We were silent.
"I think you will. But, what’s in these cards is even greater. Your own show, a show you’ve written and created, it's going to be a huge hit. It's going to have your name on the marquee." I listened for more information from my team. Once a client started talking the connections grew even stronger, the information flowed even faster. "Do you have a black trunk, one of those old-fashioned, turn-of-the-century travel trunks with drawers? You know, like for train travel in…"
"Yes, it's been in storage for years."
"Have you written a show?" I asked, knowing now, from my team, that he had penned several musicals.
"How do you know that?" His voice filled with defensive disbelief.
"One of them," I started, then stopped and listened intently to the voices in my head for a moment. "One of them has a young blond woman as a lead. Ragged Dreams? Tattered Memories?"
"Holy shit. It's called Tattered Dreams." He rubbed his head and then leaned in closer to the spread on the table. “That’s all in here?” He continued to absently scratch his head. "I wrote that musical right after I got out of grad school. I think it's pretty good, but it never worked. There's a problem—"
"With the second scene in Act II."
"Yeah,"
"You need to cut two characters. The third woman and one of the men. The trio number that you love so much needs to become a duet. That will solve the problem."
"And then what?"
"You open it on Broadway with Clara Tells. It's going to run for years. It's going to be toured around the world. You'll have the opportunity to open other shows that you've written and will write….wait, I don't understand…oh, got it…one of the others in that trunk is worth looking at again. Something about a runaway boy, that's the one that needs a lot of work, but the story is good."
"Clara? My show?" He looked hard at the cards. "That's here, in these cards?"
"Sort of. My guides are sharing other information with me, too."
Knowing that the reading was done, I lit a cigarette.
"It's your day off, why don't you take a trip to your storage unit?"
He looked at me as I gathered up the cards from the table, replaced them in the deck, shuffled three times, and finally placed the tarot cards back in their box. I closed the lid and reached for a Diet Coke from the table.
We were both silent for what felt like a long time. I smoked and drank soda while watching the man across from me. Sam looked to be lost in thought. Occasionally, he’d look at me, square in the eyes. The first time seemed to be filled with disbelief. He contemplated more, absently lit a cigarette, but after a drag or two, let it burn down to the filter. I watched the ash grow longer and longer in his steady fingers, wondering how far it would go before he noticed. He looked at me again, not at all embarrassed by the ash that had fallen onto him and the table. Sam brushed it away and lit another cigarette. I thought he might ask another question, but he didn’t.
“This has all been amazing,” Sam said. He stood; clenched a cigarette in his teeth. Without another word, he went into the bathroom, closed the door. I listened to the water start up.
Through the open window, I watched as the old woman across the street dragged her trash can back up to her building. The metal of the can scraped against the sidewalk. That was such a comforting, city sound to me. It meant action, motion. New York is an amazing, wonderful place, yet the basics of life, like putting out the trash cans and bringing them back in went on all the same.
Sam would be off on his errand most of the afternoon. I wondered how I’d fill my time. As I entertained the possibilities, there was a scratch at the door. I got up and let Aristotle into the room. He was carrying his leash. I scratched the dog’s head before pulling on a pair of loose trousers and a light, long-sleeved shirt. As I put on my shoes, Sam reemerged from the bathroom looking ruddy and handsome from the steam and hot water.
“You’re not coming with me?”
“I think this is an errand for you to make alone. We’re going for a walk, maybe a visit to the dog run.” At the sound of the words “walk” and “dog run,” Aristotle stood and nudged the leash toward my hand.
“He seems to think that’s a good idea.” Sam turned toward the bureau, opened a drawer, and selected clothes.
I stepped up behind him and wrapped my arms around his body, enjoying the smell of soap and shaving cream that perfumed his head. Our relationship had altered, changed. It would always be different now that I’d connected him to the other side. There was no telling how he’d handle the change. Some of my romances ended abruptly after a reading that detailed aspects of their future. In others, the men wanted daily readings, which grew tedious. I had one guy simply disappear out of my life. Anything was possible and I never asked my team what the outcome would be. I stilled enjoyed having the experience of surprise in my romantic relationships. All the same, no matter where I was getting what I was getting, I could feel a new distance between Sam and me. As I considered that, Aristotle again nudged his leash at me. I pulled away from my lover and clicked the lead onto the dog’s collar.
“We’re off,” I said moving toward the door. “Dinner tonight?”
“Sure,” said Sam, still lost in his thoughts.
Chapter Six
"Great power. That's what I'm seeing." I looked across the faded cards spread across the table with the gimpy leg at the well-dressed man.
"In the cards?" he asked, looking intently at the colorful drawings between us.
"No. I'm seeing it. You're standing at a podium, taking power. Your not accepting power, you're taking it. Does this make sense to you?"
He reached below the table. "I'm going to have to kill you," he said, his voice steady, almost a whisper. He pulled a small gun out of somewhere, pointed it at me. "There's no way for you to know about that." He cocked the pistol.
