by Bill Walker
Joanna turned the sketchpad and Brian’s eyes widened. There were a total of four views of his hand, showing it from every angle. She’d caught every nuance of it right down to the lines in his palm.
“My God, Joanna, it’s exquisite. I had no idea you could draw like this.”
“I do the abstract work because I love it, but I never would have graduated art school if I couldn’t draw.”
“An old art teacher of mine once told me that hands were the hardest things to draw correctly.”
“He’s right.”
She put away the sketchpad and returned to the bed with a piece of art board. He saw that it was the paste-up of her mailer. He took it from her and looked it over. The copy was pretty weak, and he saw more than a few places where he could tweak it. It was Joanna’s picture that grabbed his attention, however: the black bodysuit, the provocative pose, the smoldering look in her eyes—a look very much like one he’d seen earlier that night.
“Christ, this is a hell of a picture.”
She groaned and fell over on the bed. “Not you, too.”
“What did I say?”
“I’ve already been all through this with Erik,” she snapped. “We’re going to change it. Put in more pictures of my art.”
“It’s so striking, though. I can tell you without a shred of doubt that no one who gets this mailer as it is will ever forget it.”
“I know. All they’ll remember is me.”
“Not such a bad thing in my book.”
“God! You men are all alike.”
She stood up and began putting on her clothes.
“Why are you so upset?”
“Because I thought you were different.”
Brian was on his feet and by her side, taking her by the shoulders. She glared back at him in defiance.
“Hey, I am different,” he said. “Look, it’s a stunning picture, a real classic, but you’re right it doesn’t belong in this mailer. I just thought it was great because I’m so damned crazy about you.”
Joanna’s head snapped up. “What did you say?”
Brian looked shocked for a moment, then recovered, taking her face in his hands. “I love you, Joanna. I have from the first moment I laid eyes on you. And I hope to God I haven’t scared the pants off you.”
She trembled, her eyes filling with tears. “Oh, Brian, I love you, too.” She kissed him then, her tongue jutting into his mouth. The longer it went on the more aroused Brian became. Suddenly, she began to laugh, breaking the kiss.
“Now what?” Brian said.
“You said you hoped you hadn’t scared the pants off me.”
Brian shook his head. “Yeah, so?”
“Well, as you can see, I’m still not wearing any.”
Brian looked down and grinned. “So it would seem.”
“So...what are you going to do about it?”
Brian tapped his chin. “Hmm, let me see....”
“Hey!” she said, giving him a playful punch on the shoulder.
“You want to play rough, do you? Well, I think it’s time for the...tickle monster,” he said, shifting his voice into a lower register.
“NOOO!” she squealed, running around the bed.
“You can run, but you can’t hide from the tickle monster!”
He lunged across the bed, catching her around the waist and pulling her onto the mattress. She shrieked with laughter when Brian blew a raspberry against her belly. But instead of continuing the game, he reached up and caressed her face, placing a tender kiss on the tip of her nose. He gazed into her eyes, his mood turning serious. “What are we going to do, Joanna?”
She put a finger to his lips. “Ssssh,” she said, her eyes moistening. “Let’s not go there right now, okay? Let’s just love each other.”
She kissed him then, and he lost himself in her arms.
18
IN ERIK RUBY’S EYES, Cary Mosley was a walking set of contradictions, a man who shattered expectations and defied convention. When he entered Ruby’s office on the dot for his nine o’clock appointment, he didn’t walk, so much as glide—moving across the floor with the fluid grace and coiled power of a professional athlete. Reed thin, with broad shoulders, he was draped in an elegant dark-blue hand-tailored Brioni suit, immaculate white shirt, Harvard tie, ostrich leather shoes, and carried two thick manila file folders clutched in his left hand. And Cary Mosley was black, a deep shade of perfect ebony accented with rich highlights that shone as if he were carved from the purest obsidian. No, Cary Mosley wasn’t Humphrey Bogart, but Ruby was impressed.
