Marketing Beef

by Rick Bettencourt

  Like a good wine our friendship grows stronger as we get older.

  I reached out and touched it.

  “You like it?” said a voice behind me.

  I turned around. The waiter who had served me the champagne was holding out a plate of hors d’oeuvres. “Oh, I’m all set, thank you.”

  He shifted his weight on his hip and smiled. “I was asking about the sign.”

  I looked back at it and then back to him. “Oh, yes. You’re cute.” I put out a hand and spilled some of my drink. “I mean!” I shook my head. “The sign is very nice.”

  He snickered and walked away.

  I downed my glass of champagne. Eck! I grabbed a glass of red wine from the makeshift bar behind me. Evan, he’s not even that cute. Why the hell did you say that?

  Mrs. Johnson appeared and took my arm while I took a swig of my wine. “Oh, you’re onto the Grenache, I see,” she said.

  I shrugged my shoulder and let her lead me.

  We walked toward the back room. It was small. She went in, and I hung out at the entranceway while people went through. I could see an easel in the middle of the room with a canvas draped over it. Mrs. Johnson went over to it and waited for people to gather. “Ladies and Gentlemen, thank you all for coming.”

  I looked around. Maybe there were ten people.

  Mrs. Johnson clasped her hands together, and her bracelets jingled. “Oh, so lovely to see you all.” She held out her hands. Her sleeves waved like the seventy-two inch sheer curtains I had in my bedroom when the window was open. “The Awakening at Conant Lake.” She pulled the canvas from the easel.

  The audience gasped, which I assumed to be more out of respect than anything else. A few folks moved closer and blocked it from my view. “Oh, Ann, this is your best work yet,” said someone. “Stunning,” said another. And several more words of praise spilled forth.

  I gulped back my wine. Waiter boy stood next to me holding out another. I took it. “Thanks.”

  “Anytime.” He winked and didn’t leave.

  “Is it another lake picture?” I asked him.

  He lowered his chin. “What do you think?”

  I took another sip of my wine.

  “Evan!” Mrs. Johnson called. “Evan!”

  “Excuse me,” I said to waiter boy. I went into the back room. The handful of people in it made it crowded.

  “There you are,” she said, raising her arm and jiggling her hand over the head of a lady with whipped-up hair the size of a Fiat.

  No wonder no one can see. Her hair takes up the entire—

  Mrs. Johnson grabbed my hand and pulled me in front of Fiat head.

  I looked. My mouth fell open, and I put my free hand over it. I thought I might drop my wine, so I placed it on the counter next to me.

  “You like?”

  “It’s beautiful, Mrs. Johnson.” I felt a lump in my throat. “How did you…”

  She leaned her head against my shoulder.

  It was a picture of the lake, of course, but it was unlike any of her other paintings. This one’s colors were much more rich and vibrant than her other works. The blues feathered into bursts of purple in resemblance of the water and looked, quite honestly, like something I’d seen at the museum. But that wasn’t all. I could see my roof and my boathouse in the distance. She pointed to it and nodded. And then, most importantly, in the forefront was the dock with its missing slats. Sitting down with their feet in the water were two men. They looked just like Dillon and me.

  “I hope this doesn’t upset you too much,” she said, as I dabbed away a tear from the corner of my eye.

  “Oh, no.” I swallowed. “Not at all.” Behind the canvas, I looked out the window. I could see the pier and the roof of my house in the distance. I bit my lower lip as it began to tremble. I could picture Dillon and me sitting with our feet in the water—him kicking at my calf, as her picture had captured. I thought I might burst into tears.

  ****

  I stood outside trying to collect myself.

  “Evan, I want you to have it,” Mrs. Johnson said, as she emerged down the two steps and out into the yard. The gathering inside were whooping it up over God knew what.

  “Oh, I can’t, Mrs. Johnson. It’s your best work.” They were right. It was her best yet.

  “I’m old, Evan.” She sat down on a rusted bench that looked over the water. “Nobody wants my paintings.”