I ignored the gun. I looked into his eyes and kept speaking: "Well, you must do as you must, but that doesn't change what I see. Most of the people are quite happy about the political transition. You'll rule for a long time. Somewhere very warm, humid. Beautiful flowers. There's a woman…Mary…no…Maria. She's beautiful, too. She'll give you two children. A girl first, then a boy. After the boy, the two of you will cheat on each other often. This will make you both jealous and guilty. But, you mustn't murder her. If you do, the people will quickly turn on you."
His mouth dropped. I heard the click of the gun, waited for the explosion. It never came.
"You're certain of this?"
"There's no true telling of the future. We have absolute free will so everything can be altered by our deeds, thoughts, actions. But, yes, at the moment, this is absolutely what I see for you….Wait, there's a second person you trust very much right now. A very dark skinned man, but not black skinned. He wears gold on his wrists and around his neck. He's not to be trusted."
"You speak of my brother?"
I waited for the yes-no feeling. "I think yes. You're both sleeping with the same woman at the moment, a fair redhead. Tales are traveling from you to her to him. He knows more than he lets on. He will betray you. Maybe not on purpose. He's also sleeping with others. He talks in his sleep." We both waited in silence. "That's it," I said finally, "that's all I'm getting.” I gathered up the cards, gave them a shuffle, and placed them on top of the bureau and looked out at the street below. I could see my next client pacing the Chelsea Hotel entrance.
The office phone jangled. I picked it up absently, "Duke Donovan," I said without passion.
"Hey, Donovan. We're in town for a few days. Meet us for drinks."
"Holy shit! Bert, you old SOB. What are you doing in town?" I looked up as Sam entered my office. A light glow of sweat made him look youthful, sexy. He shined with excitement and energy. I lifted a hand, motioned for him to come in and sit. "Wait, six? Let me look. Can we make it seven?...yeah, client meeting. Excellent." We rang off.
"Who was that? Old trick?" Sam's eyes defied his attempted playful to
ne.
"Yes, in fact. Bert and I knew each other back in the old days. He's been married to Jesse for about, hell, it must be fifteen years now. We've stayed in touch and he…"
"What? He what?"
"Sam, he's a producer now, mostly London, occasionally here in the city. I'm sure this meeting has something to do with you. I'm sure Bert will be putting up the money for your show. Is that your script?" I talked fast. This sometimes happened; once the connection was established the reading continued.
"Yes," he looked shy as he patted the heap of type-written pages.
"May I read it?"
"Duke, it needs to be reworked, fixed." He tapped the script as he spoke. "Do you really want to read it?"
"Yes," I said, anxious to see that scene in Act II.
Sam pushed the script across my desk, looked at it for a moment, and left. I spent the rest of the afternoon reading through the next Broadway hit. I’d just read the final page when my phone rang. I looked at the pocket watch on the desk, 6:00.
"Stop fidgeting," I said, patting Sam's knee. Bert loved you. Actually, Jesse adored you. He loves handsome, young men. They also really loved the show." Bert and Jesse wanted to see Fiddler, and watch Sam in action in the pit. We’d gone out for drinks afterward, and now, a little drunk, we were headed home in a cab.
"I'm anything but young," Sam said. His gaze wandered out of the car window toward the bodega flower stalls on Sixth Avenue.
"Compared to the rest of us, you're young, handsome, charming. No pot belly for you," I said with a poke to his middle.
Sam chuckled good naturedly, his attention now back in the car. "So, how did you meet this Bert?"
I gave that idea a moment. "Truth?"
Sam turned and looked me square in the eye. "I don't know." He kept looking. "Yes, truth."
"We met in the men's room stalls of a now defunct little bar in the West Village.” Not that he’d ever imagine it, I continued: “Yep, there was a glory hole involved."
A wry sparkle came into Sam's eyes. "I hate that I missed those days in New York."
"Missed them? You weren't even born yet, my boy." The car slowed in front of the house. I wanted to say that it's good that he missed those days. Most of the handsome young men from then were now dead from HIV, or worse. I held my tongue and we got out of the car.
I didn’t take the time to tell him about the six months that were on-again, off-again between me and Bert. It hadn’t been love. Truthfully, I don’t think I’ve ever actually been in love with anyone. After my introduction to men and sex, and all the deceit and shit that comes with relationships, well, I’ve never seen the point.
Yes, of course, I’m lonely at times. I move from one relationship to the next, getting sex as I can or as I need. I think that may be why Malcolm is so important to me. And, why my beloved dog, Aristotle, always comes before anyone else. I know the dog isn’t going anywhere. And, from the current view of life, neither was Malcolm.
As we approached the top of the stoop, Malcolm opened the door. "How was your evening, Sir?"
Very good, Malcolm. Very good in deed." Malcolm took our coats. "Brandy in the parlor?" I asked toward both Malcolm and Sam. Neither objected.
Sam waited until we were seated. I could tell he was about ready to burst. "How do you think it went?"
