Bill Crider: Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine. Vol. 131, No. 1. Whole No. 797, January 2008

“You want another of those?” Sidney pointed to his half-empty glass.

Ben didn’t want to drink too many too quickly, but he said, “Okay, sure.” He reached in his coat for his wallet.

“Forget it,” Sidney said, “I can spring for a drink.” He disappeared into the crowd, heading toward the bar.

Ben felt as if the air got immediately fresher. It occurred to him that Sidney might have been wearing some light cologne or aftershave. He imagined a thin trail of fragrance following Sidney to the bar, like slime behind a slug. It was a good image, but it would never work in an ad.

There was Wilson. He was tall enough to stand above most people, but thin and lanky, distinguished but not imposing. He had a young, attractive woman at his arm, probably part protégé and part handler. If Wilson made an appointment, she would write it down.

Ben caught his eye and moved across the room. They shook hands.

“Ben, good to see you,” said Wilson. “How have you been?”

“Pretty well. Yourself?”

“Crazy. We won a couple of new accounts, and then a third just fell in our lap. You’re having a good year?”

Ben had to play that question carefully. “Busy enough to stay out of trouble.” He forced himself to smile. “But hoping to pick up another project or two before the end of the year.” That sounded about right, not too desperate.

“Well, there might be something we can work out, especially while we get up to speed on these new accounts.” He turned to the woman and gave her a curt nod. “Cynthia, Ben Barrow.”

She held out a small hand. “Cynthia Phillips. Glad to know you.”

“Ben needs to get on my radar in the next couple weeks,” Wilson said to the woman, then added, “Ben, you call Cynthia next week and set something up.”

It was that easy. Ben couldn’t stop himself from starting to calculate how much might come in. Several thousand, at least. Ben saw that Wilson was done with him, looking out into the crowd for other familiar faces. For a split second, Wilson’s eyes widened, almost in apprehension.

“There you are,” Sidney’s voice boomed behind Ben. “Here’s your cocktail.” He stepped forward and thrust the glass in Ben’s hand.

Before Ben could say anything, Sidney thrust his hand at Wilson. “Sidney Alstead.”

“Clifton Wilson.” They shook hands.

“Clifton...” Ben hesitated. It was too late to say Mr. Wilson. “Clifton is the creative director at the Hamilton Group.”

“Sure, I know your name,” said Sidney, nodding with enthusiasm. “Glad we’re getting a chance to meet. I remember when Madison Avenue was pretty excited about the work your team did on Red Sport.”

Wilson smiled, uneasily, Ben thought. He wasn’t the type of man to bear flattery. “That was a fun account,” Wilson replied. “Helped put us on the map. You were in New York, then?”

“For a few years, after Rhode Island. Just a small cog at Ogilvy.” That was supposed to be the Rhode Island School of Design and one of New York’s top ad agencies, Ben knew. Sidney was carpet-bombing with names.

“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.