2030_ The Real Story of What Happens to America - Albert Brooks [110]
He looked at the time. An hour and a half had gone by. He was sure Mueller and his son had eaten by now and were probably relaxing; if he didn’t strike soon, they might go to bed. He walked over to the minibar and downed two small scotch bottles. Then he pumped his fist in the air and downed a third. A little extra courage now couldn’t hurt.
At five minutes to nine he walked out of the elevator. He was surprisingly calm, although the colors in the hallway seemed much more intense now. What was the worst that could happen? That he wouldn’t quite make his point, but Mueller would find him compelling enough to have another conversation. As he reached the door he stood for one moment and took a breath. He pressed the bell. Nothing. He pressed it again. Nothing. Did they go out? He was about to give it one last try when he heard a voice. It was Mark Mueller.
“Who is it?”
“Is your father there?”
“Who is it?”
“It’s Max Leonard. The man you met downstairs and also in Chicago.”
“Oh, yeah. What do you want?”
“I want to talk to your dad.”
“He isn’t here.”
“What do you mean?”
“He left. Come back another time.”
“When?”
“I don’t know, but he isn’t here.”
Max was frustrated. He was primed and ready. He didn’t want to come back. “Can I wait for him in the room?”
And the boy, for no apparent reason, opened the door.
“You want to wait here?”
“May I?”
“I guess. I guess you can wait in the living room.”
And the boy allowed him to enter.
Jesus Christ, look at this goddamn suite. This must be ten thousand square feet! The living room looked like a palace. It was divided into three sections. One corner was a den–office area with dark wood floors and the most magnificent desk Max had ever seen, like something out of Monticello. Another side of the room was a living area with beautiful oriental rugs and two couches from the Victorian period, and a love seat that looked as if it was so valuable that no one should ever sit in it. The remainder of the large room was yet another living area, but modern and welcoming with a holographic screen, a game center, and an automated chess set with hand-carved pieces that were made out of white jade. “How many bedrooms in this place?”
“Four,” Mark said. “Do you want something to drink?”
“Yes. That would be nice.”
“Help yourself if you want liquor or something. It’s in the bar.”
Max walked over to the bar, which was made from a combination of black slate and mahogany. Jesus, the bar alone looks like it cost a million dollars. He put ice in a glass and looked over the bottles of sherries. Max didn’t know much about booze but he knew expensive sherry when he saw it. He poured a glass of Lustau and went back to sit down in the more casual part of the living room. He downed his drink and wondered if scotch and sherry mixed; he never really knew the liquor rules. The boy sat down opposite him. “I forget, how do you know my dad?”
Now Max had to figure out if he was going to make this lie go on or just tell the kid the truth. He continued to hedge.
“I’m a big admirer of his work.”
“Oh yeah?” Mark had heard this a lot. It didn’t mean much to him and it certainly didn’t mean Max was his dad’s friend. “Did you work with him?”
“No.”
“So how do you know him?”
“Well, he’s famous.”
“So you’re just a fan?”
“Yeah.”
“I could get in trouble for letting you in. I’m not supposed to let strangers in here.”
“Well, we met before, so I’m not really a stranger. I’m not going to do anything weird. It would be great if you let me wait for him. I really need to talk to your dad.”
“What’s wrong?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, people who wait a long time to talk to my dad are usually dying. They want advice or something.”
“I’m not dying.”
“So what do you want to talk about?”
And before Max knew it, he was in deep conversation with this thirteen-year-old boy about generational injustices and how Mark and his friends were