A Note from an Old Acquaintance

by Bill Walker

  “Why not?”

  She picked up her glass, clinked it against his beer bottle and drained it.

  The funny thing was Brian had begun to think these very same thoughts. It sure as hell was no fun banging one’s head against the wall year after year, knowing you’ve got talent, but meeting the same unyielding resistance over and over again. Somehow this amazing woman had seen this right off the bat. What was more amazing was that he could accept the wisdom in her words.

  “Sage advice for one so young,” he said.

  “I think you’re better than you’re giving yourself credit for.”

  “I appreciate that, but you’ve never read a word I’ve written.”

  Brian felt her hand on his. “I don’t have to,” she said, her smile finally returning.

  He was about to reply when a cocktail waitress approached. “You guys need anything?” she asked.

  “Uh, not for me.” He turned to Joanna. “You?”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  The waitress left and Brian realized that all the tables around them had filled up. “How about that dance, now? You game?”

  “I’d love to,” she said.

  They stood, leaving their drinks. Brian took her hand and led the way back up to the dance floor. It seemed less crowded than it had been a while before. The music changed. Brian recognized it as “Night Fever” by the Bee Gees. Joanna started moving, and Brian did his best to keep up. And even though he despised Disco and everything it signified, he found himself getting lost in the rhythm, his body making moves he’d never thought himself capable. And watching Joanna was like watching music incarnate.

  He moved closer to her and she reciprocated. They each aped the other’s movements, unconsciously synchronizing their choreography. Suddenly feeling overheated, Brian removed the motorcycle jacket and began using it as an impromptu dance partner. Joanna threw back her head, laughing. Brian grinned, knowing he looked silly and not giving a damn whatsoever. All he knew was that he wanted to get to know this terrific woman better.

  No time like the present, Weller, no time like the present.

  “Would you like to go out sometime?” he yelled, hoping she could hear him over the crushing din.

  “Sure, but I’ll have to get rid of my fiancé first.”

  Brian missed a step, nearly tripping himself. He studied her face, trying to discern if she’d been joking. Fiancé? She was freaking engaged? It figured he’d meet someone wonderful like her and she’d be taken. But where was her ring? When they were talking at the table he’d noticed her left hand was devoid of any jewelry. Christ, Weller, maybe the guy hadn’t sprung for the rock yet. But even as all this rushed through his mind, she continued smiling at him and Brian realized it didn’t matter. He wanted Joanna—wanted her as he’d never wanted anyone or anything else in his life. If she wanted to be with him, too, so be it. After all, she wasn’t married yet. Let her worry about her fiancé.

  “Who’s that dancing with Joanna?” Ruby said, draining his martini. He lounged next to Nick on a long black leather sofa to the right of the bar, a quiet, desperate anger smoldering in his gut like the embers of a dying fire. He hated parties like these, tolerating them only because he knew they were good for business; but he should have left Joanna at home. That way, he’d at least be able to relax and enjoy himself—wouldn’t have to worry about every two-bit lothario who made eyes at her. Problem was he could never refuse her. And she so loved to dance, which was fine, as long as it was with Marcia, her best friend. Now, though, it was a different story.... “Did you hear me, Nick?”

  Nick sipped his drink and shrugged. “He’s just a friend. Nobody special.”

  Erik Ruby gazed across the dance floor, his dark eyes narrowing, and watched his young bride-to-be laughing at this “nobody special” swinging his leather jacket around like some bargain basement Fred Astaire.

  A cocktail waitress approached, placing a fresh martini on the low table in front of the sofa. She was a tall busty blonde with all the right curves, and made it plain with her knowing look that more than drinks were available. She was certainly easy on the eye.

  He reached into his Armani jacket and pulled out his wallet, handing the girl a crisp fifty. Her eyes bugged out. “Thank you, Mr. Ruby.”

  Ruby’s mouth split into an indulgent grin, capped teeth gleaming. “You deserve it, Honey. Just don’t spend it all in one place.”

