Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine. Vol. 131, No. 1. Whole No. 797, January 2008

Wilson’s Man by Doug Levin

An occasional reviewer for the Oregonian and a member of the National Book Critics Circle, Doug Levin is a relative newcomer to mystery writing, though a previous story of his, “Fire Lines,” was published alongside works by Michael Connelly, George Pelecanos, and James Crumley in the collection Measures of Poison. His non-fiction has appeared in newspapers such as the Chicago Tribune and The New York Times.

It seemed to Ben that his new telephone rang in sharp, intrusive bursts. At least that’s how he felt when Sidney Alstead called on Tuesday afternoon. He could tell from the caller ID that it was Sidney. For the first two rings, he dismissed the call outright, but on the fifth ring he answered hastily out of morbid compulsion. It was just as he had feared: Sidney had good news.

Sidney first materialized at an Advertising After Hours meeting at the Shiva, a trendy nightclub that specialized in world music. Any other business organization would have held its monthly networking meeting in the ballroom of an innocuous downtown hotel, but the Ad Federation preferred to waste its members’ dues on the expensive pretense of style. The Shiva was down among riverside warehouses, where Ben hated to park his car for any length of time. He didn’t much like navigating through the musty winos and panhandlers, either. Besides, the effect of the nightclub was lost on the advertising crowd: The house lights were up, and there was no music on at all.

Ben stood at a cocktail table by himself, surveying the crowd, casually looking to see if Wilson had dropped in. He turned his head in one direction and when he turned it back, a tall, broad man stepped abruptly — laterally — into his frame of vision.

“Sidney Alstead,” the big man said, holding out his hand.

Ben set his gin and tonic down and shook hands. He was embarrassed that his hand was wet and clammy from the condensation on his glass. “Ben Barrow.”

“Good to know you,” said Sidney.

Ben had the uncomfortable feeling that he had met Sidney before — perhaps at an agency years ago — but he would’ve remembered someone like Sidney. He had a high forehead and close-cropped black hair, and wore black horn-rimmed glasses — fashionable among the artistic set. But he didn’t really look artistic. He looked like an ex-football player.

“What’re you doing here?” asked Sidney bluntly. “Looking for work?”

Ben hesitated. “Not exactly...”

Sidney brightened and seemed to get a little wider. “Then you’re looking for a few good men, maybe,” he began his patter. “I’m a graphic designer, been at it—” He stopped when Ben shook his head and waved his hand in protest.

“No, no,” Ben said. “Sorry to mislead you. I’m a designer myself. Been out on my own for a few years now. I’m not looking for a job, just trying to stay in touch, meet a few people...” His voice trailed off. It was hardly an explanation.

Sidney smiled, leaned forward, and actually put a hand on Ben’s shoulder. “You’re hustling just like the rest of us,” he chuckled.

Ben supposed that it was true, though “hustle” didn’t seem like exactly the right word. He hoped to see Wilson and some others, buttonhole them a bit, but it was hardly hustling. His work spoke for itself. “If you say so,” he finally said.

“You want another of those?” Sidney pointed to his half-empty glass.

Ben didn’t want to drink too many too quickly, but he said, “Okay, sure.” He reached in his coat for his wallet.

“Forget it,” Sidney said, “I can spring for a drink.” He disappeared into the crowd, heading toward the bar.

Ben felt as if the air got immediately fresher. It occurred to him that Sidney might have been wearing some light cologne or aftershave. He imagined a thin trail of fragrance following Sidney to the bar, like slime behind a slug. It was a good image, but it would never work in an ad.

There was Wilson. He was tall enough to stand above most people, but thin and lanky, distinguished but not imposing. He had a young, attractive woman at his arm, probably part protégé and part handler. If Wilson made an appointment, she would write it down.

Ben caught his eye and moved across the room. They shook hands.

“Ben, good to see you,” said Wilson. “How have you been?”

“Pretty well. Yourself?”

“Crazy. We won a couple of new accounts, and then a third just fell in our lap. You’re having a good year?”

Ben had to play that question carefully. “Busy enough to stay out of trouble.” He forced himself to smile. “But hoping to pick up another project or two before the end of the year.” That sounded about right, not too desperate.

