Hot Desk: A Novel - 18

Ben finished describing the most confusing day of his life to Ava. They were on a park bench by the court, and he was lacing up his basketball shoes. “Jeezum Crow, B,” Ava drawled in her best Vermont accent.

“Jeezum Crow, A,” he replied in a better one. Butch sighed loudly and kept an eye on the basketballs.

“So your boy is just out there with the one and only copy?”

“Yeah. I mean, maybe he’ll leave it in an Uber. Better yet, drop it in the river. But I’ll bet he’s trying to get publishing houses to pressure Rose. Or worse: he’s actually showing it to people. What if he goes to the media?”

“You really have evolved,” Ava said admiringly. “Look at you, advocating for the destruction of the Lion’s posthumous masterpiece.”

“First of all, how is ‘evolve’ the word of the day? Also, ‘masterpiece’ hurts.”

“It’s good for you to examine and discard your slavish adherence to the hegemony.” Ava yawned. “The Humble Brag girls and I were out until four.” Ava was already doing summer research for her art history professor and living in the same dorm as a surprisingly successful indie band of seventeen-year-olds. No one was exactly clear on why they were also in the dorm after the term had ended, but Ava had surmised it had something to do with the most pierced member rumored to be a daughter of the provost. “We were celebrating their song debuting on the XMU Download 15.”

“I thought they only had one song?”

“Well, it’s number six on this week’s countdown. Anyway, back to your love life.” Ava was wearing what appeared to be a wedding dress with a crocheted cardigan and what he thought of as restaurant clogs.

“It’s not love I’m feeling.” Ben yanked the laces and adjusted his ankle brace.

“I don’t know. You seem pretty shook.”

“Obviously! I mean, she comes out of nowhere and not only is she the worst desk sharing partner on the planet but also she’s getting the estate because her actual mom is best friends with Rose Adams, and after Atticus stole the manuscript she actually said she felt sorry for him, which I know she said only to piss me off and now I have to go empty-handed to Caro. She knew about that fucking couch! I think I pulled my hamstring getting off it. Seriously, if you want to know who is the kind of person who would kill a cactus , Rebecca Blume is that person. What?”

Ava was giving him a look. “That may be the most impassioned speech you’ve made since you petitioned Doug and Jeanie for a dog in fifth grade.”

“Which, by the way, you’re welcome. RIP, Luna.”

Ava clamped her hands over Butch’s ears. “She was the best dog. RIP, Luna.”

Ben stood and stretched his leg gingerly. No, not injured playing no-holds-barred streetball. Injured getting off a couch. Jesus. He raised his hand to acknowledge a cluster of regulars milling by the court. “We got next! You’re with us, Luka!” the guy in a green bandanna yelled, pointing at Ben.

“Why is he calling you Luka?”

“It’s a compliment, trust me. The first few weeks I was just ‘the White Guy.’ Luka Dončić is a Slovenian killing it in the NBA.”

“Oh, I get it.” Ava squinted at the court where a small crowd had gathered to watch. “Are they nice to you now?”

“If by ‘nice’ to me you mean jeering and mocking the dudes who try to guard me, then yeah.”

“Flex much? Okay, Butch and I will stay for a little, but I’m going to bring him by the dry cleaning place. They have treats and a water bowl.”

Butch’s ear twitched at the word “treats.” “Good boy, Butch,” Ben said, then took a swig from his water bottle and tried to get in the right headspace to play. He would not think about Rebecca Blume. He would not think about Rebecca Blume. He would not think about Rebecca Blume.

“One thing,” Ava said, reaching into her overstuffed bag to pull out a paperback. “Do you think you could put a word in with Rebecca Blume about reservations for salute! ? She and Stella Marino-Miller are tight. Remember I told you about her? What? Too soon?”

Ben gritted his teeth. The image of Rebecca Blume’s green eyes and heart-shaped face flashed into his mind. It was the Rebecca he had seen on the screen in the office in the innocent days before he knew who she was; that image swelled his heart. The Rebecca Blume of a few hours ago with her arrogant suede boots and flash of white thighs and obnoxious seat saving and argumentative nature— that Rebecca Blume filled him with rage. The Rebecca Blume of annoying Post-its and scattered desk trash and complete disregard of the agreed-upon bonds that held together work society and the misplaced sympathy for Atticus— that Rebecca Blume disturbed the fuck out of his peace. He plucked a basketball out of his gym bag, slammed it on the concrete, palmed it, and smacked it down again. Butch gave him a reproachful glance.

“Just keep it back of mind, okay?” Ava opened her book and ignored Ben as he heard what could only be described as a low growl emerge from his own throat. Butch registered mild concern. Ben jogged to his team, which was now taking over the court and starting a quick warm-up. He fist-bumped and head nodded his way under the basket, snatching the errant balls and sizing up the competition. The loudest guys were never the problem. They would put a tall guy on him, then a faster guy, then their best player, but it wouldn’t matter. Ben circled out to midcourt, sank a three through the hoop, and ignored the hoots from spectators crowding up on the chain-link fence. Give him an elbows-out, loudmouthed motherfucker to mix it up with today. Maybe Ben was consumed with Rebecca Blume, but Luka wasn’t. Luka was going to sweat Rebecca Blume out of his system; he was going to punish anyone in his way; he was going to play hard enough that his head had nothing in it but basketball.

Later that night, Ben’s aggravated hamstring was starting to bother him. He had kept his head down, ignored the fouls, and channeled his aggression into the game. He got in that zone he loved where everything slowed down and he could see three, even four moves ahead: Pass it, go, catch it, shoot it. The satisfaction of running the court until the shadows deepened and he was going to have to hustle not to be late for work; the thrill of sinking shot after shot while opponents fell away; the respect from the quietest, toughest players on his team—all of it was enough to carry him through a long shower, a quick dinner, and a busy few hours at Betty Jack’s. But now that his adrenaline was fading, his body was letting him know that, even at twenty-six, he was not as young as he used to be.