  He waited until the girl moved away then turned back to Nick, placing a manicured hand on his shoulder. “You’re my friend, too, Nick. And we’ve known each other far too long to bullshit one another. I just want to know Joanna’s safe. So, come on, tell me about your friend.”

  Nick tossed back the rest of his drink and chuckled. “All right, all right, I know when I’m licked.” He lifted his empty glass, signaling the busty blonde for a refill. “It’s really no big deal; he’s a nice guy. His name’s Brian Weller....”

  While Nick spoke, Ruby watched Joanna; watched her dance and laugh and do all the things he’d seen her do a thousand times before at countless charity balls and posh parties with countless forgettable men.

  This time it was different.

  This time she was different.

  And for the first time in his life, Erik Ruby knew he stood to lose the one thing he valued most. For the first time in his storied existence, Erik Ruby knew the true meaning of fear.

  8

  HE WAS LATE.

  It didn’t matter that he’d set his alarm, double- and triple- and quadruple-checked it—it had failed to go off at the appointed time. Either that or the previous night had exhausted him so thoroughly he’d never even heard its familiar, annoying clamor.

  It didn’t matter. Only the client’s time and money did. There was barely time to shower, throw on some clothes, microwave some tasteless instant coffee and rush out the door.

  Brian sat up with a tired groan, and the phone rang. Damn. Should he grab it, or let the machine take it? The ringing became more insistent, or was it simply his throbbing headache making it sound that way? He glanced at the clock and sighed. What difference would another couple of minutes make, anyway?

  Swearing under his breath, he snatched the cordless handset from its cradle before the machine took over.

  “Hello,” he said, scowling at the brackish taste in his mouth.

  “Brian? That you, Honey?”

  “Hey, Mom, how are you?”

  “I woke you up, didn’t I?”

  “No, you didn’t. I was already up. Got a busy day.”

  “Your father and I were just wondering how you were doing. We hadn’t heard from you in a while.”

  It had only been a week, if that. He wasn’t in the mood for her usual litany about what he did for a living—didn’t have time for it. And it didn’t even matter that he and Bob were finally starting to make good money. To his parents, any career in the entertainment business, no matter how far removed from Hollywood, was “unreliable.”

  “I’m fine, Mom, business is great. But I do really have to go—”

  “That’s not why I called.”

  A weary grin creased his face. There was no deterring Mom when she had something on her mind. Brian heaved himself up and threw off the down comforter, shivering in the cool air. The heater must have quit during the night, or the oil delivery was late again.

  “What’s up? Dad okay?”

  “He’s fine. He had to go into the store early today, something about inventory, and I didn’t want to wait for him to get home before I called you.”

  Brian went to his closet and pulled out a brown terry-cloth robe—an old Christmas present from his parents—and slipped it on. It resembled a monk’s habit, replete with a hood, and was deliciously warm, if a little threadbare.

  “I’m worried about you, Brian.”

  Brian chuckled. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to laugh, but isn’t that what parents are supposed to do?”

  “Of course, but I meant more than usual.” There w
as a pause and Brian heard a faint buzzing on the line. “I never liked Julie, you know,” she said, breaking the silence. “I always thought she was a bit of a flake.”

  Ah, so this was where things were going.

  “You’re right, Mom, she was. And I’m well rid of her. So, stop worrying. I’m fine. In fact, better than fine.”

  “Oh?”

  Brian glanced at the top of his dresser, spying the business card. Before he’d left the Metropolis Club with Bob and Debbie, he’d asked Joanna for her number. She’d written it on the back of a business card—her fiancé’s business card.

  Now there was irony for you, in its purest form.

  “It’s my studio number,” she’d said, the implication clear. “I’m there most evenings from seven ’til eleven, or so.”

  The card stock was translucent vellum, the logo and text embossed in black and gold. It stated simply:

  Erik Ruby

  President/CEO

  Ruby & Associates

  Architectural Design and Property Development

  7 Newbury Street, Boston, MA 02116

  Phone: 617-555-4530 / Fax: 617-555-4531

  “Honey, you there?”

