Middle Man by David Rich Read Free Book Online Page B

down at the boots when he finished the story and starting to take them off. I didn’t want to look at him. He said, “Don’t worry. It’s not that caiman. Y’know, I’ll get you a pair just like them. Take you down and have you fitted.”
    I remember saying, “Will I have to kill a caiman?”
    He said, “When you have to, you’ll know it.”
    The desire to deflect the offer overwhelmed me. I thought I was hiding my expression well enough, but later I wondered. Could anyone ever hide his or her feelings from Dan? Those boots would have been heavy. I wanted them and I didn’t, partly because I knew I would never get them and partly because of the burden they would have carried, the responsibility of ownership, and with it the identity shift that would happen whenever I pulled them on. I owned nothing that could not be ruined and forgotten, lost, tossed away without remorse. Jeans, T-shirts, hoodies, and work boots or basketball shoes constituted my entire range of attire. To walk out in fine boots, even if no one knew me, would have felt like a betrayal of myself. I would have had to walk differently and other changes would follow. I was adventurous, but not in that way. Coveting those boots opened one-way doors that led to places I was not ready to explore.
    Dan did not come through on his promise and that time I was grateful in a way that went beyond the usual vindication of my understanding of the universe. More, I was complicit. He brought it up a few months later, but I made an excuse, knowing that would end the matter forever. Not owning anything that must be cared for or carried or coddled became a guiding principle. Just as Dan used clothes as costumes and cars and accessories to paint his many identities, I built my identity on the absence of those things. Years later, on the riverboat, not long before he died, I asked him if he had ever been to South America. He just looked at me and smiled and said, “Those were beautiful boots, weren’t they?” After I started with SHADE, I went back to the house Dan had been renting in Phoenix. I gave away the suits and the rest of his clothing. The boots weren’t there.
    One of the suits was ready by the time Major Hensel returned with a leather duffel. He paid for everything with cash. The salesman asked for contact information for me, but Major Hensel pushed the card back at him and told him, politely, “That won’t be necessary. We’ll pick up everything in the morning.”
    We walked north. It was dark now and the clouds had descended, skewered in place by the tops of the tallest buildings. The lights backlit the clouds and made them glow. We stopped outside a restaurant called Tuskers. Major Hensel looked it over as if checking to see if it was the same place he remembered. We went inside: dark wood, leather chairs, hunting paintings and prints; it looked like it was designed by the same guy who designed the clothing store.
    â€œI’ll have a martini. Two olives,” Major Hensel said. He hung back in open space and I sidestepped and slipped past a few dozen men dressed in suits very much like mine. Men outnumbered women two to one, at least, yet many of the women were clumped together like ingredients that did not blend well with these men.
    The talk I heard was all of deals. “We’re picking up all the options we can get.”
    Another guy waving at the bartender talked of “shorting that dog.”
    â€œThe VCs are holding out,” said the man standing next to him while he eyed a cluster of women.
    â€œScrew ’em.”
    A fat guy said with delight, “I’m pulling swaps out of my ass.”
    I brought the Major his drink and one for me. “You’re looking at a mix of investment bankers, bond salesmen, a few traders, and a few corporate finance people. The traders will be the ones listening most of the time. At least the smart ones are. I used to be a