For Every Evil (8 page)

“That’s … awful.” Rudy felt an involuntary shudder. He quickly finished his second glass of wine.

John picked up the wooden spoon and resumed stirring the sauce. “Do you miss your family in Montana?”

Rudy could tell he wanted to change the subject. That was fine with him. “Not really. But sometimes …”

“Sometimes what?”

“Well, I mean sometimes I think what I miss most is what I never had. I suppose that sounds funny.”

“No,” said John. “I know what you mean.”

Rudy was beginning to feel uncomfortable with the entire subject. “So,” he said, starting on a green pepper, “you must be feeling pretty great about your rave review.”

John stiffened. He kept his back to Rudy as he said, “I called Micklenberg to thank him. I don’t know why. I should have let well enough alone.”

“Why?”

“Are you sure you want to hear this?”

“Absolutely. I’ll admit I was surprised to read something so positive, especially after what he said to Kate on Friday.”

John gave an angry snort. “Well, get this. Micklenberg said he hadn’t written the column.”

“What?”

“I told him I didn’t understand, and he said he didn’t care. He wasn’t going to explain it to me.”

“Is that usual? Do people like Micklenberg let other people write their columns for them?”

“Not that I’ve ever heard.”

“So what happened?”

John shrugged. “I don’t know.” He returned to the sauce.

Rudy couldn’t decide whether this was good news or bad. “John?”

“Uhm?”

“How much does a good review mean to you? I mean, is it really all that important?”

John pushed a hand into the pocket of his jeans and leaned back against the counter. “Do you want the long answer or the short?”

Rudy smiled. “I think we have time for the long.”

“All right. Here goes.” He picked up his wineglass and took a sip, giving himself a moment to arrange his thoughts. “I believe that critics,” he began, “especially in the area of fine arts, serve a marginal function at best. They have power and can do damage to an artist, or help a career along, but essentially, they’re only a guidepost. What I object to most fundamentally is when a critic — any critic — mistakes his own opinion for absolute truth. Opinion, even educated opinion, is still just that. And most important, nothing and nobody should stand between the viewer and his or her personal experience with the work.”

“But,” said Rudy, popping a slice of cucumber into his mouth, “for instance, I’m taking an art history class this quarter. Value, whether positive or negative, is always being assigned to this artist or that piece of work. Do you consider that wrong?”

“I don’t believe it’s ever a mistake to learn about somebody’s life, or about the time — the social milieu — in which someone worked. And of course I agree that some works of art are more successful than others. But when an authority says that your personal response to any given piece
has
to be the same as his — otherwise you’re misguided, naive, or just plain ignorant — then I have to draw the line.”

Rudy nodded. “I think I understand.”

John turned down the flame under his sauce. “Once in a class I took, the professor was discussing objective truth versus subjective truth in relation to art. After the lecture, I stopped him in the hall. I told him that it seemed what he was saying was that when enough people get together and decide subjectively that something has value, it becomes objective truth. After that point, no one is supposed to argue about it anymore.”

“And?” said Rudy.

“The guy mulled it over and then started to laugh. He said that basically I was probably right.”

Rudy shook his head. “Let
me
mull it over for a while.”

“You do that,” replied John, with another amused smile.

“But what about Hale? Is he going to print a retraction?”

“I have no idea.”

“What will you do if he does?”

John lifted the cover off the pot, his eyes momentarily mesmerized by the steam and bubbling water. “Try to ignore it. I’m not always as angry as I was the other night at the coffeehouse. After Kate told me what he’d said, I don’t know what got into me. I’m usually able to control my temper better than that.” He looked around. “But thanks for being there. I really needed a friend.”

Rudy resumed his vegetable chopping. “No problem.” He whacked into a stalk of celery.

“Hey, take it easy. Those knives are pretty sharp.”

Rudy was feeling a slight buzz from the wine. He stopped for a moment and watched John dump the homemade pasta into the water. Being here felt good. This new independence, coupled with the conversation and the valpolicella, made him almost giddy. As he pulled over a stool and sat down, he made himself a promise. He would help John in any way he could. They were alike. Neither of them had much money, but both had a clear sense of direction — of what they wanted from their future. Nothing was going to get in their way. Not Rudy’s father. And certainly not Hale Micklenberg.

Rhea couldn’t believe her eyes. As she stood in front of her one o’clock Dancercize group on Monday afternoon, the double doors to the dance floor opened and in pirouetted Ben, a big grin on his face. He did a little two-step across to the assembled crowd and then, landing on one foot, took a bow. The women began to laugh and clap. Rhea shook her head, placing a hand on her hip.

“I thought I’d find you in here,” he said, catching his breath.

“I’m in the middle of a class. I can’t talk right now.”

Ben pretended a pout. “Just two minutes. That’s all I ask.”

She glanced at the crowd. “I don’t know —”

“Oh, come on. You ladies understand, don’t you?” He flashed them a boyish smile.

Rhea knew if she didn’t act fast, the entire class would be in shambles. “All right. Two minutes. Then you’re out of here.”

“Deal.”

They moved over to a long wall, covered floor to ceiling with mirrors.

“We still make a handsome couple,” he said, his voice dropping to its most seductive register.

Rhea looked at their reflection. She couldn’t help but agree. “All right. Make it fast.”

“How long does your class last? One hour? Two?”

“Forty-five minutes.”

“Great. I’ll wait for you.”

“Why?” She could see the women watching them. This was becoming embarrassing.