He stood and offered his hand. Mosley enveloped it in a grip made for a basketball player.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Ruby,” he said in a soft voice at odds with the rest of his persona. His smile revealed perfect pearl-white teeth and the crinkle of laugh lines around the eyes.
“I wish it could be under different circumstances,” Ruby said, offering a rueful smile. “Please, have a seat.”
Mosley folded himself into one of the leather chairs facing the desk and crossed his legs, placing the file folders onto his lap.
When Mosley was seated, Ruby eased back into his swivel chair and regarded him with a steady gaze. The black man met his stare with one of his own, his manner remaining calm and composed.
“Where should I start?” Ruby asked.
Mosley flipped open one of the files, pulling a Monte Blanc ballpoint from inside his jacket. “How about I give you what I have so far?”
Ruby arched a brow. “By all means.”
“Brian Alden Weller was born in Nelsonville, Ohio, August 3rd, 1966, to Rita and Jefferson Weller. Father currently owns Weller’s Hardware, also in Nelsonville. The business thrived for many years, but has recently fallen on hard times. There is currently tentative interest in buying the business, as well as the other businesses surrounding it, by an investment firm in Columbus intent on redeveloping the downtown area. The Nelsonville City Council is scheduled to vote on the proposal in about a month.
“As for Brian’s childhood, idyllic, for the most part. And his schooling was average, though he showed an extremely high verbal aptitude on his SATs. Senior year of high school, he applied to five different colleges and was accepted into four of them. He matriculated at Emerson College and graduated with a BFA in film production. A year after graduating, he founded Newbury Productions with partner Robert Nolan, also an Emerson Graduate. Offices are located on the second floor of 342 Newbury Street. Company’s profits have been modest, but steadily growing. This year looks to be their breakout—”
“Wait a minute,” Ruby said. “They’re not a public company, how do you know what their profits are?”
Mosley’s cinnamon eyes twinkled. “Let’s just say that a friendly banker is a friend indeed.”
Ruby chuckled and motioned for him to continue.
“Though Brian trained as a filmmaker, and is Newbury Production’s Director of Post-Production, it is plainly obvious to those who know him that becoming a published novelist is his true passion.”
“But perhaps not his only one,” Ruby said, his expression clouding.
Mosley closed the folder. “That’s what I have, for now. If you hire me, I assure you I will find out everything you want to know, and then some....”
“Right. What’s in the other folder?”
Mosley smiled and flipped open the second folder. “Erik Marcus Ruby was born May 2, 1954—”
Ruby bolted upright, a vein in his temple throbbing. “Wait a minute, what is this? You checked me out?”
Mosley held up a long-fingered hand. “Please, let me explain. I’ve been very successful, and one of the reasons for that success is because I do my homework—in every respect. My reputation depends upon my dealing with clients who don’t hide anything from me. Even clients who don’t intentionally hide things may neglect to reveal a vital piece of information that makes the critical difference in whether or not I reach the objective for which they’ve employed me.
“That’s true, but my past—my life—is my business, not yours.”
“Of course, and everything in here is under the strictest confidence.” Mosley handed over the file. Ruby took it and flipped through it, morbidly curious. “This is the only copy, and it’s yours. I know all I need to know about you to know it would be a privilege working for you on this matter, as well as any others where I can be of value.”
“So, I’m clean, as they say,” Ruby said, a grin back on his face.
“Oh, there’s the usual petty bureaucratic graft, but nothing that sets you apart from your peers, certainly nothing that would preclude my taking your case.”
“And I intend to keep it that way.”
“Of course. I will say this. Your hostile takeover of your father’s company was a masterstroke. I’m just curious as to the why of it. You were his clear and uncontested heir apparent.”
“Let’s just say, his taste in women was his undoing....”
“Yes....” Mosley nodded. “Carolyn Duprée.”
Ruby’s smile dimmed. “You’re good. Maybe too good.”
The black man leaned forward in the chair, his manner turning grave. “As I told you, that file is the only copy, and you have my word that none of its contents will ever be revealed by me.”
