The Middle Man [A Broadway Romance]

by Gregory A Kompes

  "Rocko, sir. May I take your coat? Madam, may I take your wrap?"

  I'd gotten in the habit of hiring a bouncer on party nights. This was Rocko’s first time at my door. He spent most evenings bouncing drunks out of the Limelight. He looked ferocious, but was really a teddy bear. Of course, that cuddly man would as soon slam you into a wall as spend the night wrapped in your arms.

  Lola tossed her wrap at Rocko. She didn't wait for my father, heading straight for the bar in the parlor. "Margarita," she said. The bartender went to work.

  My father joined her. "Bourbon, neat," he said, looking around. "No one is here. GRANT!"

  I ignored his shout. "Brenda, the table looks beautiful. I do think the centerpiece is too high. Can you take that off the table?" She did as told, holding the heavy vase. "Now, we need something else." I looked around before realizing poor Brenda was loosing ground with the heavy flowers. Just before they slid from her hands I reached out, got my hand below the vase, and steadied them. Her eyes were large with fear. It felt like it could go either way when Malcolm deftly righted the flowers. "Thanks," I said.

  "You're welcome, Sir." He turned to go, but paused. "Your father and that woman are here."

  "I know. I heard him bellow. Can you place those on the piano and bring the little rose display in here. I think that might be perfect.

  Malcolm, followed close behind by Brenda, left the dining room.

  "Duke," the thick accent of Chef Drague whispered in my ear.

  I turned to see the world famous man, decked in a bright white chef’s jacket and a very tall hat. "Derek, you look wonderful and the food smells amazing."

  "Thank you, Duke. I just wanted to let you know that we're on time and ready for an eight o'clock start."

  "Excellent. When we're seated I'm going to bring you out for a brief introduction. I'll then, of course, bring you out once again after desert for accolades."

  "You're very kind." He bowed slightly, not enough to tip his hat, before he returned to the kitchen. The chef had to dip ever so slightly to allow his hat to clear the door jamb.

  Everything was coming together well. The low candles glimmered off the crystal and china along the table. The silver shined. The flower arrangements would allow unobstructed conversations.

  "This isn't what I asked for!" Lola screeched.

  I quickly ran to the parlor, arriving just in time to see Lola toss her drink into the bartender's face. I held back a moment to see what would happen.

  The bartender, a sweet looking young man, wiped a bar rag over his face. "I'm sorry miss, we're not serving frozen margaritas this evening. May I make you something else?" he asked, calm, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

  "Is there a problem?" I approached my father with my hand outstretched to shake.

  "About fucking time you came to say hello. Poor Lola ordered a drink and this buffoon gave her something else. I think you should fire him on the spot."

  "Let's get something perfectly clear, both of you. This is a very important night for me and for Sam. I'm not going to have the two of you fuck it all up with this language and attitude. If you can't behave as if you're in public, as if your very lives depend upon it, I'll have Rocko take you out back, rough you up, and toss you into the East River. I mean it. I'm simply not going to have any of your over-the-top, horrific behavior."

  "If you think…" Lola started.

  "Lola, I mean it. Take it down about a hundred notches. If you can't act like a perfect lady, you and my father are out of here…" I thought for a moment. "…and, cut off. I mean it dad, not another fucking penny from me." By the time I finished, my voice was down to a whisper through clenched teeth. "Now, apologize to this nice young man for having more patience than Job."

  "Sorry," Lola directed sheepishly somewhere between me and bartender. "White wine?"

  The boy poured a glass quickly. Lola and my father crossed the hall and disappeared into the parlor in search of something to eat.

  "I'm so sorry about my father and his, ah, friend," I said to the boy, stuffing two hundred-dollar bills into his top pocket. "I know money can't make everything right, but…"

  "Not to worry, Mr. Donovan. My boyfriend did the same thing to me last night when…well, when he was still my boyfriend. Anyway, it's fine." His blue eyes lit up.

  "Excellent," I said, enjoying his smile for an extra moment.

