. His bobbing head increased its speed, one of his hands fondled my balls, the first finger of the other rubbed circles around my asshole, and then darted in and out up to its first knuckle. Sam used that knuckle to forcefully massage the tight ring of muscle at my entrance while his head continued its hot, slick bobbing up and down the full length of my dick.

  When I tamped out my cigarette he applied the full attention of his mouth to my dick while gently messaging my balls. I allowed my eyes to close. My thoughts wandered to last night’s love making; to a handsome stranger I’d seen at the gym, to a young man who had admired Aristotle during this morning’s walk. If I weren’t with Sam, I’d be with that young man right now. I imagined what I’d be doing to him: fingering his ass, pushing my cock into him as he moaned, running my hands over his back and around his chest as I pumped inside him. As I grew closer to climax, without words, he pushed his head down, finally taking his eyes from mine, and swallowed my dick into his throat. The heat rose in me as I had the duel sensation of fucking a stranger while being sucked off by my lover. With both of my hands gripping his wavy black curls, I pushed him tight into my crotch. I arched of my back; came. Sam stayed clamped to my cock as wave after wave of ecstasy flowed. Gone were the images in my head of the stranger. I was fully in this moment now, enjoying the heat of Sam’s mouth and the over-heightened sensation of the head of my cock. He never choked or gagged, taking it, loving it. As I writhed in pleasure, he pulled his finger like a cork from my ass, still holding my dick tight in his throat, driving me crazy.

  “Stop,” I whispered, insane, somewhere between ecstasy and pain. With smiling eyes, he raised his mouth from my cock, giving the slit one last lick, which sent shivers through my whole body.