“Even if I tell you to take a hike?”
“Yes, but you won’t.”
Now Ruby was curious. “Really, and why is that?”
“Because you’re a smart man who wants to leave nothing to chance, because you have a beautiful fiancée, whose affections may be turning elsewhere, because you have a growing business and you need someone to sweat the details, to watch for the things that fall between the cracks, someone to watch your back.”
“And that someone is you?”
“Yes,” Mosley said, sitting back in his chair. His eyes strayed to Joanna’s picture. His reaction was subtle but Ruby noticed. A moment later, he turned back to face his prospective employer. “Mr. Ruby, I’ve worked for myself for quite a number of years, and I’m good at what I do, but I’m looking for a bigger challenge. Your business and my skills look to be a good match.”
“One thing, and don’t take this the wrong way, but you cut a rather distinctive figure,” Ruby said, indicating Mosley’s natty attire with a wave of his hand. “If you’re going to follow my fiancée and Weller around, you don’t exactly...blend in.”
Mosley laughed. “When I was at Harvard, I had the privilege of being a member of the Hasty Pudding Theatricals. I can blend in anywhere. I might be that homeless derelict asleep on the park bench, the hotdog vendor on a street corner, a street musician outside the Arlington “T” station, or—”
“Or a security guard at my fiancée’s studio?”
“Or a security guard at your fiancée’s studio,” Mosley repeated, his sly grin matching Ruby’s.
“You’re very persuasive, Mr. Mosley. And my foreman, Tommy Cervino recommended you highly. He told me you know what you’re doing. But I’m also curious about something. You’re no dime-store gumshoe. How could Tommy’s cousin afford you?”
Mosley grinned. “Tommy’s cousin did me a favor when my Ferrari was stolen in the North End a couple of years ago. He was working in the little trattoria where my girlfriend and I were dining. Took a liking to me, I guess. Said I reminded him of one of the Celtics.”
“So, what happened with your car?”
“It was returned the next day...unharmed, not even a scratch. I gave him my card and told him to call me if he ever needed my help—on the house. When he suspected his wife was stepping out on him, he did.”
“I like a man who keeps his promises,” Ruby said, chuckling. “I assume Tommy’s cousin received favorable terms in the divorce settlement as a result of your help?”
“My evidence was indisputable.”
Ruby sighed and looked toward Joanna’s photo. “No pictures. I won’t have her degraded like that. I— I just need to know. What are your terms?”
“Two thousand per day, plus expenses.”
Ruby nodded and reached into his desk. He pulled out a bound stack of crisp, new hundred dollar bills and tossed it to Mosley. “Here’s ten thousand to start. If you need more, ask me.” The black man glanced at the cash without reacting, then slipped it into his jacket pocket. That was good. Ruby didn’t trust naked greed.
He stood and offered Mosley his hand. “If, during the course of your investigation, you discover them together. I want you to call me. Immediately.”
“I wouldn’t advise confrontation,” Mosley said, shaking Ruby’s hand. “Situations like that can get ugly.”
“I appreciate that, but I’ll take the risk.”
“Okay, Mr. Ruby, it’s your dime.”
Mosley left moments later and Ruby sat down at his desk, his mind spinning. He couldn’t believe he’d just hired a man to spy on Joanna, yet he’d done that very thing. Soon, he would know the truth, and there was an odd comfort in that thought, even though it might mean the worst.
One thing he was sure about: Mosley was the right man for the job, and maybe the right man for a more permanent position. That remained to be seen. He had to admire the guy’s king-sized cojones, but he was a crackerjack salesman, too. And what he was selling was peace of mind. Time would tell if that would be the case. Time would tell....
19
JOANNA SIPPED FROM HER mug of herbal tea and turned her concentration back to her drawing. It was just before 8:00 and she’d been in her office since the school building opened at 5:45, leaving Erik snoring away in their bed. He’d come home late for the third night in a row, complaining about endless changes with his new building. And while she empathized with his plight, she was secretly glad he was too tired to initiate any intimacy.
