Carla Neggers - Cut and Run

“The lady doesn’t want to talk,” the former basketball superstar said, his tone misleadingly mild.

Juliana sipped her water and didn’t bother even glancing around. Matthew considered hinting he’d tell Wetherall what she’d been up to at Lincoln Center on Saturday night if she didn’t help him out, but he doubted that would do any good. First, he’d just told her he’d been bluffing. Second, if he did tell, Wetherall would just toss them both. Third, no matter what he did, he assumed he was out the door anyway.

“You finish your beer?” Wetherall asked.

“All set. I’ll need the check-”

“It’s on the house.”

“Thanks, but I pay my way.”

Matthew pulled out his wallet and dropped a ten on the bar. Len let go, and Stark tried to give Juliana a look that told her what he thought of her chickenshit attitude, but she wouldn’t meet his eye. He gave up and headed for the door.

On his way out, he glanced back and saw that Juliana had swung around on her bar stool and was watching him leave. He expected a look of apology for getting him thrown out, even an indication that she appreciated his not telling her boss how she’d wowed the Lincoln Center crowd on Saturday night without once banging out any notes with her feet and now was willing to talk.

But all she gave him was a cocky little smirk. Even with Len Wetherall hovering over her. Matthew was hard-pressed not to march back in there and haul her ass off the stool.

The little pissant was enjoying herself.

Juliana’s feeling of victory didn’t last. Len leaned back against the bar next to her and said idly, “Dude called you Juliana.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Is one of the J s in J.J. short for Juliana?”

“No. J.J.’s not short for anything.”

“Right.”

She’d finished her water and was anxious to get back to the piano. It would feel good to drop back into another world. Sometimes it felt as if she were parachuting into a new world, just floating, seeing everything around her, never really landing. Other times it felt as if she were freefalling and wouldn’t be able to get her chute open in time, that even if she did, it would be too late. She’d tried a few times to explain this feeling to Shuji, but he couldn’t understand it. His approach was much more matter-of-fact and controlled. He said he never left this world and neither did she, so quit talking nonsense. Maybe that was one reason she liked jazz. It required precision and technique, but not that same level of predictable control.

“Thank you for intervening,” she said. She hated lying to Len. He’d offered her friendship, trust-his stage, for God’s sake. And what had she given him in return? A purple-haired pianist he couldn’t understand. A potential bombshell.

“Anytime. But that’s one mean-looking gentleman, J.J. I’d prefer not to have to mess with him again, myself.”

“I couldn’t agree with you more.”

She left it at that, unsure herself exactly what she meant. She didn’t know what to make of Matthew Stark. Undeniably he had a menacing look about him-the scars contributed, certainly-but she didn’t think he was in fact mean or dangerous. Or was she just being naive? He was sarcastic, yes, but he had a smile that intrigued her, and even if he’d been less than sympathetic toward her dual identities, he hadn’t given her away.

“You want to talk?” Len asked gently.

Reluctantly, she shook her head. But that too was a lie. She did want to talk. About who she was, about who Matthew Stark was, what he wanted. About the Minstrel’s Rough. She remembered the soft, heavily accented words of her uncle as she’d prepared for the second half of her concert in the little Delftshaven church.

“The existence of the Minstrel has never been confirmed. It’s best that way, Juliana. It’s a very, very valuable stone. Once cut, it would be worth many millions of dollars for its size and beauty alone. But its mystery, its status as a diamond legend, adds to that value. People will do terrible things for such riches. I know.”

She hadn’t thought then to ask him how he’d known. It was all a joke to her-an adventure. How many concert pianists had crazy uncles passing them uncut diamonds backstage? But now she wondered if she should get in touch with her uncle and tell him about Matthew Stark, ask him about Rachel Stein, Hendrik de Geer. Uncle Johannes might talk where her mother clearly wouldn’t.

“Len, does the name Matthew Stark mean anything to you?”

“LZ,” Len said, without hesitation.

She looked up at him, blank.

“Hell, babe, where you been?” Len laughed. “You telling me you’ve never heard of LZ? Don’t you ever go to the movies?”

“Rarely,” she said. It was the truth. “ LZ ’s a movie?”

“Yeah, and a book-author’s Matt Stark. Book came out six or seven years ago, the movie a year or two later. It got best picture and best director, as I recall. The book was a bestseller.”

“What’s it about?”

“Jesus, I don’t believe you. It’s about Vietnam chopper pilots. LZ stands for landing zone.” He looked at her. “You know, where helicopters land.”

She hadn’t known. “I see.”

Unfortunately, now she did see. She’d made a fool of herself. Stark must think she was a hopeless dingbat. How could she explain? When his book had been a best-seller and his movie a hit, she hadn’t had time to read books or go to movies. She had played piano. She had studied music history, music theory, music composition. Her friends were musicians and her enemies were musicians. Her world was music, and it consumed her. Lately, that had begun to change. She had the New York Times delivered, even if she didn’t always read it, and she was trying harder to keep track of what was going on in the world. But she had some catching up to do. She still had to find out who the Matthew Starks were. If he’d written LZ recently, she might have recognized his name. But seven years ago? Not a chance.

“That the guy I just tossed?” Len asked. “Matt Stark?” He laughed. “Well, I’ll be damned, don’t you pick ’em. Go on and get your butt back to the piano, babe. Play.”

She nodded, thanking him, and did.

United States Senator Samuel Ryder, Jr., was backpedaling as fast as he could.

Plausible deniability. That was what was required now.

He stared into the flames of the fire he’d built in the cozy study of his Georgetown townhouse and tried to think of ways he could distance himself from Phillip Bloch and Hendrik de Geer.

“Jesus,” one of his aides had said, handing him a copy of the Monday morning paper, “can you believe you luck? Talk about your providential accidents. You get to look like a nice guy on the front page of the Times and get her off your back at the same time. This lady was a no-win situation.”

Yes, indeed. What luck.

Which one had done it, he wondered. Bloch? De Geer? Each had so much to lose. Each was capable of giving a tiny old woman a little shove. Or having someone else do it.

Each had learned of her threat from him.

It’s not your fault! Rachel Stein had known the risks before she came to him.

Her death might have been accidental. Indeed, as his aide had said, providential.

He wished he’d hear from de Geer. There’d been nothing since their meeting outside Lincoln Center, while Rachel Stein was dying-or before? After, perhaps? Could he kill a woman and then smoke a cigar? The man was a lowlife. He could do anything. But if he came up with the Minstrel, then-at last-Sam Ryder could put an end to his relationship with Phillip Bloch, be free of him once and for all.