Eye of the Beholder

by David Ellis

  A minute later, a cab pulls up to the hotel. Leo does a double take, but, yes, it’s her. The same one in the photos he has.

  Her name is Shelly Trotter.

  20

  SHELLY STANDS across from me in the elevator, our backs against opposite walls. Between us is an elderly, well-dressed couple, just two more of the Dunstworth Hotel’s wealthy clientele. I catch her eye but we play it cool, like we don’t even know each other. My body is in chaos, my spirit motoring on adrenaline. Suddenly, my headache is history.

  She goes first, walks to the suite, and inserts the key card. She holds the door, but I stand there as she walks in and turns to face me. The clench of her jaw could be mistaken for hunger, a primal urge, but I sense ambivalence as well, even conflict.

  She begins to unbutton her blouse. I step forward, but suddenly my wingtips are frozen to the carpet. I look over the posh surroundings, take in the smell of her along with the antiseptic scent of a freshly cleaned suite.

  “What are we doing here?” I ask.

  She shakes her head slowly, continuing to undress, her blouse parting, revealing her pale, freckly skin, a lavender silk bra. She doesn’t know, either.

  Maybe that’s all I wanted to see, even the slightest crack in the armor. I move toward her as she backs up, kicking off her heels. Her pants drop to the carpet. She lets me finish the job, unclasping her bra, lowering my mouth below her neckline, as I lay her on the bed. Her skin tastes like salt and smells like fruit. I run my tongue over her rib cage, stick it in her belly button, provoking a reaction from her. I work through the anguish strangling my heart, knowing I want this more than she.

  We are tentative, each of us, feeling around the boundaries of something intimate. It’s a bumpy roller-coast ride until she feels me inside her, reacting with a small moan. I look into her eyes and she looks away. Her body goes motionless, letting me take the lead. I run a finger down her face. She closes her eyes, but I can’t read the expression. I bring my mouth to hers, tasting her lip gloss, but her lips don’t part.

  This, I know, is wrong, I’m offering but she’s not accepting, but I don’t stop. I grip her hair tightly and increase the pace, closing my eyes like her, escaping into something distant and angry, and holding my breath at the end.

  I withdraw immediately and hike up my pants, walking past Shelly toward the window overlooking the street. The sidewalks are filled with people, escaping for lunch to enjoy the weather.

  “That was nice,” she says. “I...”

  I button my shirt and stare at the faint reflection of my face on the window. I sense her coming up behind me, then her hand on my shoulder, her chin nestling between my shoulder blades.

  She doesn’t finish the thought and I don’t help her. The uncompleted sentence basically sums up our relationship.

  “It wasn’t nice,” I say. “It felt like a gift.”

  Her fingers draw over my back slowly. “I want this to work.”

  I close my eyes and tip my head against the window. My heart is ricocheting against my chest and my knees threaten to give out. “But?” I say.

  “But it has to be slow.”

  “I always said slow is fine.”

  “No, Paul.” She laughs quietly. “You moved out of your condo into a single-family home. And that casual walk in front of the jewelry store? Remember that?”

  I laugh, too, releasing two months’ worth of tension. She fits in my arms like she never left. I take in the familiar smell of her hair and the shape of her head, knowing that I’m back out on the limb, raw and exposed and thrilled and overwhelmed.

  PAUL RILEY AND SHELLY TROTTER say good-bye outside of the Dunstworth Hotel with a release of their held hands, no kiss. Shelly Trotter ducks into a cab while Riley watches her, a gleam in his eye. Yes, he can see it, Riley’s feelings for this woman.

  Yes, that could be helpful.

  Leo pulls his baseball cap lower on his face and begins walking. It’s time to get ready for tonight.

  21

  I MAKE IT TO GALA, a new place that opened up a month ago, at half past seven. There’s already a line out the door, but I walk up to the doorman, a foreigner who is roughly the size of two men put together, and give him my name. To the bemusement of the twenty fashionably attired people standing along the sidewalk, I walk right in.

  All because I said the two magic words: “Harland Bentley.”