  Guests started arriving. I made the rounds, talking to everyone briefly, keeping an eye on my father and Lola, who had settled into a spot near the small appetizer buffet. I knew there was plenty of food, so I let them graze.

  My dog, Aristotle, was an excellent party attendee. He kept his eye out for dropped morsels and cleaned them up, keeping the waiters free to circulate. He’d watch each guest as they arrived. I've always believed he sized up people for their klutz quotient when they entered the house on party nights. He'd then stick close to those he decided might have the best drop factor. The dog was rarely disappointed.

  It wasn't long before Sam was at the piano, playing cocktail party music, toned down versions of classics and muzak versions of popular rock songs. He loved to play. People were soon gathered around the grand, making requests and even singing along.

  That's when she appeared, Clara Tells. Her flouncy, white cocktail dress gave her the glow of an angel and she verily floated across the room to me.

  "Miss Tells, I'm so honored that you've come this evening," I said, kissing her dainty hand. She looked like a china doll from the inside of a music box. Every detail was flawless from her off-white frilly dress, to the perfect strand of pearls at her neck, to the light application of makeup. It was difficult to tell whether the colors on her face were her natural tones or a creation from boxes and bottles.

  "The honor is mine, Mr. Donovan. I've waited a very long time to meet you. My great uncle was Randall Marks."

  I was taken aback, to say the least. I thought the ghost in my office had been Henry haunting me again. "Randall always said he didn't have any family."

  "He and his brother had a terrible falling out that resulted in an altercation that led to the brother's death. What Randall didn't know was that his brother's girlfriend was pregnant with my mother."

  I took in her story, shocked that she shared it so easily, and doubly shocked that it was the first thing to come out of her mouth. I found I was still holding her hand. I could hear Randall's voice in my head, "she speaks the truth," he said to me.

  "He's here," I told Clara.

  "What?" The actress scanned the faces in the room. "I don't understand."

  "He's here, not in body, but in spirit. Would you like to talk to him?"

  She looked at me skeptically. "Ah, yes."

  "Come to my office." I led her upstairs. It was as if we were the only two in the house. I unlocked the office door and held it open for her to enter, closing it behind us.

  "Lovely," she said about the room as she chose one of the plush chairs in the corner.

  Before joining her in the other chair, I took the pocket watch off of my desk. I sat across from her and shared what Randall offered: spirited apologies and love, mostly. Clara asked a few questions about family secrets and Randall offered responses. Then, just as easily as the spirit from beyond had arrived, he left us. I felt a horrible sadness. Time, which had stopped for a moment, started again.

  "Before we return to the party, he asked me to give you this." I offered the watch to Clara. "It was his."

  I gave that to you, Duke. It's yours. Randall chimed back into my head, reversing what he’d told me to do earlier. I was confused.

  "No thank you, Duke. It's lovely of you to offer this, but I don't want it. He hurt my family tremendously. I don't think I'd be comfortable taking a gift from him."

  "As you wish," I said. We sat in silence for a moment. "I hope that this connection won't keep us from being great, good friends, Clara."

  "Of course not, Duke. The actions of our families have little or nothing to do with ou
r own. I like you tremendously."

  "How sweet you are." I took her hand to help her out of the chair. "Oh…"

  "What is it?" Clara's eyes narrowed and focused on my own.

  "Oh, okay," I said to my guides and turned my full attention to the actress. "It seems that there's a huge show coming for you. Now, this is strange, but they want me to share this with you—”

  “Who?” The woman looked around the room.

  “My team, my spirit guides,” I offered off-handedly and continued. “Sam has written a show. He’s already secured early financial backing and he’s hoping that you’ll be willing to sing the lead. They’re telling me that you will decide to do the show, but that there's another show that you'll be performing before it. I'm getting that this first production will make a lot of money for three months and will close abruptly. Oh, I see. You were going to be very polite about Sam's new musical tonight because you've got this other show that you signed the contract for…today! Oh, congratulations, Clara. How wonderful."