“Well, there might be something we can work out, especially while we get up to speed on these new accounts.” He turned to the woman and gave her a curt nod. “Cynthia, Ben Barrow.”

She held out a small hand. “Cynthia Phillips. Glad to know you.”

“Ben needs to get on my radar in the next couple weeks,” Wilson said to the woman, then added, “Ben, you call Cynthia next week and set something up.”

It was that easy. Ben couldn’t stop himself from starting to calculate how much might come in. Several thousand, at least. Ben saw that Wilson was done with him, looking out into the crowd for other familiar faces. For a split second, Wilson’s eyes widened, almost in apprehension.

“There you are,” Sidney’s voice boomed behind Ben. “Here’s your cocktail.” He stepped forward and thrust the glass in Ben’s hand.

Before Ben could say anything, Sidney thrust his hand at Wilson. “Sidney Alstead.”

“Clifton Wilson.” They shook hands.

“Clifton...” Ben hesitated. It was too late to say Mr. Wilson. “Clifton is the creative director at the Hamilton Group.”

“Sure, I know your name,” said Sidney, nodding with enthusiasm. “Glad we’re getting a chance to meet. I remember when Madison Avenue was pretty excited about the work your team did on Red Sport.”

Wilson smiled, uneasily, Ben thought. He wasn’t the type of man to bear flattery. “That was a fun account,” Wilson replied. “Helped put us on the map. You were in New York, then?”

“For a few years, after Rhode Island. Just a small cog at Ogilvy.” That was supposed to be the Rhode Island School of Design and one of New York’s top ad agencies, Ben knew. Sidney was carpet-bombing with names.

“You’re an artist, then?” asked Wilson.

“With a small ‘a.’ Now I’m just a humble graphic designer.” Sidney put his hand on his stomach and bowed slightly at the waist.

“Working for an agency here in town?”

“Not as yet,” said Sidney. “A contract here, a contract there.”

“Well, good,” said Wilson. He gave another meaningful nod to the blond woman. “Why don’t you send me some samples. Ben might be doing some work for us, too.”

“I hope so,” said Ben.

“He does great work,” said Sidney.

“I know his work,” said Wilson, flatly. “I’ll be looking forward to hearing from both of you.”

“Great,” said Sidney. “I’ll be in touch.”

Ben simply nodded. Wilson returned the gesture and slipped onward into the milling crowd, the woman at his elbow.

Ben expected Sidney to wink in friendly conspiracy, but the big man’s mouth simply went slack and his brow hardened over his eyes. “Why didn’t you say something about my work?”

“I don’t know your work,” Ben stammered.

“Well, I don’t know your work, and that didn’t stop me.”

“I didn’t ask for your endorsement. As Wilson said, he knows my work already.”

“Wasn’t exactly a ringing endorsement.”

Ben wasn’t going to admit to this hulking stranger that what he said was true. He had to get away. “Well, thanks for the drink.” He held it up.

Sidney held Ben’s gaze with a sour, smoldering look, and then his face became friendly and animated again. “My pleasure. Hey, let’s be in touch.”

Ben quickly agreed, if only to be rid of the man. “I’m easy to find. Barrow Design dot com.”

“I’m just my name. Sidney Alstead, A-L-S-T-E-A-D, all one word, dot com.”

Ben drifted back to his cocktail table, but found that it had been taken over by a group of youngsters, their heads together hatching some ambitious business plan. They collectively gave him an unwelcome look as he approached, and he veered awkwardly off to the bar. He set his half-finished drink on the bar, shrugged his shoulders, and headed for the coat check. His business was done.

Ben kicked a scrap of metal along the sidewalk. He should’ve stayed and enjoyed himself. Sidney Alstead was a big boor and probably a very mediocre talent, but at least he moved confidently among people. It must be easy if you were the size of a gorilla.

“How ‘bout some spare change?”

Ben hadn’t seen the two scruffy street kids in the doorway until they stepped out of the shadow. They both had glassy eyes and irregular stubble on their cheeks and chins.