  “Sorry, Mom, lost my train of thought.”

  “You were saying that you were ‘better than fine.’”

  “Yeah.... I’ve met someone.”

  “That’s wonderful, dear,” she said, sounding relieved. “What’s her name?”

  “Mom, if it’s okay, can we talk about this later? I really have to get going. I’ve got a long day ahead of me.”

  “That’s fine. I really just wanted to hear your voice. I’m so glad you’re feeling better about things.”

  “Me, too. I’ll talk to you later, promise.”

  He hung up the phone, feeling like a bit of a heel. It was not as if he’d lied to her, or anything, it was just...superstition, silly superstition. Over the last few months after his break up with Julie, he’d thought long and hard about all his girlfriends since high school. And the odd thing was that every time he’d mentioned the girl’s name to his mother early in the relationship, it had gone sour. It was weird.

  Now he knew, as any rational man would, that this was all a bunch of bull, but it had popped into his mind again, as soon as his mother had asked for Joanna’s name. And he’d almost said it before stopping himself. He just didn’t want to tempt fate again, not this time.

  Shivering again, Brian went into the kitchen, put on the coffee and jumped into the shower. At least the water was hot. That meant there was plenty of heating oil, so perhaps someone had tripped the breaker on the furnace. It had happened a few times when his upstairs neighbor had fired up his foreign-made all vacuum-tube stereo, which ran on the same 220-volt circuit as the heating system.

  Old wiring. In a house this ancient, it was bound to be an issue, that is, until the homeowners association was forced to spend the money to fix it. Or the place burned down. The biggest problem was Brian only rented his unit from the absentee owner, who lived in Europe year-round. Still, he made a mental note to call one of the board members that afternoon and try and make him do something.

  After drying off and tossing on jeans and a flannel shirt, Brian filled his spill-proof mug with coffee, grabbed his leather jacket and hit the street. He struck across Beacon when the traffic broke and headed up Fairfield.

  The sidewalk had a light cover of snow that came down sometime during the night. It crunched under his feet, sounding like the gravel driveway he’d grown up with as a kid in Ohio. It was another cloudy, windswept day with a temperature he guessed to be somewhere in the mid-twenties.

  He took a sip of his coffee. Creamy and sweet, it made a delicious burn down his throat, warming him. He patted the pocket of his jacket where he’d slipped the business card, as if to reassure himself that it all was real. And even though he knew it was, the previous evening’s memories already possessed a dreamlike quality. The question was when to call her. Every fiber of his being demanded that he do it that very night, but how often did he hear that a man shouldn’t be too eager, that it would scare a woman off. He didn’t think Joanna was the type of woman who played games, and the uniqueness of the situation made the usual rules seem pointless. So why was his stomach already doing somersaults? Why did he still feel as if he were drunk from the night before? The wonderful thing was that he’d had less to drink last night than he usually did on a typical weeknight. Any intoxication or its aftermath was due to a more esoteric cause.

  When he approached the front door of his office, he spotted the band and their manager waiting outside, stamping their feet, breath billowing in the frigid air. All of them looked as if they’d been dragged out of bed about four hours too early.

  “I hope you guys haven’t been waiting too long,” Brian called out.

  “It’s okay,” the manager said, coughing into his fist. “We need to get this done today, so I figured the earlier the better.”

  Brian smiled. He hadn’t expected them for another hour, wanting the extra time to get things ship-shape. “That’s fine by me.”

  The manager grinned back. “I got some more great ideas for this video, man. Can’t wait.”

  Brian unlocked the door and tried to hide his reaction. Whenever any client said that, it really meant they wanted to start over, taking everything that had been assembled and throwing it into the proverbial trash. He’d have to be tactful, but firm. There would be no radical changes from what they’d spent the last two days creating, unless the band would like to spend lots more money. Sometimes, all it took to get everything back on track was a little financial wake-up call.

