“You’re an artist, then?” asked Wilson.
“With a small ‘a.’ Now I’m just a humble graphic designer.” Sidney put his hand on his stomach and bowed slightly at the waist.
“Working for an agency here in town?”
“Not as yet,” said Sidney. “A contract here, a contract there.”
“Well, good,” said Wilson. He gave another meaningful nod to the blond woman. “Why don’t you send me some samples. Ben might be doing some work for us, too.”
“I hope so,” said Ben.
“He does great work,” said Sidney.
“I know his work,” said Wilson, flatly. “I’ll be looking forward to hearing from both of you.”
“Great,” said Sidney. “I’ll be in touch.”
Ben simply nodded. Wilson returned the gesture and slipped onward into the milling crowd, the woman at his elbow.
Ben expected Sidney to wink in friendly conspiracy, but the big man’s mouth simply went slack and his brow hardened over his eyes. “Why didn’t you say something about my work?”
“I don’t know your work,” Ben stammered.
“Well, I don’t know your work, and that didn’t stop me.”
“I didn’t ask for your endorsement. As Wilson said, he knows my work already.”
“Wasn’t exactly a ringing endorsement.”
Ben wasn’t going to admit to this hulking stranger that what he said was true. He had to get away. “Well, thanks for the drink.” He held it up.
Sidney held Ben’s gaze with a sour, smoldering look, and then his face became friendly and animated again. “My pleasure. Hey, let’s be in touch.”
Ben quickly agreed, if only to be rid of the man. “I’m easy to find. Barrow Design dot com.”
“I’m just my name. Sidney Alstead, A-L-S-T-E-A-D, all one word, dot com.”
Ben drifted back to his cocktail table, but found that it had been taken over by a group of youngsters, their heads together hatching some ambitious business plan. They collectively gave him an unwelcome look as he approached, and he veered awkwardly off to the bar. He set his half-finished drink on the bar, shrugged his shoulders, and headed for the coat check. His business was done.
Ben kicked a scrap of metal along the sidewalk. He should’ve stayed and enjoyed himself. Sidney Alstead was a big boor and probably a very mediocre talent, but at least he moved confidently among people. It must be easy if you were the size of a gorilla.
“How ‘bout some spare change?”
Ben hadn’t seen the two scruffy street kids in the doorway until they stepped out of the shadow. They both had glassy eyes and irregular stubble on their cheeks and chins.
“Okay,” said Ben. He usually walked on past, shaking his head, but he stopped to dig for some parking money in his coat pocket. “Here.” He dropped fifty cents into one boy’s cupped hand and walked on.
“How ‘bout a buck?” They skipped eagerly beside him, one at each arm. “You can afford it,” the second kid added.
“No, sorry, that’s it,” said Ben, picking up his step a bit.
The first kid grabbed him lightly at the sleeve, like an escort, “How ‘bout this coat, then?” He laughed. It was just a joke.
The other boy laughed along as well, and Ben felt a change in the air behind him. Mid-laugh, the boy was gone. As if in slow motion, the boy’s body flew across the sidewalk and crumpled against the side of a building like a dropped dishrag. Sidney stood in the boy’s place, his shoulder lowered but already turning. The second boy turned in wonder, his hand still clutching Ben’s coat. Ben felt warm air rush by as Sidney’s fist snaked past and crunched into the center of the boy’s face. It made a horrible sound.
The boy was on his ass, his hand over his nose, with blood pouring between his fingers. The other youth was up on hands and knees, gasping for air. They both ran.
Ben could not speak. He could not think of any words, and his mouth was too numb to form them.
“Jeez, that could’ve been trouble,” said Sidney, casually shaking the hand that had struck the blow. “You’re all right, I take it?”
“Fine,” Ben said like an automaton.
“I wouldn’t bother reporting it to the police. There’s a hundred or more down here just like them. You’ll just waste your night filling out paperwork.”
“Okay,” said Ben, turning away from Sidney and starting to shuffle off toward his car.
“I’ll walk you to your car, just in case,” said Sidney, back at Ben’s side, pivoting his head around like a soldier on patrol.
It was just a couple more blocks. Ben didn’t say a word, looking surreptitiously at Sidney from time to time. Not a hair looked ruffled.
Sidney leaned his folded elbows on the top of Ben’s car. “Don’t worry about it,” said Sidney. “Nothing to be ashamed about. A lot of people get mugged. Plus they had you outnumbered.”
Ben saw no point in arguing, so he nodded.
“Pour yourself a stiff drink when you get home.”
“I will,” said Ben quietly. As he drove away, he saw Sidney in the rearview mirror, waving at Ben with a generous smile on his face.
When Ben got back to his townhouse, his heart was still racing. It wasn’t out of fear, but embarrassment and maybe anger. He could’ve just shaken his arm loose from that kid, and that would’ve been the end of it. Jesus. He could still hear the grotesque pop when Sidney buried his fist into the boy’s face. His nose was broken for sure. And then Sidney walked him to his car like a date. He should’ve said something right away to Sidney. Voiced his disapproval. No, that was too civilized. He should’ve told Sidney that he was a violent jerk, and even if Sidney were the next Michelangelo, he wasn’t going to raise a finger to help him.
Still in his jacket, Ben went into the kitchen and poured himself a brandy. It warmed him immediately and stopped his heart from pounding in his ears. After a second drink, he felt, with some relief, that he had returned to his own skin once again. He crossed the living room to his workspace, turned on his computer, and logged on.
Sidney had a bare-bones website. Its design was sparse and simple, Asiatic almost in its colors and lines, even a little feminine. Anyone who hired Sidney after viewing his website would be shocked when they met him. The samples were diverse and professional, glib even, but without any personal expression. Each could’ve been the work of a different designer.
Good meeting you, he typed to Sidney in an e-mail. I took a look at your website. You have some sharp-looking samples. I’ll drop a note to Wilson. Tell him to look at your stuff.
He paused for a minute, trying to formulate some delicate words about the encounter. Something friendly and thankful, but with quiet remonstrance. And thanks for showing up at just the right moment this evening. It could’ve gotten ugly, I suppose. Still, I’m not sure that you needed to be so hard with what were, after all, just a couple of harmless street kids.
Ben read it all over and then impulsively cut out the last sentence. He typed his name and clicked “Send.” He did drop a note to Wilson, to say that he was glad to have seen him, and that he would set something up through Cynthia Phillips. In the end, he casually decided that it would be inappropriate for him to offer an assessment of Sidney Alstead’s work.
The light was brilliant in the restaurant booth. Ben sat with his occasional client, Margaret Chase, next to a high window that let in the reflection of winter sunlight, which bounced off small banks of snow and slick streets.
“That storm cleared through fast,” said Margaret.
“It did,” Ben agreed.
They spoke of the weather and coming holiday plans, and then ordered their lunch. Ben ordered something light, so he could talk comfortably.