Now, with her class beginning in a few minutes, she put the finishing touches on the idea for her new piece. It was something vastly different from her abstract machinery, something inspired by Brian. She smiled, remembering his “Tickle Monster” antics from the other night, her eyes finding the rose in its vase at the edge of her desk. It still flourished, showing only the barest of signs that it was beginning to die. A colleague advised her to put two aspirin tablets in the water, telling her it would keep the flower alive longer. She was right. The rose had opened, the petals spreading day by day into a glorious picture-book specimen.
A glance at the clock told her it was 8:00. Closing the sketchpad, she rose and tucked it under her arm, locking her office behind her. It was a quick walk down the corridor to her classroom.
“Good morning, everyone,” she said, noting the glazed eyes on a few of her charges. No doubt a late night or two of partying to blame.
“Come on, now, it’s a beautiful February morning, and we’re going to do something a little different.”
A couple of her students groaned. One of them, she recalled, was on her potential fail list. She wasn’t going to let that spoil her mood, however. Moving to the side of the room, she dragged an easel front and center then propped her sketchpad onto it, flipping it open to the page she’d been working on. It was four views of two hands intertwined: a man’s and a woman’s.
“Oh, wow,” a reed-thin girl with bright blue hair said, her kohl-rimmed eyes bulging.
“Great job, Teach,” another added.
Joanna smiled, feeling a rush of pride. She’d taken the original four views of Brian’s hand and redrawn them with her own hand in his. As before, every detail was lovingly portrayed. Her students were awe-struck.
“Thank you,” Joanna said. “Now that I have your undivided attention, this is your assignment. I want you to try and reproduce this with your clay.”
The blue-haired girl looked as if she might choke.
“I know this is a quantum leap for most of you, but do
the best you can. I promise not to grade you too harshly on this. It’s mainly an exercise. And I’m going to do it right along with you.”
“Then you’ll need to remember what you always tell us, Teach,” a longhaired boy said, grinning.
“Oh, and what’s that?” Joanna said, stifling her own grin.
“ALWAYS KEEP YOUR CLAY AT THE PROPER HYDRATION!” the class sang out.
Joanna laughed. “Well, at least you’ve all learned something!”
The class erupted in a chorus of giggles and groans.
“Okay, then,” Joanna said, clapping her hands, “let’s get to work.”
Two of the students brought out the clay, kept moist in a special container lined with a thick plastic bag. She had them distribute exactly three pounds to each student. A little more than necessary, perhaps, but it would give them a margin for error. She took her own glob of clay and began kneading it into the basic shape.
She’d decided to do the exercise last night when she realized that as well equipped as her studio was, she didn’t own a kiln to fire the piece when it was completed. The school did. And turning it into a class project assuaged the morsel of guilt she felt using the school’s kiln.
The clay felt moist and cool, and she loved the feeling of molding it, something she missed with her larger pieces. When it was done, she intended to put it on display as the centerpiece for her first show. Returning her thoughts to the task at hand, she started to hone the rough shape into the details that were burned into her mind.
“Feel free to come up and take closer looks at the sketches when you feel the need,” she told the class. “The more details you can see in your mind, the more precisely your mind will direct your hands.”
She looked down at her own piece and picked up one of the implements she’d laid out like a surgeon’s tools.
This one’s for you, my Sweet Writer.
Wrightson was going to drive Ruby to drink. First it was the exterior sheathing on the building, changing it from black granite to red granite, then back to black. Then it was the flooring for the lobby. He’d recommended faux malachite, which wore better and looked exactly like the real thing, but Wrightson demanded the real deal, that is, until he was told it would cost over $300,000 and would be cracking inside a year from all the foot traffic. He couldn’t fault the old guy for his taste, but he wished Wrightson would find something else to do, other than bother him with trivial details, details that piled on top of one another until they threatened to delay the project.