  I’m in a suit and tie, which makes me either over- or underdressed, somehow not fitting in. The downstairs is a restaurant at full occupancy. The place sports “Asian fusion” cuisine, whatever the hell that means. The waitstaff is in all black, T-shirts and jeans. The music is some kind of combination pop and dance—pop-disco fusion?—except I don’t think anyone has called it “disco” for the last decade or two. In my book there are two kinds of music, jazz and everything else. Nowadays, it’s more important how you look on a video than how well you sing. Nobody invents new music anymore, anyway, they just create a not-so-subtle variation on an old style and give it a new name.

  I give my name to another guy, bigger than the first one, at the staircase that leads up to the bar. I pass a sign on the way up that indicates that this is a coming-out party for some great new artist on the scene. I decide I will not inquire what they mean by “coming out.” I pass two men in turtlenecks, one with a ponytail and one with a shaved head, both of whom wear painfully bored expressions as they bound down the stairs. The music upstairs is, well, like disco used to be. All sorts of computerized sounds, an urgent beat and thumping bass. I can’t believe people listen to this shit. The lighting is almost nonexistent, but the majority of the people are gathered near the center of the room, encircling a man who is, yes, wearing a turtleneck. This is the artist, I dare guess. I should tell him it’s seventy degrees outside.

  I take a look over at the bar, briefly considering a martini, when I hear my name. Harland, with an Asian woman on his arm who is almost as tall as he and skinny as a pole. I’m putting her at twenty-three, tops. “Lisa, this is Paul Riley.”

  I take her manicured hand and admire her slinky dress a moment. Jeez, this guy goes through women like I go through vodka.

  “You really should meet Raven,” he says to me.

  “I can’t wait,” I say, though I have no idea what he means. As he waves his hand to someone, I realize that “Raven” is the artist. A wave from Harland seems to count for a lot around here, because before I know it, Raven is standing before Harland, putting his hands together and bowing. His hair is sharply parted and standing on end. His face is pointy and delicate. If this guy didn’t get his ass kicked every day growing up, my mother didn’t raise me Irish Catholic.

  “Raven,” Harland shouts over the music, “this is a friend of mine, Paul. Paul, Raven here is one of the most relevant postmodern artists to come along in years.”

  I shake his hand, trying to decipher, in the dark lighting, if Raven is wearing eyeliner or if someone punched him in both eyes. If his name really is Raven, then I’m guessing it’s the latter.

  “I thought the point of postmodern art was to reject the concept of relevance,” I say, leaning into him and feeling awfully satisfied. I read that somewhere. Raven either can’t hear me or pretends he can’t. Harland finds the whole thing amusing and whispers something to Lisa, who seems to be posing off to the side. He kisses her hand and turns to me.

  “Shall we?” he asks me. Apparently, Lisa is going to fend for herself up at the party. I imagine she’ll be just fine. There are plenty of men who’d be happy to attend to her, and I imagine enough illicit narcotics to prop up a South American dictator.

  Harland could have met me downstairs instead of making me come up to meet him. I don’t suspect he brought me up here to meet this gender-ambiguous artist. No, the point was that you always come to Harland, even if you’re meeting him on neutral ground.

  Or maybe he just wants me to see his relevance, cavorting with the beautiful elite, mostly half his age, and his latest piece of eye c
andy. His money is old news. So are the women. But he has to be the benefactor to the art world, with the latest supermodel on his arm. He’s a walking cliché. It’s almost sad.

  Almost.

  Downstairs, the staff is wildly enthusiastic at his appearance. I get a lot of empty, anticlimactic nods hello after they realize I’m just some lawyer, not a movie star or artist. I do remember a painting I did, in third grade, of a house. I thought it was pretty good. Sister Virginia took one look at it and told me I should be a lawyer.

  A hostess takes my briefcase before I remember that my case notes are inside. I have a file with a rundown on every single piece of litigation that my firm is doing for BentleyCo or its subsidiaries. With Harland, you come prepared. Updating him is not unlike the Socratic method in law school, where you scrambled for answers while the professor peppered you with questions that had no accurate answers. This guy oversees the worldwide operations of dozens of companies and he still keeps tuned to every detail of every piece of litigation.

