The Thieves of Manhattan - By Adam Langer Page 0,53
know how I did it, but I did it, you ladron culo,” Geoff Olden said with a cackle. He asked when I would be available to meet Jim Merrill, Jr., at the Century Club. “Oh, and por favor?” he said after we had set the time and date. “Those short stories of yours better be good, Ian. I already told Merrill they were.”
THE HONORED SOCIETY
I met Geoff Olden and Jim Merrill, Jr., at the Century Club on Forty-third Street and Fifth Avenue, a relic of Manhattan’s artistic and literary past. New York city law decreed that cigars could no longer be smoked in the club, but the cloakroom still smelled of them and so did the doorman’s jacket; women were now admitted to the club, but the place still exuded an old boys’ clubhouse, a place where men gathered in dim, smoky light to drink, chortle, and discuss the serious business of literature and art out of the sight of their wives and mistresses. The ghosts of onetime members Winslow Homer, the architect Stanford White, and the late railroad magnate and manuscript collector Chester Blom seemed to swoop in and out of the dining room and bar.
Michael’s Restaurant may have been located less than a mile from here, but entering the Century Club was like stepping fifty years into the past. The difference between the two was that of new publishing versus old. It was that of JMJ Publishers versus Merrill Books, between the works of literary titles that Jim Merrill published under his old company’s name and the diet and exercise books JMJ published to keep Merrill Books solvent. Here at the Century Club, there was no overt discussion of deals or bottom lines, no crass displays of publishers’ catalogs. It was a place where cash was rarely seen and money exchanged only via scribbles on club members’ accounts. Conversations were confidential, muffled by carpets. Men wore corduroy blazers and sipped brandy from snifters; waiters in slightly frayed uniforms called members by name and spoke to them in low, respectful tones—“Right this way, Mr. Minot,” “Good afternoon, Mr. Merrill,” “Pleasure to see you again, Mr. Olden.”
A concierge directed me up the stairs to the bar, where Geoff Olden was sitting beside Jim Merrill, Jr., who wore a powder blue suit with a pink, four-petaled boutonniere. Olden was dressed more conservatively than usual: black suit, gray shirt buttoned to the neck; the only color was the yellow frames of his eckleburgs. The bartender was serving a fitzgerald to Merrill Jr. and asking whether Mr. Olden would be having “the usual.” When Olden said, “Si, señor,” the bartender took down a cordial glass and poured a Lillet.
To me, Jim Merrill, Jr., had the respectable air of an old-school gentleman—narrow, salt-and-pepper steinbeck; tan, weathered skin that suggested summers spent on yachts; and a deep, soothing voice that told you at once how welcome you were at his club and how unusual it was for him to invite anyone new to it. To Jed Roth, Merrill Jr. was an unworthy inheritor of a great name, knew only what drinks to order, what sort of outfit to wear to lunch, and what tie to wear to dinner. But I couldn’t help but feel flattered by the way Merrill looked at me, as if he were granting me the privilege of marrying his daughter.
“Mr. Minot,” Merrill said, standing to greet me.
“Compañero,” said Geoff Olden. He tried to step between me and Merrill, but it was clear that the latter viewed my agent as merely a means to an end, something unpleasant yet necessary to the process. Like the presence of women or the absence of cigars, Geoff Olden was to be tolerated at the Century Club, never truly accepted.
“Ian, I’d like you to meet Jimmy Merrill,” said Geoff.
“It’s Jim,” Merrill told him curtly, then assessed me with a satisfied, proprietary smile, as if a brand-new car had been delivered to his building, and he found the vehicle to his liking.
“Well,” Merrill said as he shook my hand, “well, well, well.” He turned to Geoff, then gestured to me. “Now, that looks like a writer,” he said. “Welcome aboard, my friend.”
Merrill asked what I would be drinking. I ordered a fitzgerald, and he smiled approvingly. Yes, he seemed to be thinking, that’s a writer’s drink.
“What a book, what a life,” he said, adding that the first page of Thieves “certainly set the scene,” and that my last page “really packed a wallop.”