  "How do you know all this?" She pulled her hand away. "I wasn't going to sign this contract, but they convinced me. I signed it just before I arrived here."

  "Clara, this is what I do. I see and know things."

  "You're fucking freaking me out. I love it, but you're freaking me out. I do love Sam’s musical, although I was shocked at the audacity of my maid leaving it on my nightstand. I read it all the same and do love it, but…” She caught her breath. “Is there more?"

  "Duke?" followed a light knock on the door.

  "Come in, Sam."

  "Oh, Miss Tells, I'm so sorry to interrupt.” He avoided looking at Clara. “Duke, Chef Drague says we must start right now," said Sam.

  "Clara Tells, may I present Sam—"

  Clara ignored my introduction. "Sam, I just signed the Little Shop of Horrors contract. The piano player backed out and I've recommended you for the job. I told them, 'I'm in if my piano player Sam is in.' We're going to be working together."

  "I've got the show?" Sam shook her hand.

  "It’s being produced by the same group as where you’re playing now. They're going to move you over to the Little Shop conductor position." She led him out of the office.

  I followed the two down the stairs.

  When we reached the living room I gave a waiter the sign and he announced: "Please take your places for dinner."

  "Duke, are there assigned seats tonight?" I'm not sure who asked the question.

  "Not tonight. I thought it would be fun to see where people ended up." I watched my guests filter into the dining room. To my surprise, few sat next to the person they’d arrived with. They'd all met someone new, someone they were interested in, and sat with them at the beautiful table.

  The chef was waiting, just inside the kitchen. He offered me a very broad smile. The last to sit down were Sam and Clara. It was obvious from the sparks between them that they had a crush on each other. I loved seeing that and knowing the two of them would be working together, first on someone else's show and then on their own collaboration.

  "My friends," I called from the head of the table. In a moment, everyone was silent. "Thank you all for coming. It's wonderful to see that many of you have already struck up new friendships. That's what evenings like this at my home are all about." My team buzzed in my head, but I set them aside. This wasn't the moment for reading anyone, even myself. "I'd like to introduce you to the acclaimed, Chef Drague!"

  The assembled group went wild with their applause as Chef Drague joined me at the head of the table. I reached out to shake his hand, but instead he pulled me to him, hugged me. "Duke, you're just wonderful. Thank you for having me in your home."

  My team buzzed, seemingly at the touch. Again, I pushed the sensation away.

  "You're welcome, Derek." I pulled back.

  "My friends," he said in his drippy, romantic French accent, "you're in for a wonderful treat this evening. We won't be announcing the menu, but each course is designed to take you further and further on a culinary journey."

  Everyone applauded and sparkled. Chef Drague returned to the kitchen, I took my seat, the waiters poured glass after glass of wine, the conversation buzzed. I took a mental snapshot before turning to my right, "How nice to see you, Ellen."

  Malcolm whispered in my ear, "Sir, we're about to serve desert."

  "Oh, thank you, Malcolm." The butler backed away. I clinked my knife against a wine glass. The room fell silent. Several waiters cleared plates and debris from the table while others placed coffee cups and desert wine glasses at each place. "I'd once again like to thank you all for joining us this evening. Sam and I are quite pleased that you've come and I hope that you've enjoyed this amazing meal." The guests applauded. The waiters now placed plates of delicate cakes in front of each of them. "I'd like to bring Chef Drague out once more." The group applauded, hooted, whistled for the chef.

  Unlike before, Chef Drague's whites were stained with food. This wasn't some TV chef, keeping clean for the cameras. It was obvious he’d taken an active role in the kitchen activities. The man offered several half bows to each section of the table.

  "Duke—"

  I stood to shake Chef Drague's hand.

  "Duke, this has been an amazing evening for me. It's been a very long time since I’ve had the opportunity to create a meal like this one, a perfect, complimentary menu for a perfect, captive audience." He hugged me, squeezing me tight to him. He smelled of tarragon and garlic, lemon and chives, and a musky sweet sweat. Again, my team buzzed in my head. I wanted to offer the man a personal reading, but this wasn’t the place to do it.

