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

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.

“How’s business been?” Margaret asked.

“Okay for this economy. Looks like I might be picking up some more work with the Hamilton Group. A furniture manufacturer.”

Margaret nodded enthusiastically. She took a personal interest in Ben’s career, which he mildly resented. “I read in the City Journal that they won a few new big contracts.”

“So it would seem,” Ben said. “I think they’re still dickering a little. I helped with some initial concepts on one project, but they’re on radio silence now.”

“Same old story. Hurry up and wait.”

Ben nodded and took a roll from the basket.

“I’m working with a software company that needs a fresh set of sales tools to promote a new release.” She set a small portfolio where an extra place setting had been cleared and opened it to a set of matching brochures. “I was thinking something along the line of these pieces. At least conceptually.”

“You do these?” Ben asked.

“I did,” said Margaret, a little color rising in her neck. “Almost a decade ago.” Ben knew that she had a quiet pride about her old design work. She had given it up after surgery for carpal tunnel didn’t help. But she had a good business as a marketing consultant.

“They have a little of that ‘nineties wave-of-the-future look, but they’re pretty good pieces,” said Ben. She always appreciated his professional assessment of her past work. He wondered if she suspected that he quietly pulled his punches.

“You obviously see how the look and feel match, but there’s a sort of visual progression from one product to the next.”

Ben suppressed a yawn. It wasn’t so much the talk that was making him tired, but the glare coming through the glass.

Boom. Ben jerked in his seat, and Margaret nearly knocked over her water glass. A large, flat hand lay pressed against the outside glass where it had struck. The opposite hand twiddled its fingers in a smarmy wave. The two hands belonged to Sidney Alstead. He walked along the front of the restaurant and came inside.

Margaret glanced at Ben, raising her eyebrows.

“It’s okay, a friend of mine,” Ben said and immediately regretted it.

Sidney walked up the aisle, shaking his head and motioning for Ben to stay seated. He towered above them. “How are you, Ben?”

“Not unwell. This is Margaret Chase.”

“Margaret,” said Sidney, nodding curtly. Neither held out a hand.

Ben waited through an awkward silence, then finally asked, “Do you want to sit down? We already ordered.”

“Okay,” said Sidney, pushing into the booth next to Margaret. “But just for a second. I’ve got a meeting with Wilson.”

“Wilson?” Ben couldn’t stop himself. “You’re doing some work over there?”

“Well, sure. You knew that.”

Ben nodded hastily. “I didn’t realize they got you on board so fast.”

“Like that,” Sidney said, snapping his fingers. “It’s almost more than I want at this point.” He glanced at the open portfolio. “Your work?” he asked Margaret.

“It is,” she said.

Sidney turned down the corners of his mouth, quickly turning through the portfolio’s pages. “But you’re not designing anymore?” It was more a statement than a question.

“That’s true,” said Margaret. “I had to give it up. Carpal tunnel. You figured because the products are all old?”

“No.” Sidney shook his head. “I figured because the work is crap.”

Margaret looked as if she had just been slapped — angry and astonished.

“Christ, Sidney,” said Ben, “That’s a bit much.”

“Hey, no hard feelings.” He smiled at Margaret. “It’s not personal. You’ve given it up anyway. I’m just calling it like I see it.”

“Maybe,” Ben leaned forward, “you’re not seeing too well.”

Sidney held his palms up. “I’m not going to argue about it.” He slapped the table and slid out of the booth. “I’m sure Ms. Chase has lots of other skill sets to keep her going.” He winked openly at Ben. “I’ll see you next Friday at the Hamilton Christmas party.” As he walked out of the restaurant, waiters had to press themselves against tables to let him pass.

Neither of them said anything for a minute or more. “That’s a friend of yours?” Margaret finally asked.

“Not really. Not at all,” said Ben. “We just met at one of those Ad Federation meet-and-greet events.”

“I didn’t know that they made them like that anymore.”

“Apparently they do,” said Ben.

Margaret zipped up her portfolio and set it next to her in the booth. Ben ate his soup and sandwich when it came, but he hardly tasted the food. Margaret offered small, friendly talk, but Ben found it hard to imagine that she would want to work with him now. He would just remind her of this very unpleasant experience. Ben thought he might not like to work with her either. Did she think that Sidney had taken over his work at Hamilton? It wasn’t true. They had a lot of projects and many clients.