“Okay,” said Ben. He usually walked on past, shaking his head, but he stopped to dig for some parking money in his coat pocket. “Here.” He dropped fifty cents into one boy’s cupped hand and walked on.

“How ‘bout a buck?” They skipped eagerly beside him, one at each arm. “You can afford it,” the second kid added.

“No, sorry, that’s it,” said Ben, picking up his step a bit.

The first kid grabbed him lightly at the sleeve, like an escort, “How ‘bout this coat, then?” He laughed. It was just a joke.

The other boy laughed along as well, and Ben felt a change in the air behind him. Mid-laugh, the boy was gone. As if in slow motion, the boy’s body flew across the sidewalk and crumpled against the side of a building like a dropped dishrag. Sidney stood in the boy’s place, his shoulder lowered but already turning. The second boy turned in wonder, his hand still clutching Ben’s coat. Ben felt warm air rush by as Sidney’s fist snaked past and crunched into the center of the boy’s face. It made a horrible sound.

The boy was on his ass, his hand over his nose, with blood pouring between his fingers. The other youth was up on hands and knees, gasping for air. They both ran.

Ben could not speak. He could not think of any words, and his mouth was too numb to form them.

“Jeez, that could’ve been trouble,” said Sidney, casually shaking the hand that had struck the blow. “You’re all right, I take it?”

“Fine,” Ben said like an automaton.

“I wouldn’t bother reporting it to the police. There’s a hundred or more down here just like them. You’ll just waste your night filling out paperwork.”

“Okay,” said Ben, turning away from Sidney and starting to shuffle off toward his car.

“I’ll walk you to your car, just in case,” said Sidney, back at Ben’s side, pivoting his head around like a soldier on patrol.

It was just a couple more blocks. Ben didn’t say a word, looking surreptitiously at Sidney from time to time. Not a hair looked ruffled.

Sidney leaned his folded elbows on the top of Ben’s car. “Don’t worry about it,” said Sidney. “Nothing to be ashamed about. A lot of people get mugged. Plus they had you outnumbered.”

Ben saw no point in arguing, so he nodded.

“Pour yourself a stiff drink when you get home.”

“I will,” said Ben quietly. As he drove away, he saw Sidney in the rearview mirror, waving at Ben with a generous smile on his face.

When Ben got back to his townhouse, his heart was still racing. It wasn’t out of fear, but embarrassment and maybe anger. He could’ve just shaken his arm loose from that kid, and that would’ve been the end of it. Jesus. He could still hear the grotesque pop when Sidney buried his fist into the boy’s face. His nose was broken for sure. And then Sidney walked him to his car like a date. He should’ve said something right away to Sidney. Voiced his disapproval. No, that was too civilized. He should’ve told Sidney that he was a violent jerk, and even if Sidney were the next Michelangelo, he wasn’t going to raise a finger to help him.

Still in his jacket, Ben went into the kitchen and poured himself a brandy. It warmed him immediately and stopped his heart from pounding in his ears. After a second drink, he felt, with some relief, that he had returned to his own skin once again. He crossed the living room to his workspace, turned on his computer, and logged on.

Sidney had a bare-bones website. Its design was sparse and simple, Asiatic almost in its colors and lines, even a little feminine. Anyone who hired Sidney after viewing his website would be shocked when they met him. The samples were diverse and professional, glib even, but without any personal expression. Each could’ve been the work of a different designer.

Good meeting you, he typed to Sidney in an e-mail. I took a look at your website. You have some sharp-looking samples. I’ll drop a note to Wilson. Tell him to look at your stuff.

He paused for a minute, trying to formulate some delicate words about the encounter. Something friendly and thankful, but with quiet remonstrance. And thanks for showing up at just the right moment this evening. It could’ve gotten ugly, I suppose. Still, I’m not sure that you needed to be so hard with what were, after all, just a couple of harmless street kids.

Ben read it all over and then impulsively cut out the last sentence. He typed his name and clicked “Send.” He did drop a note to Wilson, to say that he was glad to have seen him, and that he would set something up through Cynthia Phillips. In the end, he casually decided that it would be inappropriate for him to offer an assessment of Sidney Alstead’s work.

