The Thieves of Manhattan - By Adam Langer Page 0,46
bueno. The conversation, despite taking place more than a day early, went as Roth had predicted. It began with compliments: Olden said he liked the terseness of my writing, how no words were wasted; it would be easy to read on a Kindle or a Nook; he liked the depth and humanity of my characters; the book was nonfiction that read like fiction, which was the best and rarest of finds, akin, he said, to a tofu product that really tasted like meat. But he said that he did have some changes to discuss before he would agree to represent me. Could his assistant, Isabelle, arrange a time for lunch?
“At Miguel’s,” he said, just as Roth told me he would refer to Michael’s Restaurant.
When I was done talking to Isabelle—I wondered if she was one of those beautiful, golightly-clad women who’d ignored me at the Blade Markham party—I started running, didn’t even stop to catch my breath when I got to Roth’s apartment building. I slapped the UP button for the elevator, and when the doors didn’t immediately open, I took the stairs two at a time until I reached the fourth floor, where I slid down the hallway before arriving at Roth’s door, which I slapped hard with my palm. I heard a rustling, then footsteps approaching.
Roth was wearing a black murasaki, belted at the waist, and black socks. He wasn’t wearing his franzens, and he looked older and more tired than usual. Apparently, I had interrupted him, or woken him up. I had never seen Roth without his glasses. Or his pants. He stood in his doorway, regarding me expectantly.
“Olden called,” I said.
Roth nodded brusquely as if to ask why I was telling him what he had already told me would happen.
“He asked to set up a lunch,” I said, and when Roth appeared to be expecting new information, I told him that he had been right; we’d be eating at Michael’s.
“Wanna go out?” I asked. “Get a brew? Celebrate? My treat?”
Roth’s weariness took on a more impatient tone.
“There’s nothing to celebrate yet, Ian,” he said. “We’ll discuss it after the weekend.”
Roth began to close the door, then stopped.
“Oh, and Ian?” he said. “Next time we’re not scheduled to work together and you have something you want to discuss: call first.”
I nodded and told him I’d come by next week at our usual time. But when I walked out of the building, I couldn’t help feeling embarrassed for having bothered him. I had begun to think that he and I were friends, but apparently, this was only a business relationship and we were just using each other for what each of us wanted. I would become a published author and he would get his money and revenge. I had been hoping that there might be more to it, but that’s all there was.
MEETING AT MICHAEL’S
When I met Roth the morning before my lunch with Olden, Roth was back in his usual form. He told me that the key to winning Olden’s trust was to refrain from acting either too eager or blasé. I was to let Olden decide who he thought I was; he treated people as if they were manuscripts. He liked to talk about how awful books had been before he got his hands on them, how unpolished and untutored his writers were before they had met him.
As for me, now that Roth had convinced me that Olden wouldn’t recall having read A Thief In Manhattan before, I had only two questions.
“What if he recognizes me?” I asked, remembering the night at the KGB and the Blade Markham party.
“He won’t,” Roth said. “When he met you before, you were nobody. Now you’re a potential client. To Olden, those are two completely different people.”
“What about my short stories?” I asked. “Can I mention them to him?”
“Not yet,” said Roth.
“When?” I asked.
“You’ll know.”
I arrived at Fifty-fifth Street intentionally about ten minutes late, and was seated with Olden at his usual table. He was wearing a pale yellow sport coat over a black shirt and was eyeing one of his two watches—he wore a Rolex on one wrist, a red, blue, and green Swatch on the other. The two watches, one expensive, one not, was a fashion quirk that Roth told me Olden had picked up in Milan. Olden looked peeved at my tardiness, but when I caught his eye, he was all smiles and cackles.
“You don’t look like a thief,” he said as he shook my hand.