  I sat down next to her and heard Detritus bark from within the main house. “Mrs. Johnson, that’s not true. You—”

  She tapped my thigh. “It doesn’t matter.” She put her hands out, palms up, toward the lake saying, “I don’t need anyone. I have this.” And then she clasped her hands together across her breast. “Except maybe for Detritus. Did I ever tell you why I named him that?”

  “He was discarded on the side of the road like a piece of trash.”

  “I guess I have told you that story.” She tapped my knee. “See, I am getting old.”

  I chuckled and put my arm around her. “Thank you. Thank you for painting it.” I nodded and looked out at the lake. The sun was beginning its descent behind the trees.

  She got up. “My dear, you’re very welcome. Now hopefully one day I’ll get to meet that fine gentleman.”

  * * * * *

  Chapter Fourteen

  As I walked back to my house, I thought of Dillon and how Mrs. Johnson had managed to capture the moment when I fell for him. While the painting was wonderful, it couldn’t fix the broken tether between Dillon and me. I wanted to call him, but from the way we had left it he needed the time.

  “Hey, stranger,” said a voice from the woods at the end of my road.

  I walked toward it. Dillon? My skin began to tingle. I quickened my pace.

  Then into the flood of the streetlight, stepped the waiter from the party.

  I stopped.

  He was smoking a cigarette, flung it to the street and ground it in with his foot. He blew smoke into the air. “I know. It’s a bad habit.” He stepped forward and extended his hand. “Name’s Jacob.”

  I hate smokers. “Evan.” I shook his hand.

  “I parked down here.” He tilted his head toward a silver thing at the end of road. “Mrs. Johnson wanted me to leave room for her guests.”

  I nodded. I didn’t feel like making small talk. Besides, I still wasn’t very good at it.

  “She’s sick, you know.”

  I grimaced. “Mrs. Johnson?”

  He nodded. “Cancer.”

  I touched my lips. “How do you—”

  He put his hands in his pockets. “I heard her telling someone before the guests arrived.”

  I turned and looked down the street, toward where her house would be, if I could have seen it from that vantage point. “I had no idea.” I turned back to him. “Why are you telling me this?”

  He shrugged. “I thought you’d want to know.”

  I rolled up a sleeve of the white cotton shirt I had on. “If she wanted me to know, she would have told me.” My stomach tensed. “She would divulge it to me if she wanted to.” I rolled up my other sleeve and stepped forward.

  Jacob put out his hands. “Easy! Easy.” He started toward his car. “I was just striking up a conversation. God, people are so touchy.”

  I stood my ground, watched him get in his car and leave. “Asshole,” I said, as he drove down the street.

  ****

  When I got inside I checked my messages. Nothing. I flipped on my computer to see if I had gotten an email from Dillon.Spam. I double checked my cell phone to see if I missed a call. Nope.

  I whipped off my shirt, stripped down to my underwear, and began doing pushups. I was nearing one-hundred, my triceps were screeching, my chest aching, and my stomach cramping when my cell phone rang. My arms gave out and I fell face first onto the floor. I rolled onto my back, rubbing my chin. I could hardly get up, my muscles were so tense.

  I crawled to the coffee table and grabbed my cell phone from it
. I didn’t recognize the number. “Hello?”

  ****

  By the time I got to New Hampshire, it was nearing midnight. I pulled into the Portsmouth police station, just south of Mill Pond, and parked beside Gary’s BMW. I got out and went inside.

  Gary was arguing with a police officer at the front desk. “He’s my friend.” The police officer asked him to sit back down. Gary flung his hands into the air and then saw me. “Evan!” He came toward me. “Thank you for coming. I didn’t know who else to call.” He looked over his shoulder, then back at me. “They won’t tell me what’s going on.”

  “But he called you?”

  “He did. I was his one and only call.” He put his hands on his hips. “Go figure. I didn’t know what to do.”

  Suddenly a camera crew burst through the front door.

  A police officer jumped from his desk. “YOU CAN’T COME IN HERE! There’s nothing to report.”

  Gary and I looked at one another.

  The reporter started toward me. “Mr. McCormick!” she looked back at the camera crew. “It’s the guy from Thoroughbred.”