The light was brilliant in the restaurant booth. Ben sat with his occasional client, Margaret Chase, next to a high window that let in the reflection of winter sunlight, which bounced off small banks of snow and slick streets.

“That storm cleared through fast,” said Margaret.

“It did,” Ben agreed.

They spoke of the weather and coming holiday plans, and then ordered their lunch. Ben ordered something light, so he could talk comfortably.

“How’s business been?” Margaret asked.

“Okay for this economy. Looks like I might be picking up some more work with the Hamilton Group. A furniture manufacturer.”

Margaret nodded enthusiastically. She took a personal interest in Ben’s career, which he mildly resented. “I read in the City Journal that they won a few new big contracts.”

“So it would seem,” Ben said. “I think they’re still dickering a little. I helped with some initial concepts on one project, but they’re on radio silence now.”

“Same old story. Hurry up and wait.”

Ben nodded and took a roll from the basket.

“I’m working with a software company that needs a fresh set of sales tools to promote a new release.” She set a small portfolio where an extra place setting had been cleared and opened it to a set of matching brochures. “I was thinking something along the line of these pieces. At least conceptually.”

“You do these?” Ben asked.

“I did,” said Margaret, a little color rising in her neck. “Almost a decade ago.” Ben knew that she had a quiet pride about her old design work. She had given it up after surgery for carpal tunnel didn’t help. But she had a good business as a marketing consultant.

“They have a little of that ‘nineties wave-of-the-future look, but they’re pretty good pieces,” said Ben. She always appreciated his professional assessment of her past work. He wondered if she suspected that he quietly pulled his punches.

“You obviously see how the look and feel match, but there’s a sort of visual progression from one product to the next.”

Ben suppressed a yawn. It wasn’t so much the talk that was making him tired, but the glare coming through the glass.

Boom. Ben jerked in his seat, and Margaret nearly knocked over her water glass. A large, flat hand lay pressed against the outside glass where it had struck. The opposite hand twiddled its fingers in a smarmy wave. The two hands belonged to Sidney Alstead. He walked along the front of the restaurant and came inside.

Margaret glanced at Ben, raising her eyebrows.

“It’s okay, a friend of mine,” Ben said and immediately regretted it.

Sidney walked up the aisle, shaking his head and motioning for Ben to stay seated. He towered above them. “How are you, Ben?”

“Not unwell. This is Margaret Chase.”

“Margaret,” said Sidney, nodding curtly. Neither held out a hand.

Ben waited through an awkward silence, then finally asked, “Do you want to sit down? We already ordered.”

“Okay,” said Sidney, pushing into the booth next to Margaret. “But just for a second. I’ve got a meeting with Wilson.”

“Wilson?” Ben couldn’t stop himself. “You’re doing some work over there?”

“Well, sure. You knew that.”

Ben nodded hastily. “I didn’t realize they got you on board so fast.”

“Like that,” Sidney said, snapping his fingers. “It’s almost more than I want at this point.” He glanced at the open portfolio. “Your work?” he asked Margaret.

“It is,” she said.

Sidney turned down the corners of his mouth, quickly turning through the portfolio’s pages. “But you’re not designing anymore?” It was more a statement than a question.

“That’s true,” said Margaret. “I had to give it up. Carpal tunnel. You figured because the products are all old?”

“No.” Sidney shook his head. “I figured because the work is crap.”

Margaret looked as if she had just been slapped — angry and astonished.

“Christ, Sidney,” said Ben, “That’s a bit much.”

“Hey, no hard feelings.” He smiled at Margaret. “It’s not personal. You’ve given it up anyway. I’m just calling it like I see it.”

“Maybe,” Ben leaned forward, “you’re not seeing too well.”

Sidney held his palms up. “I’m not going to argue about it.” He slapped the table and slid out of the booth. “I’m sure Ms. Chase has lots of other skill sets to keep her going.” He winked openly at Ben. “I’ll see you next Friday at the Hamilton Christmas party.” As he walked out of the restaurant, waiters had to press themselves against tables to let him pass.

Neither of them said anything for a minute or more. “That’s a friend of yours?” Margaret finally asked.

“Not really. Not at all,” said Ben. “We just met at one of those Ad Federation meet-and-greet events.”