“I want you to come with me over to Hale Micklenberg’s office. I thought I’d drop by this afternoon. Get more specifics on what I’m supposed to photograph.”

“Why should I?”

“Rhea, the place is incredible! He’s set up a gallery in the small gate house behind the main house. He’s got artwork in there from all over the world. Didn’t I tell you that his column in the paper is just a sideline? Most of his time is spent helping rich assholes decide on the best investments for their bucks. Some of the work he sells to them directly. And I’m going to photograph it all for his latest catalogue. This is the most lucrative deal I’ve ever cut! I want you to see it for yourself.”

She hesitated. Ben had never lacked enthusiasm. Sometimes, however, in his excitement, he overlooked details. Important details — like contracts. “You do have all this in writing?”

“In writing? Nah. Hale and I shook hands on it. With a guy like him, that’s all you need.”

He was such a hopeless optimist. And she was so easily caught up in his dreams.

“So? What do you say? Are we on?”

Her class was becoming restless. She couldn’t stand here and talk any longer. “Sure.”

“Great!” He grabbed her and gave her a hug. “And afterward, I’ll take you to dinner.”

“Fine.”

“And after that —”

“Ben,” she whispered, with as much force as she dared, “we just got
divorced.”

“So? That didn’t stop us last Thursday night.” He wiggled an eyebrow.

He was incorrigible. “We’ll talk about it later. You go upstairs to my office.”

“Yes ma’am. See you in forty minutes.” He gave her a quick kiss and then waved to the class as he box-stepped out of the room.

An hour and a half later, they stood in front of the entrance to the Micklenberg gate house, waiting for someone to answer the bell.

“Are you sure he’s here?” asked Rhea.

“When I talked to him on Friday, he said to stop by Monday afternoon. He’d show me around.”

Rhea looked up at the second-floor windows. It was a dark, windy day. A light did appear to be on.

“Here we go.” Ben smiled. “I can hear someone coming.”

The door swung back. A balding man glared at them with undisguised annoyance. “Yes?”

“Hi! I’m Ben Kiran.” He thrust out his hand.

The man looked at it as if it had come directly from a toxic landfill.

“This is my wife — I mean my ex-wife, Rhea Kiran. We’re here to see Hale.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“What? Well, not exactly. He just hired me to photograph the spring catalogue for IAI.”

“I see.” The man peered at them distantly. “He never mentioned it to me.”

“And you would be?” Ben’s smile remained at high beam.

“Charles Squire. Hale Micklenberg’s personal assistant.”

“Of course.” Ben gave Rhea an amused nod. “May we come in?”

“Hale isn’t here.”

“He’s not?” The smile faded slightly. “Well, perhaps we could come in and wait for him.”

“He won’t be back for several hours.”

“Look, I need to get an idea of what I’m supposed to photograph. It’s important.”

“What did you say your name was?”

“Kiran. Ben Kiran.”

“Hmm. Well, I suppose you might as well take a look.” He stepped back and allowed them to enter.

Rhea was immediately struck by the size of the first-floor gallery. From the outside, the gate house looked tiny. Inside, the high ceilings and light cream walls made it appear quite spacious. She also noticed the bars on the windows. Not a welcoming sight. “These are wonderful,” she said, stepping to a series of Japanese prints.

“Yes, aren’t they?” Charles said the words with his usual ennui. After closing and locking the door behind them, he stood butlerlike next to the stairs.

Ben took this as his cue to begin examining the artwork. He strolled around the room as if he owned the place, a finger pressed to his cheek. Rhea could tell he was enjoying himself.

After a few minutes, Charles said, “I don’t recall seeing your signature on a contract.”

Ben turned. “Oh, Hale said it wasn’t necessary.”

“I’m afraid, my dear sir, that it is. Have you agreed to do this based on an hourly rate?”

Ben looked confused. “Hale said to just mail him the bill.”

“Well, as I am the one who
pays
the bills, I suggest you nail it down a bit better. Otherwise,” he said, biting the cuticle on his right index finger, “you’re going to be as disappointed as our last photographer.”

Rhea watched a frown form on Ben’s face.

“I see. Well, then, why don’t you show me one of your contracts?” Ben was trying to keep his voice light. No use antagonizing the man closest to the checkbook.

“I suppose I could do that.” Charles headed up the stairs. “Please. Follow me,” he called after him.

Ben held out his hand for Rhea and together they climbed to the top.

The second-floor office was lavishly appointed. Hale Micklenberg was a man who spared no expense making himself comfortable. An entertainment center sat directly across from a massive oak desk, complete with huge TV screen and stereo speakers. Charles had apparently been listening to some music before they’d arrived. A Bach fugue was just ending.

Switching off the CD with the remote, Charles sat down behind the desk and opened one of the side drawers. He removed a contract and handed it to Ben. “I assume you’ll want a few moments to look it over.”

Ben nodded, sitting in one of two leather chairs.

Rhea crossed to the window and looked down at the street. “You’re about to have more visitors.”

“What?” With an annoyed growl, Charles leapt to his feet and peered over a filing cabinet. “Oh, drat. Not the Kingfields. Hale’s supposed to handle them.” He shot an irritated glance at Ben. “If you’ll excuse me for a few moments?”

“Of course.” Ben didn’t look up, he merely waved a dismissive hand and flipped to the second page. After Charles was gone, he quickly finished the rest and then tossed it on the desk. “Standard stuff. I’ll just have to talk to Hale about a couple of the particulars. But it’s no problem.”