  "Chef, it's truly been our honor to partake of your meal. I certainly hope we can do this again sometime." In my head, I wasn't sure whether I meant another meal or another hug in those strong arms. I guess Sam wasn't the only one with a little crush on one of the evening's star guests.

  Chef Drague made the rounds, shaking everyone's hands, talking with everyone who wanted some attention, while the rest of us savored the sweet pastries and rich, roasted coffee.

  I motioned Malcolm over to me. He'd really done an amazing job. Everyone was happy, the evening perfect as it progressed.

  "Sir?"

  "We'll be adjoining to the living room. Please lift the piano lid to the second position. Let the bartender know we'll be enjoying after-dinner drinks in there. I'd really like orders taken, rather than everyone forming a line at the bar."

  "I'll take care of it, Sir." Malcolm stepped away from me backward, on his best service behavior. Within moments, two waiters were coming around the room, speaking privately to each guest, writing drink orders on small notepads.

  I once again tapped my wine glass. It took several moments for the group to go quiet, everyone enjoying each other's company, and that of the famed Chef Drague. They finally acquiesced. "I'd like to make a little announcement. Sam, is it okay?" He nodded, looking a little confused, but going with the moment. "Sam has been chosen as Musical Director for the upcoming revival of Little Shop of Horrors, staring our own Clara Tells." Again the assemblage applauded. Sam and Clara beamed. "I'm hoping that with a little encouragement, we can persuade this new Broadway team to perform for us this evening. Won't you please," I turned my attention directly to Clara, "won't you please sing for us this evening. I know Sam would be happy to accompany you."

  "More than happy," said Sam, brilliant with anticipation. It's amazing to watch a gay man, with a crush on a gay icon diva, when he and the diva are in the same room together.

  "How could I say no after such a wonderful meal?" Clara smiled at me and turned her attention to the crowd, "we actors must always sing for our supper." Everyone laughed and clapped.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I quickly settled into the decorated brownstone. My daily routine developed. I slept late, enjoyed lunch over the paper. I talked with clients. I grew bored. It was a big house and I was alone in it, I was lonely.

  Dating never became my thing. After killi
ng my first lover, it really didn't seem like the right choice to search out others. What might I do to them? What might they do to me?

  A few of the original clients were still on my list. If I need a little fuck to get me through, those men were only too happy to oblige. It reminded us all of the "old days."

  Somehow, I'd made it to my 30s. I was wealthy, successful. But, I wasn't happy. One early morning, I was out front on the street, pulling the trash cans to the curb, when the woman who owned the house across from me waved, motioning me to her. We'd never spoken, but had nodded hello a few times, usually in the early hours of the morning when we put the trash out or gathered up the daily newspapers from our stoops. I let a taxi pass and crossed the quiet, tree-lined street.

  "You're Duke Donovan, aren't you?" she asked, tentative.

  "Yes." I said, holding out my hand. She didn't take it.

  "You're a psychic?" She looked me up and down. "You don't really look the part," she said, disapproval in her tone and eyes.

  How do you respond to statements like that? I've of course met a lot of skeptics in my time, but this was somehow different. My team didn't offer any help. "Yes," I said, waited.

  "You've done an amazing job on the house. I watched it tumble to disrepair over the years. It's nice to have it back in action."

  She didn't look that old, but black women do an amazing job hiding their age. I remember feeling offended, because of my liberal leanings, the first time I heard the phrase "black don't crack," but I'd come to understand.

  My team started to buzz. She wanted a tour. "Would you like to see what we've done inside?"

  Her drowsy face perked up. "That would be nice," she said, holding out her hand. It trembled ever so slightly. At first I thought it might be fear, but then realized, as I took the proffered hand and shook it warmly, that she was suffering from early stages of one of the tremor producing aging diseases. "I'm Emma May Johnson," she said. I realized, still holding her hand, that Emma May was much much older than I'd thought.