  Ushering them all inside, he climbed the stairs to the second floor and steeled himself for another day at the circus.

  Erik Ruby stared out the plate-glass window of his fourth-floor office watching the snarl of traffic on Newbury Street. The window took up the entire wall from floor to ceiling, affording him a panoramic view, with the Public Garden to one side and the rest of Newbury Street, up to where it ended at Massachusetts Avenue and the entrance to the Mass Pike.

  It was just after 9:00 AM, and he’d been at his desk for at least two hours, readying a presentation for a new client. The models were wrong, and he’d spent the last ten minutes castigating the modeler for putting the new Wrightson Building on the wrong side of Boylston Street. Even now, the sorry bastard was scrambling to get it fixed before Wrightson and his entourage showed up. It didn’t help that he and Joanna had fought on the way home from the Metropolis Club, either. They’d left just after 1:00 AM, far later than he’d wanted. What made it worse was that Marcia, her best friend, was in the car for most of the ride back to their home in Newton, making for strained and oblique conversation. He hated to be oblique about anything, especially where Joanna was concerned.

  “So, you had a good time?” he’d said, keeping his eyes glued to the road, knuckles white on the wheel.

  “A wonderful time,” she’d replied.

  “Meet anyone new?”

  “A couple of people.”

  Yeah, right. Now there was a wealth of information. He’d certainly reaped a bushel where Nick was concerned, though. The problem was he wasn’t sure what to do with it, at this point. He needed to sort through it. More important: he needed to see what would happen next....

  “I spoke with Nick and he said he’s almost done with the mailer for your first show.”

  She turned to him, anger flaring in her eyes. “I told you I didn’t want you to do that, Erik.”

  “Why not, he’s done a bang-up job and it’ll go out to the crème de la crème of Boston.”

  “That’s not the point. I don’t know why you keep bringing this up. I don’t want you to buy me a show. I want to earn it. I’m not ready.”

  “Sure you are. Your stuff is great.”

  She chewed her lip. “I appreciate that, but I just don’t think—”

  “Honey,” he said, “Sometimes you’ve got to go in and sell these
people. It’s as much you as the art.”

  She sighed. “No, it isn’t. I’m not the show. It’s the art. That’s the only thing that matters. And there are so many worthy artists out there who can’t get a show. To just write them a check—”

  “It’s done every day.”

  “Not by me.”

  Erik shook his head. She was so beautiful and so damned stubborn; sometimes he just wanted to ram the Jag right into a wall. He mentally checked himself, easing his foot off the gas. No sense in getting a ticket.

  “You know I’d do anything for you, don’t you?” he said.

  “Yes,” she replied, staring out the windshield.

  “Then I wish you’d let me help.”

  “Can we talk about this tomorrow? I’m really tired.”

  Well, maybe you wouldn’t be so freaking tired if you weren’t flirting with jerks in black leather jackets, he thought.

  “All right, but at least let me show you what Nick’s done. He’s worked real hard on it.”

  “Okay,” she said, heaving a heavy sigh.

  A moment of silence fell between them.

  “Are you going to the studio tomorrow night?”

  She nodded. “I’ve got to get this one piece done, and it’s really frustrating me.”

  She didn’t know the half of it. While he didn’t pretend to have any artistic sense, wouldn’t know a Whistler from a Warhol, he knew how the business world worked. And all these high and mighty gallery owners were no different. They were running businesses. And if he wanted to foot the bill for a two-week show, he’d bet they’d let him hang dried dog crap on the walls. And they’d be only too happy to describe it as: a deeply moving portrait of modern life.

  Everybody had his price; and his pretty, idealistic fiancée had no fucking clue.

  9

  “I THINK IT’S KILLER, man, just killer,” the manager said, beaming. “What do you think, guys?”

  The members of The Musical Threats, four lanky lads all dressed in black, gave a collective nod, still dazed and dazzled from viewing their video performance for the umpteenth time. Brian smiled and hit the rewind button on the deck containing the master edit and watched the tape roll back.