  Gary put his arm on my shoulder.

  “Mr. McCormick, we hear Ron Edelman was the conspirator behind the Ponzi schemes plaguing the North Shore.”

  “What?” I stepped back.

  Gary held out a hand to stop them from approaching.

  I continued, tripped over a bench, and everything went black.

  ****

  When I awoke, I was lying in a hospital bed. Gary was by my side. He said something about a concussion and grabbed my hand.

  “I’ve never been in a hospital, as a patient, before.” I looked around. Then it started coming back to me. “Ron…what happened?”

  Gary leaned forward and held my hand tighter. “Ron was…He was the chief architect of the Ponzi scam. The one your office fell under.”

  I sat up, my head pounded. I didn’t know what to say and just shook my head.

  “Evan, I think that’s why he befriended you. And me too. Looking back on it, he was fascinated with my white-collar crime experience.”

  I lay back in the bed. The room was beginning to spin. “Last year, he asked me if Whitfield and my boss had suspicions about the fund.” I grabbed the metal railing on the side to hoist myself up. “I said I had my own suspicions…” I gazed out the window. “They were clueless. They just liked seeing the fund grow.”

  Gary handed me a cup of water. “You’re okay. You have nothing to worry about it. You just monitored the reporting. You never funded it did you?”

  “No!” I took a sip from the straw he held out. “They had opened that account when I was still in high school.”

  “It was all a sham.” He put the cup back down on the table.

  “Apparently, funded by Ron’s lies.”

  ****

  I was released from the hospital the following morning. Gary drove me back in my Explorer. He said, he could take a cab back to Portsmouth to get his car later.

  “You’re not going to take a cab,” I said. “I can drive you in the morning. In fact, I can probably drive myself back now but someone,” I said, emphasizing the last word and looking at him while he drove my Explorer down I-95, “won’t let me.”

  “Evan, I’d feel better if I did this. Besides, the doctor said little activity today.”

  I leaned my head into my hand.

  “All this time, he was trying to get me involved in his business.” Gary huffed. “I told him I was too busy at the firm.” He looked over at me. “Thank God.” He went on and on. “Should’ve known…player…never bought me anything…teeth got in the way when he…not that great in bed—”

  “I’m getting a headache.”

  “He’d just lie there. Sometimes he’d get me good, if he had a few pops in him.” He slowed down. “Wait. What’d you say?”

  “Gary, you’re giving me a headache.” I was remembering why we hadn’t worked out.

  “You think it’s the concussion?”

  “No, it’s your mouth.” I flipped the radio on to classical music. “Can we just have some peace and quiet for a bit? We’ve both been through a lot. I know. It’s a lot to process.”

  He was silent. Debussy filled the air.

  “Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap.” I turned the radio down, but I loved Debussy, so I kept it on just a tad.

  “You still like that classical shit, huh?”

  “I do. You still like rap?”

  “Uh huh.”

  I rolled my eyes and was grateful when I saw the sign for Massachusetts.

  “Can we put on 94 point—?”

  “No!”

  My cell phone rang and vibrated inside my pocket. I had a hard time getting at it, with the belt around my waist, but managed to take it out before it went to voice mail.

  “DILLON! Oh my God.” I picked up the call. “Dill?” I didn’t even hear what he was saying. I didn’t care. I just listened to the sound of his voice.

  “I’m sorry, Evan.”

  I couldn’t wipe the grin from my face. I could see it in the reflection of the window.

  “Evan, you there?”

  “I’m here. I’m here.”

  “Can you believe it?”

  “No, no I can’t.”

  “Cock whipped,” I heard Gary mutter.

  I reached over and slapped him in the stomach.

  “Ow.”

  Dillon went on offering more apologies, and how he felt foolish for doubting me. I just heard bits and pieces; I was more excited to hear his voice. Ron this…Scandal…Ron that…Front-loading stocks…

  “Can we get together?” he asked.

  “Yes! When?”

  “Tonight?”

  Suddenly the car swerved into the right-hand lane. “Gary! Jesus!” I fell against the door. “What in the name of Christ are you doing?” I pushed the hair back from my eyes and huffed. “Not you, Dill. And yes, I would love to get together with you tonight.”

