Middle Men by Jim Gavin Page A

Canyon. He turned left at some point and drove for a few miles along a barren ridge. He had envisioned Max living in a baronial manor, his sprawling grounds lush with topiary and crisscrossed by wayward stags, but the ridge just became more and more narrow and the houses lining the road were increasingly modern-looking. Hanging above the dusty canyon, they didn’t occupy any land, really, just empty space. Adam reached the address. The view of the house from the road consisted almost entirely of the garage. It was a fancy, modern-looking garage, charcoal-gray with a door that was white and opaque, like a pearl. Next to the garage there was a smaller pearl-white door, and Adam took this to be the front entrance. He walked down concrete steps, past a concrete planter overflowing with star jasmine, and pushed a silver button. A few seconds later Max opened the door wearing dark blue running shorts and a teal tank top. He was barefoot.
    â€œAre you a messenger?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œI don’t deal with studio messengers.”
    â€œI’m not a messenger.”
    â€œLiars and cowards. All of them.”
    â€œI’m Adam, the new P.A. Melanie sent me.”
    â€œGood.” He put out his hand. “Nice to meet you.”
    Once again, Adam was impressed by his grip. He handed Max the envelope.
    â€œWait 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.
    â€œTake 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?
    â€œThis is great,” said Adam.
    Max turned around, looking slightly confused, as if he weren’t sure who was talking. “What?”
    â€œYour 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?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œNobody 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 upstraight, 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