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

Besides, Ben had to admit, there was more than a little truth in what Sidney said, as impolite as he had been. He had to compromise his artistic standards when he worked with Margaret. She always wanted the most pedestrian designs. Ben should’ve told her long ago that she needed to defer to his judgment on visual matters. If she did want to work with him in the future, he would tell her just that.

When the check came, Ben suggested that they split it down the middle.

When Sidney called on Tuesday afternoon, Ben was mocking up some designs for Margaret Chase after all. The Hamilton project was still in limbo, and he had time on his hands. It went against his grain, but if he completed some initial layouts, she might be willing to forget the whole incident, like the proverbial bad dream.

It was hard though to imagine Sidney as some illusory netherworld figure when his name showed up on the caller ID.

Ben picked up the phone. “Hello, Sidney.”

“Got your spy phone working, I see,” said Sidney.

“What’s up? I’ve got a rush project.”

“I hope not for that bimbo.”

“No,” Ben lied. “Something else. But that so-called bimbo commands a lot of business in this town. And she knows a lot of people.”

“Not an issue for me. Looks like I’ll be going in-house at Hamilton. Starting next Monday. Thought I should let you know.”

Ben beat his fist quietly into his thigh. He was glad Sidney wasn’t there to see the expression on his face. “That’s great. Going in as an associate designer?” He imagined Sidney would at least be stuck with the worst rote production work.

“Come on. Those days are behind me. It’s a senior designer position.”

Ben couldn’t reply, but Sidney was rambling on. “I wasn’t sure if I should take it. I like my independence. At least you’ve got that. But a few good years with Hamilton, and I could start my own agency.”

“What would you call it?” Ben whispered.

“I don’t know,” said Sidney. “I haven’t thought about it.” He paused for a moment, but couldn’t come up with an answer. “Look, once I’m inside, I should be able to throw some work your way.”

Ben rolled his lips against his teeth, then managed a simple, “Okay.”

“I owe it to you.” Sidney laughed offhandedly. “I’m responsible for you since I, you know, saved your life.”

“My life?”

“Forget it,” said Sidney. “I’d better let you get back to your rush job. See you Friday night at the Walpole.” He hung up.

Ben set his phone slowly back in the cradle. For a second, he imagined moving to another city and starting over again. Or starting some other career. One where he’d never cross paths with Sidney Alstead.

His invitation to the Hamilton Group holiday party had never arrived. Ben considered attending under the premise that Sidney had invited him. But Sidney didn’t work there yet. He could almost certainly crash, but it would be humiliating if they were checking a guest list or had assigned seating.

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?”