  Gary came to a stop on the shoulder. He bent down to look out the window.

  I shook my head. “Dillon, I’m sorry. Gary has suddenly lost it or some—” I looked out the window. My mouth fell open, and I dropped the phone onto my lap.

  Gary got out of the car first. He looked up at the billboard, then back at me. “It’s you,” he mouthed. The cars passing by shook the car. I got out, taking my phone with me. “Dillon?” I said into it. “You’re not going to believe this.” I looked up at the billboard. It was the model that supposedly resembled me. In his hand was a hot dog. His chiseled torso was shirtless, his hair neat and combed, except for a spit of it that rose up prominently on the side. The message read:

  Something about Evan…It’s not just the cowlick that makes him cute.

  Yankee Neighborhood Beef - Get Your Protein from the Meat That Can’t Be Beat.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Fifteen

  Dillon and I sat next to each other on my leather couch.

  “I still can’t believe you wrote those ads,” I said.

  He scratched his ear. “You’re not mad?”

  I rubbed my chin. “No, I’m… I’m not mad.” I shook my head. “I’m just shocked. All this time.” I rubbed my temples, my headache was returning.

  “I told you. Peter and I had planned on starting our own agency.”

  “I know. I get it.” I rested my head onto the back of the couch. “It wasn’t Corridor Marketing. It was Peter and you.”

  “You’re mad.”

  “I’m tired.”

  “I’m sorry, Ev.” He grabbed my hand. “Sorry for not believing you… about Ron.”

  I shook my head. “Don’t worry—”

  “No, no I… Part of it was me feeling guilty about hiding my involvement with Yankee.” He gazed at his lap. “I transferred my mistrust, and when you told me…” he lowered his voice, “you had been with him. I just—”

  “Shh. I’m sorry.” I brushed his hair. He had it cut again. It felt bristly
under my touch. “I should have told you.”

  He gazed into my eyes.

  “Dillon, I do have quite a bit of money. But…” I put my hand over my heart. “God’s truth, I invested well. I got some money from my mother and my grandmother—twelve-thousand dollars to be perfectly honest—when I turned eighteen. And with it, I bought into Ogle during their IPO.”

  The toilet flushed and out walked Gary. “Well…”

  I leaned onto the arm rest. “You sure you don’t want to stay? We’ll sleep on—”

  He put his hand out. “You two lovebirds have some making up to do. I’m gonna go get my dick sucked at—”

  “Gary!” I put a hand up. “We don’t need the details.” Another reason why we split up. “Just not in my car, please.”

  He chuckled. “I’ll leave your car for you at the police station. It’ll be there tomorrow afternoon.” He dug my keys out from his jeans’ pocket. “You never know, I might get lucky at the club.”

  I grabbed the cup of green tea Dillon had made me. “Just text me when it’s there. We won’t go up ’til later, anyway.” I stood up. Gary gave me a hug and tapped Dillon on the shoulder.

  “Thank you, Gary,” Dillon said.

  He smiled, opened the door and left.

  Dillon and I moved to the kitchen. We were hungry, and he wanted to make us something.

  He leaned into the fridge. “I suppose you don’t want any eggs?” He turned around and grinned at me.

  “What the hell—I could always use it as hair gel.”

  ****

  We didn’t wake ’til ten o’clock the next morning. Dillon was cuddling up against my chest when I awoke. The sun shone in at the edges of the window where the shades didn’t meet.

  I stretched. Dillon mumbled something, drooled on my stomach, and put an arm around me. I kissed his head. His hair still smelled like he had freshly shampooed it. I probably smelled like a hospital and decided to shower before he got up. I lifted his arm off me and slowly eased his head from my chest. He snored and fell over onto his side of the bed.

  I got out, stepped quietly into the master bath, slid the door shut and started the shower.

  The hot steam felt good. I lathered, shampooed and rinsed, and sat on the bamboo shower seat that folded down from the wall. I let the hot water pulse against the back of my neck and shoulder blades, as I leaned on my haunches with my head hanging down.