  We get a corner table that has been reserved. There is a step up to the table, which appropriately places us above the other diners. A waiter gallops up to the table with scrolls that are apparently menus. But I already know Harland is going to order something off the menu.

  The best word to describe Harland is severe. There is no middle ground with the guy. A viselike handshake. Hair tightly cropped, almost to a crew cut. His eyes are small and fierce and liquid, as if he is constantly awaiting the opportunity to prove himself. His jaw seems permanently clenched. His shirts are heavily starched. His clothes are the nicest I’ve ever seen, and I try to wear some decent threads myself. The guy never served, but he conducts every aspect of his life in military fashion. He wakes at five A.M. every morning, swims half a mile in his pool—the outdoor one in the summer—then eats an efficient breakfast and makes it into the office by a quarter to seven. If I had a dime for every time I had voice mails from Harland when I walked into my office, voice mails from seven that morning, I’d be rich.

  Richer.

  “Thanks for meeting me, Paul.”

  “Always a pleasure, Harland. Always.”

  “Henry,” he says to the waiter who appears again out of nowhere. “Perrier with lime for me. Paul?”

  I’m not sure how Harland already knows the name of a waiter in a restaurant that’s only been open a few weeks. I guess it’s that kind of small detail stuff that made him a billionaire. Either that, or the twenty million in starter money he got from the divorce.

  I have a taste for my usual. Harland pauses, as if he disapproves. He doesn’t drink. Doesn’t smoke. The only vice of which I’m aware—and many others are aware, no doubt—is his mouth. This guy speaks with the smooth ease of the ultrawealthy, but if something rubs him wrong he can cuss like a truck driver.

  So I always try not to rub him wrong. But I order the martini, anyway, dirty and straight up, with blue cheese olives.

  Okay, there’s the mouth and the women. Every time I see him on the society page or at a social function, it’s a different one. Blond, brunet, redhead, buxom, petite, leggy—the man doesn’t pin himself down to a single trait, unless you count young and drop-dead gorgeous as traits.

  A woman who looks like she came off a runway, her hair tossed and pearls around her neck, says hello to Harland. Kisses on each cheek, a quick wiggle of the fingers in my direction.

  Harland sits back a moment, basking in the glow. This guy’s a rock star. Still with the hint of a smile across his lips, he turns to me.

  “Do you know someone named Evelyn Pendry?” he asks.

  HE FEELS SAFE in the dark, warm and secure, the great equalizer, you can’t see me, even with the light coming in through the space between the two doors, still dark, dark closet, then the click of the dead bolt—

  Leo frees the knife from his sock and gets out of his crouch.

  Thump on the floor, by the door. Dead bolt locks again. Footsteps moving quickly on the carpet. The television turns on, the scripted voices fading into the room. The news.

  “First in the news, tonight,” says Evelyn Pendry, imitating her mother’s voice and crisp intonation on the newscast playing in the background. She walks into the bedroom, pulling at her earrings, repeating her mother’s words. She unbuttons her blouse, kicks off her heels, wiggles out of her skirt.

  The scent of berries wafts into the room. Leo inhales, it’s been so long since he smelled someone like that—

  “Senator Almundo,” she says, repeating Mom’s words, “denied the allegations.”

  She stands in front of the mirror in her cream satin underwear, cocking her head decisively and punching her lines. “Senator Almundo ... denied the allegations.”

  Leo stares through the crack between the doors of the bedroom closet as Evelyn repeats the phrase again, working on her punctuation.

  Her figure is firm and shapely, but he’s not thinking that way, no, he wonders how she’ll react, she seems athletic, young and athletic, not Old Man Freddy sleeping in his bed, not like the girl with Riley in the alley. No, this one, this one will put up a fight.

  He grips the knife in his hand, swallows hard.

  He takes a breath and it happens, the calm sweeping over him.

  She is early, unexpected. He will wait until nightfall, when she’s in bed.

  He closes his eyes and holds his breath.