"I think it went well." I took a snifter from the butler, swirled the brown liquid, sniffed, sipped. I wanted to tell Sam that he needed to work on presentation skills. But, I knew if I said it was a good show that Bert was in. My advice had set Bert into the Millionaires Club back when there weren’t many people that rich in New York, or anywhere else in the world. Not like today with stock brokers and handy homeless men. Once Burt made some money off of Sam he'd be there whenever Sam needed funding, no questions asked.
"Just well?"
"Sam, it was only drinks. Hell, they didn’t even know they were going to be pitched a show tonight. They thought they were meeting an old friend and his young lover for cocktails after a Broadway show. There will be a more formal meeting after Bert and Jackson read your show and then meet Clara on Monday."
"I can't believe they're altering their travel plans to attend your party."
"It's more than that," I swirled and sipped again. "They want to hear more about the show. They want to meet Clara. And, they're independent; they go where they want, when they want."
"Rather like you?"
"Rather." I didn't like his shifting tone. I knew he'd had too much to drink. When that happened, Sam tended to be a little moody, a bit suspicious. He resented my financial independence, which made no sense. He’d benefited from it greatly over the past few weeks.
Quite suddenly, I was in the mood to be alone, or rather, not to be with Sam. As if on cue, Aristotle came into the living room and nudged my hand. “Want a little walk to end your evening, Boy?” Sam scowled at my use of his endearment toward the dog. The golden pushed even close to me. “Get your leash.” The dog made a dash and returned, handed me his lead. I clicked it onto his collar. “I’ll be back in a bit,” I said to Sam. Without waiting for a response, the dog and I were out of the house, walking west, toward the river.
Aristotle stopped and his lifted leg at the usual spots to mark our progress. As we walked together, I thought back over the many men who’d come and gone through my life, about clients and lovers, and my own future. Sure, I can ask my team anything I want, but I rarely do. Surprises can be interesting.
After a few blocks, there wasn’t anyone on the street. The silence and solitude were pleasant. I looked into the windows we passed, wondering about the people watching TV and cooking in their kitchens. It’s always amazing how you can live in a city with millions of inhabitants and yet feel lonely. Also wonderful that at two in the morning, so many people are still up and about.
We arrived at a small park; it was actually a community garden without a locked gate to keep nonresidents out. I walked the dog inside and chose a bench. As I smoked, Aristotle curled up with his head on my foot.
“Hello.”
The voice startled me because Aristotle hadn’t offered any warning, not even raising his head from my foot. He usually had some reaction to nearby energies, but for some reason this one didn’t affect him.
“Hello,” I said. I couldn’t see the man’s face in the darkness, but the voice seemed familiar.
“Mind if I join you?” He stepped forward into what little light shone from the windows of the building next to the garden. “You’re Duke Donovan, right?” He asked as he sat.
“I’m sorry, do I know you?”
“We’ve met before.”
I tried to get a look at the man’s face, but the shadows were too dark. Aristotle still hadn’t moved. I knew the voice, but couldn’t place it.
“Sad that you don’t remember the man you killed.”
When I looked again, his pale skin was unmistakable. I realized that the reason Aristotle hadn’t moved was because this man was only a ghost, a memory of energy long faded from the earthly plane.
“Don’t you have anything to say to me? An apology perhaps?”
I called on my team; my head was silent. I could feel their presence. “It was either you or me the last time we were together.”
“True.”
“I chose me.”
“Good choice.”
The ghost and I sat in silence. There was nothing he could do to me physically. So, I simply waited for him to share whatever message he had. But, he didn’t offer another word. We simply sat there, two familiars sharing a park bench while a dog lolled between us. When I finally turned to look at him again, he wasn’t there. I asked my team for clarity, but they didn’t offer anything. I roused the dog and we headed home.
Chapter Seven
"Mr. Donovan, what do you think?" Terrance looked at me expectantly. His three piece suit out of place in the dank brownstone.
I surveyed the dark, musty room. "I don't know. The price is right, but there's so much
work to be done."
The realtor didn't speak.
"Do you mind if I walk through the place on my own while you wait here?"
"Not at all," he said as his cell phone rang. "I don't think this will be on the market long though." He gently shook his ringing phone at me as he spoke.
I wandered from room to room. My guides were silent. I headed up the back staircase from the kitchen to the second floor. "Is the house solid?" I asked quietly. I waited for the yes/no feeling. Yes. I moved into a room. "Will you be happy here?" I asked. No feeling. I heard the word "Sit" in my head. I sat on the dusty floor with my back against the wall, closed my eyes, quieted my mind.
This will be your office. Important people will continue to seek your services here in this place for a long time. The string of aimless boys will bring one who will make you very happy.
Silence. I waited, sensing there'd be more.
This floor should be three rooms. Your office, an empty room, and a very large master suite. The third floor will be for the servant-helper and storage. The first floor will be for guests and parties. We all love parties.
Silence. They were done.
"Mr. Donovan," Terrance called from below.
"I'll take the house, Terrance," I called back on my way down the front stairs. I no longer saw it as a grimy place. I could see it in renovated form. I reached the entryway.
The Middle Man [A Broadway Romance] Page 5
