She realized his eyes were closed and he was no longer listening. “I’m afraid he’s gone, miss,” the intern told her.
They tried to revive him at the hospital but it was too late. She took the portfolio from the trunk of her car and gave it to Corporal DeGeorgio. He listened to her, shaking his head. “That’s the craziest thing I ever heard. This Chinese fellow must have been a supreme confidence man to convince anyone it was true.”
“Maybe not,” Susan said. “If Chatow was in on the scheme, it must have been more than a con game. Something must really be buried out there.” She remembered Mike Brentnor’s phrase. “Sort of a gateway to heaven. For the bettors and maybe for the horses.”
That was when she remembered the bet she’d made with Mike. If the mechanism was really there, she’d lost the bet. But Mike had lost more than that.
(c)2007 by Edward D. Hoch
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.