  When he opens them again, Evelyn Pendry is staring at the closet.

  HARLAND LACES his hands together. “So she was talking about a background story.”

  “Well, that’s how she framed it,” I explain. “She wanted to do a piece on the Public Trust case and Senator Almundo and me. Then she started asking me questions about my background. And she asked if I kept in touch with Nat and your niece, Gwendolyn.”

  “Gwendolyn. Yes, Gwendolyn.” It seems Evelyn Pendry asked Harland about those two women as well. He angles his head. “I haven’t heard from Gwendolyn in years. And if it’s many more before I do, I won’t complain. What a vile girl.”

  “You two didn’t hit it off,” I gather.

  Harland looks hard at me, wets his lips, and answers evenly. “This was Cassie’s only cousin. The closest thing she had to a sibling. And she didn‘t—” His face changes, a break in the anger, a moment of emotion before hardening again. “She didn’t even come back for Cassie’s funeral. This girl couldn’t take one day away from her gallivanting across the globe to pay her respects to Cassandra. That I will never forgive.”

  Harland married Natalia Lake, heiress to the Lake fortune, when she was nineteen, and—coincidentally, I’m sure—had just inherited almost a billion dollars from her father, Conrad Lake. They divorced after about twenty years of marriage, not long after their only daughter Cassie was murdered. Harland took twenty million and went his own way, investing in hotels first—Bentley Suites—and then building a number of businesses that bear his name, including Bentley Manufacturing, Bentley Bearings, Bentley International, and Bentley Financial.

  Word was, Harland’s fondness for young women did not begin after his divorce but long before. The marriage had turned into a cold one, held together by the one thing they had in common—their daughter. Once Cassie was gone, as far as I understand, they looked at each other and cried uncle. Rather than fight—there was a prenup, though I don’t know the details—Natalia took a chunk of her fortune and threw it at Harland as a parting gift. A cynic might say Harland’s principal motivation these last fifteen years has been to top his ex-wife’s fortune, and I dare say he’s succeeded. My firm, of course, has profited correspondingly.

  “Where’s Gwendolyn now?” I ask him.

  He opens his hands. “I heard that she bought some property in Lake Coursey, up north. She still has a place in France, I suspect. But I really don’t know. And I really don’t care.” His eyes fix on me. “Did this reporter, Evelyn, say why she was asking these questions?”

  I shake my head. “I stiff-armed her. It never got that far.”


  The waiter arrives with the drinks and asks us if we want to hear the specials. Harland doesn‘t, and I don’t, either. I already know he’s going to order something that swims in the water. I usually do, too, but I’m thinking of something that grazes on land.

  “You had that karioka last time, Henry,” he says to the waiter. “With the sweet sugar?”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Bentley.”

  “That would be a nice start. Thank you. And tell Homaro to stop by when he’s free.”

  I wasn’t here for that meal, with the karioka. I don’t even know what karioka is, but I would be willing to bet that it isn’t a selection on the menu this evening. That’s how a guy like Harland gets off, ordering something off the menu and knowing that they’ll make it, because he asked. And probably knowing that they’ll mark the price up, as well, for the effort.

  “So.” Harland clasps his hands together and looks at me. “This reporter called me and I made the mistake of speaking with her. She was very intrusive. Very aggressive. I can take a lot of things, Paul. Someone in my position is going to be a media target.”

  “True.”

  “But when it comes to Cassandra, the spotlight turns off.”

  “Sure.” That, I always believed, was why Harland didn’t want Cassie’s murder prosecuted. Burgos’s insanity defense centered around his belief that he was carrying out God’s will in punishing sinners. That, of course, required a showing in open court that the victims of his crimes were less than model citizens.

  “What kind of questions did Evelyn ask, Harland?”

  He puts a fingernail between his teeth, lost in thought a moment. “I want to preempt this,” he says. “I want to talk to you about how.”

  That’s Harland, never answering the question. I state the obvious. “She’s a reporter.” His reaction tells me that he’s not impressed with the First Amendment. “You’re talking about—what—threat ening suit?”