“I didn’t know that they made them like that anymore.”

“Apparently they do,” said Ben.

Margaret zipped up her portfolio and set it next to her in the booth. Ben ate his soup and sandwich when it came, but he hardly tasted the food. Margaret offered small, friendly talk, but Ben found it hard to imagine that she would want to work with him now. He would just remind her of this very unpleasant experience. Ben thought he might not like to work with her either. Did she think that Sidney had taken over his work at Hamilton? It wasn’t true. They had a lot of projects and many clients.

Besides, Ben had to admit, there was more than a little truth in what Sidney said, as impolite as he had been. He had to compromise his artistic standards when he worked with Margaret. She always wanted the most pedestrian designs. Ben should’ve told her long ago that she needed to defer to his judgment on visual matters. If she did want to work with him in the future, he would tell her just that.

When the check came, Ben suggested that they split it down the middle.

When Sidney called on Tuesday afternoon, Ben was mocking up some designs for Margaret Chase after all. The Hamilton project was still in limbo, and he had time on his hands. It went against his grain, but if he completed some initial layouts, she might be willing to forget the whole incident, like the proverbial bad dream.

It was hard though to imagine Sidney as some illusory netherworld figure when his name showed up on the caller ID.

Ben picked up the phone. “Hello, Sidney.”

“Got your spy phone working, I see,” said Sidney.

“What’s up? I’ve got a rush project.”

“I hope not for that bimbo.”

“No,” Ben lied. “Something else. But that so-called bimbo commands a lot of business in this town. And she knows a lot of people.”

“Not an issue for me. Looks like I’ll be going in-house at Hamilton. Starting next Monday. Thought I should let you know.”

Ben beat his fist quietly into his thigh. He was glad Sidney wasn’t there to see the expression on his face. “That’s great. Going in as an associate designer?” He imagined Sidney would at least be stuck with the worst rote production work.

“Come on. Those days are behind me. It’s a senior designer position.”

Ben couldn’t reply, but Sidney was rambling on. “I wasn’t sure if I should take it. I like my independence. At least you’ve got that. But a few good years with Hamilton, and I could start my own agency.”

“What would you call it?” Ben whispered.

“I don’t know,” said Sidney. “I haven’t thought about it.” He paused for a moment, but couldn’t come up with an answer. “Look, once I’m inside, I should be able to throw some work your way.”

Ben rolled his lips against his teeth, then managed a simple, “Okay.”

“I owe it to you.” Sidney laughed offhandedly. “I’m responsible for you since I, you know, saved your life.”

“My life?”

“Forget it,” said Sidney. “I’d better let you get back to your rush job. See you Friday night at the Walpole.” He hung up.

Ben set his phone slowly back in the cradle. For a second, he imagined moving to another city and starting over again. Or starting some other career. One where he’d never cross paths with Sidney Alstead.

His invitation to the Hamilton Group holiday party had never arrived. Ben considered attending under the premise that Sidney had invited him. But Sidney didn’t work there yet. He could almost certainly crash, but it would be humiliating if they were checking a guest list or had assigned seating.

On impulse — and against his better judgment — Ben tried Wilson’s direct line. He heard Wilson’s suave voice on the message. He punched 0 without leaving a message, found the automated directory, and transferred to Cynthia Phillips.

She was decidedly cold when Ben gave his name. “Sidney Alstead’s friend?”

“Well, not exactly,” said Ben awkwardly.

“You two were together that night at the Shiva.”

“We’d just met.”

“Right.” She clearly didn’t believe him.

“Look,” Ben said. “I was trying to follow up with Clifton about the Zendo Furnishings project. I’d done some initial concepting—”

She cut him off. “I’m less informed about Cliff’s projects than you think. I believe they’ve moved forward with that one already. Did you leave him a voice mail?”

Ben had left him one late last week, but he had never heard back. “No, I’ll do that.”

“I’ll transfer you.”

“One more—” But she was already gone, and he was back in Wilson’s voice mail. He hung up without leaving a message.

She had missed the chance to ask him to stop by the Hamilton Christmas gala.

