On impulse — and against his better judgment — Ben tried Wilson’s direct line. He heard Wilson’s suave voice on the message. He punched 0 without leaving a message, found the automated directory, and transferred to Cynthia Phillips.
She was decidedly cold when Ben gave his name. “Sidney Alstead’s friend?”
“Well, not exactly,” said Ben awkwardly.
“You two were together that night at the Shiva.”
“We’d just met.”
“Right.” She clearly didn’t believe him.
“Look,” Ben said. “I was trying to follow up with Clifton about the Zendo Furnishings project. I’d done some initial concepting—”
She cut him off. “I’m less informed about Cliff’s projects than you think. I believe they’ve moved forward with that one already. Did you leave him a voice mail?”
Ben had left him one late last week, but he had never heard back. “No, I’ll do that.”
“I’ll transfer you.”
“One more—” But she was already gone, and he was back in Wilson’s voice mail. He hung up without leaving a message.
She had missed the chance to ask him to stop by the Hamilton Christmas gala.
On Friday night, it began to rain around rush hour. By dinnertime, the rain had begun to freeze. It was a lousy night to stand in a doorway, Ben thought to himself. He ducked into a dingy bar across the street from the Walpole Hotel to warm up.
Under his overcoat he was dressed for the party. He had driven downtown without any clear intentions, let alone a firm plan. He wanted to talk to Wilson. If they weren’t going to use his work anymore he wanted to hear Wilson say as much. He’d demand an explanation. He had fantasies of denouncing Sidney in front of his new colleagues. But on what grounds? That Sidney had assaulted some homeless kids? People would want to know why Ben hadn’t reported the incident. He couldn’t denounce Sidney simply for being large and obnoxious. Maybe beneath his polish, Wilson was simply large and obnoxious, too. Maybe that’s how he got ahead.
Ben had parked a few blocks away, but by the time he was across the street from the hotel, he had lost his nerve. He had stepped back into the shadows of an alley and watched hotel and party guests come and go. When he finally slipped into the little bar, more than an hour had passed. He didn’t notice that he was shivering until he got inside.
“Yeah?” the bartender asked.
“Brandy,” said Ben.
“Any particular kind?”
“No.”
He drank a second one, too. The drinks hardly spurred him to action. He figured that he’d better just go home.
Outside, he turned his collar up against the freezing rain. He glanced one last time at the hotel, and there was Wilson coming through the revolving doors, walking fast. He looked twice over his shoulder as he crossed the street. Ben followed him into a narrow side street.
“Wilson, wait up, I’ve got to talk with you,” Ben shouted. He ran and caught the man by the sleeve. Wilson had slowed at the sound of Ben’s voice. In the hazy, rain-streaked light, Ben could see an amused look of scorn on Wilson’s face. Out of some primordial instinct, Ben turned, imagining Sidney coming to blindside him, but there was no one there.
“What do you want, Ben?”
“You got my voice mail. Why don’t you return your calls?”
“I can’t return all my calls. Just the important ones.” He jerked his elbow and his sleeve snapped out of Ben’s hand.
The wool burned Ben’s cold fingertips. He put his head down and rammed with his forearms into Wilson’s chest. Wilson slid back awkwardly, then toppled hard when his foot caught in a crack. He was dazed when Ben caught him up by the lapels of his overcoat. Ben squatted for leverage and bounced Wilson’s head off the curb again and again and again.
He couldn’t remember walking back to his car or even getting in it. He had simply been with Wilson and now he was warming up the engine and rubbing his hands together. What a lousy night. He put the car in gear and drove slowly home.
Ben was dead tired and he slept soundly, like the dead. The phone woke him in the late morning.
“Hello.”
“Ben, this is Sidney.” It didn’t sound like Sidney. His voice was low and guarded, worried even.
“Yeah, Sidney, you woke me,” Ben said. He wouldn’t put up with the oaf this morning.
“Listen, you’ve got to do me a favor,” Sidney pleaded.
“I thought you were doing favors for me.”
“This is different. I’m in jail.” He spoke the last words slowly and deliberately.
Ben propped himself up on his elbow. “Yeah, what happened? What for?”
“Wilson got killed, I didn’t do it.”
“Why’d they arrest you then?”
“I argued with him in a corridor at the hotel, during the Hamilton Christmas party. They were withdrawing their offer. I shoved him a couple of times, but that was it.”
Ben could feel his body relaxing, and his life coming into focus again. “How come they withdrew the offer?”
“Who knows? What does it matter? I think that bitch Cynthia Phillips put him up to it. She didn’t like me for some reason.”
“I can’t imagine,” said Ben.
“This is no joke. Witnesses saw me bounce Wilson once or twice.”
“Well, what do you want me to do?”
“I can’t make a long-distance call from here. I need you to call my mother. She’s in Omaha. She’ll know what to do.”
Ben wrote the number down, promised to call, and hung up. He got out of bed and took a long, hot shower. Afterwards, he cooked a three-egg cheddar omelet, which he washed down with a half pot of coffee. Finally, he called Sidney’s mother. It wasn’t so hard. She sounded like a small, frail old lady. Ben told her that Sidney was in a lot of trouble.
(c)2007 by Doug Levin
Hidden Gifts
by Steve Hockensmith
Steve Hockensmith tries to contribute a holiday story to each of our January issues and a Sherlock Holmes-themed story to each February issue. The series that began with his first Holmes-themed story has turned into a success at novel length, with the first book, Holmes on the Range, earning Edgar, Dilys, Anthony, and Shamus award nominations. Look for book two, On the Wrong Track, in paperback now, and The Black Dove (hardcover) in February.
Karen had just spoken blasphemy, plain and simple. Heresy. Sacrilege.
Not that her little brother knew what blasphemy, heresy, or sacrilege were. But he did know poo-poo when he heard it. And to Ronnie, this would be big poo-poo. The biggest.
“That’s not true!” he screamed, popping off his pillow and scrambling over the wadded-up macramé blanket that separated his half of the couch from hers. “You’re lying!”
Karen didn’t even look away from the television.
“Oh, don’t be such a baby. Everybody knows it.”
And she said it again. The blasphemy. The poo-poo. The innocence-scorching truth.
“Santa isn’t real.”
“No no no no nooooooooo!”
Ronnie balled up his fists and pounded at Karen with them. But Ronnie was only six, and small for his age. He might as well have tried beating his sister senseless with a pair of earmuffs.
“Stop it. I can’t hear.”
Karen swiped out a long, thin arm that swept her brother off the couch. She didn’t do it maliciously. It was a casual gesture, like opening a curtain. There were things she wanted to see. Things she wanted to feel.