On Friday night, it began to rain around rush hour. By dinnertime, the rain had begun to freeze. It was a lousy night to stand in a doorway, Ben thought to himself. He ducked into a dingy bar across the street from the Walpole Hotel to warm up.

Under his overcoat he was dressed for the party. He had driven downtown without any clear intentions, let alone a firm plan. He wanted to talk to Wilson. If they weren’t going to use his work anymore he wanted to hear Wilson say as much. He’d demand an explanation. He had fantasies of denouncing Sidney in front of his new colleagues. But on what grounds? That Sidney had assaulted some homeless kids? People would want to know why Ben hadn’t reported the incident. He couldn’t denounce Sidney simply for being large and obnoxious. Maybe beneath his polish, Wilson was simply large and obnoxious, too. Maybe that’s how he got ahead.

Ben had parked a few blocks away, but by the time he was across the street from the hotel, he had lost his nerve. He had stepped back into the shadows of an alley and watched hotel and party guests come and go. When he finally slipped into the little bar, more than an hour had passed. He didn’t notice that he was shivering until he got inside.

“Yeah?” the bartender asked.

“Brandy,” said Ben.

“Any particular kind?”

“No.”

He drank a second one, too. The drinks hardly spurred him to action. He figured that he’d better just go home.

Outside, he turned his collar up against the freezing rain. He glanced one last time at the hotel, and there was Wilson coming through the revolving doors, walking fast. He looked twice over his shoulder as he crossed the street. Ben followed him into a narrow side street.

“Wilson, wait up, I’ve got to talk with you,” Ben shouted. He ran and caught the man by the sleeve. Wilson had slowed at the sound of Ben’s voice. In the hazy, rain-streaked light, Ben could see an amused look of scorn on Wilson’s face. Out of some primordial instinct, Ben turned, imagining Sidney coming to blindside him, but there was no one there.

“What do you want, Ben?”

“You got my voice mail. Why don’t you return your calls?”

“I can’t return all my calls. Just the important ones.” He jerked his elbow and his sleeve snapped out of Ben’s hand.

The wool burned Ben’s cold fingertips. He put his head down and rammed with his forearms into Wilson’s chest. Wilson slid back awkwardly, then toppled hard when his foot caught in a crack. He was dazed when Ben caught him up by the lapels of his overcoat. Ben squatted for leverage and bounced Wilson’s head off the curb again and again and again.

He couldn’t remember walking back to his car or even getting in it. He had simply been with Wilson and now he was warming up the engine and rubbing his hands together. What a lousy night. He put the car in gear and drove slowly home.

Ben was dead tired and he slept soundly, like the dead. The phone woke him in the late morning.

“Hello.”

“Ben, this is Sidney.” It didn’t sound like Sidney. His voice was low and guarded, worried even.

“Yeah, Sidney, you woke me,” Ben said. He wouldn’t put up with the oaf this morning.

“Listen, you’ve got to do me a favor,” Sidney pleaded.

“I thought you were doing favors for me.”

“This is different. I’m in jail.” He spoke the last words slowly and deliberately.

Ben propped himself up on his elbow. “Yeah, what happened? What for?”

“Wilson got killed, I didn’t do it.”

“Why’d they arrest you then?”

“I argued with him in a corridor at the hotel, during the Hamilton Christmas party. They were withdrawing their offer. I shoved him a couple of times, but that was it.”

Ben could feel his body relaxing, and his life coming into focus again. “How come they withdrew the offer?”

“Who knows? What does it matter? I think that bitch Cynthia Phillips put him up to it. She didn’t like me for some reason.”

“I can’t imagine,” said Ben.

“This is no joke. Witnesses saw me bounce Wilson once or twice.”

“Well, what do you want me to do?”

“I can’t make a long-distance call from here. I need you to call my mother. She’s in Omaha. She’ll know what to do.”

Ben wrote the number down, promised to call, and hung up. He got out of bed and took a long, hot shower. Afterwards, he cooked a three-egg cheddar omelet, which he washed down with a half pot of coffee. Finally, he called Sidney’s mother. It wasn’t so hard. She sounded like a small, frail old lady. Ben told her that Sidney was in a lot of trouble.

(c)2007 by Doug Levin