After work at the bar, Ben got a slice of pizza to tide him over until morning, but instead of going back to his apartment he decided to walk for a while. Ava was not sympathetic to the crushing blow he had suffered while reading the manuscript. He knew that the Lion wasn’t perfect—far from it. Ben had known about his affairs, his younger wives, his less-than-enlightened portrayal of women in his work. Ava was right: Ben had been an apologist. Meeting Rose and Janet—Jane—had made it pretty difficult to intellectualize or rationalize the pain the Lion had caused. Ben needed another slice and probably a beer. He was too agitated to sleep anytime soon.

And that was how he found himself sitting at the bar of a dark, emptied-out little Italian restaurant, the kind of place he probably wouldn’t be able to afford to eat at even if he could get a reservation. It was also the perfect place for a date: open late, red-checked tablecloths, candles massing wax over the sides of wine bottles, the lingering smell of garlic butter, a quiet playlist bouncing between Ella Fitzgerald and Mitski. Ben wasn’t sure how a slice and a beer had turned into a plate of penne alla vodka and a Manhattan, but it had to do with the bartender, who, instead of turning him away since the kitchen was closing, had brought him the pasta and leaned on her elbows while they talked and given him her attention as if she had all the time in the world. Ben had to admire a pro. She poured herself a small glass of Fernet-Branca and they clinked.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. The bartender smiled, set the drink down, and began drying glasses at the other end of the bar.

Atticus:

miss me?

There was an unknown number on the group text that Ben assumed was Rose Adams. He took a sip of his Manhattan. Perfectly balanced. He had not been called on to mix many Manhattans at Betty Jack’s. He hoped that Atticus had gotten some sleep since he had seen him at the East End town house and that he still had the manuscript on him and that it wasn’t being passed around to all the publishing houses in New York City. According to Rose, the Lion’s will had stipulated that Atticus go to rehab or he would inherit nothing. Was Atticus making the most of his time left before then? Ben needed to convince him that publishing Making the Sun Run was a bad idea. Atticus hadn’t even read it yet. Did he care about his father’s legacy or was it just control, or more likely chaos, that he was seeking?

Atticus:

verrryyy interesting day

just opening the negotiations here

Ben finished his Manhattan, noticing that the bartender had given him a few extra cherries. Merely solidarity with a fellow bartender? Or did he still just look hungry?

Ben:

where are you?

Atticus:

lots of interest in running sun

making sunning run

Ben:

do you have it?

Unknown Number:

?

Ben imagined Rose Adams worried about Atticus, worried about the missing manuscript.

Ben:

you should get some sleep

Atticus:

ahahahahahahahahahahahaha

Unknown Number That Was Unlikely Rose Adams:

?????????

Ben:

it’s late let’s talk tomorrow

Unknown Number That Was Definitely Not Rose Adams:

who even is this??? WTF?

Okay. Ben paused. His thumb hovered over his phone. He had what his mom called “a sneaking suspicion.”

Atticus:

not sure why rose called in the JV squad but here we are

Unknown Number That Was Most Likely Rebecca Blume:

seriously who is this

Ben:

JV squad?

Atticus:

my man! dont get pissed just truth telling here

Atticus:

negotiations right? how about hawk eye?

Ben:

that’s rose’s decision

Rebecca:

atticus? BEN HEATH??

Atticus:

does rose have the bush in bird? bird in hands? hand in the bush LOL

Ben:

it’s not good for anyone if that book gets published

Atticus:

you were his biggest fan

That stung. Ben told himself again that Atticus hadn’t read the book. He thought about that wink at the town house, just when he was feeling sorry for Atticus. Even if he had read it, there was a good chance he would still be championing it, still trying to get it published. Whether for the money or to hurt Rose or even if it was to see his father’s last work in print, it didn’t matter.

Rebecca:

lose my number both of you

Atticus:

becca! maybe avenue buys it to squash it know what i mean

Rebecca:

gn don’t text me again

Atticus:

don’t be mad becca

Rebecca:

*

Atticus:

she mad

or is it quash? you the word guy benjaminnnnn

Ben:

let’s talk tomorrow just promise you hang on to the book

ok?

??

Atticus:

…

*

Ben waited another minute. Rebecca and Atticus were both gone. He shook his head in annoyance.

“All good?” The bartender pointed to Ben’s empty glass. “Another?”

“No, thanks. I know you’re closing up. I’ll let you get to it.” His phone buzzed and he sneaked a quick look. It was Rebecca Blume’s number.

Rebecca:

get your friend under control and make sure he doesn’t fuck everything up

He was going to ignore Rebecca Blume’s rude text. He was going to walk home, clear his head, and think about his next step. Probably talk to Caro tomorrow and raise the idea of Rose and Jane writing a memoir together.

Ben pulled out his wallet. “What do I owe you?”

“No, no. We’re both in the business, right? You’ll get me next time.”

Ben found a twenty and tucked it under his glass. He would love to reciprocate but she was clearly too elegant for Betty Jack’s. “Thank you.”

On his way home, Ben kept pulling his phone out, rereading Rebecca’s text, thinking of a response, then shoving his phone back in his pocket. Finally, the Manhattan got the best of him.

Ben:

last i heard you felt sorry for him

Rebecca:

you can hold two opposing ideas in mind, etc., etc.

Ben tried to think where he had just heard that F. Scott Fitzgerald quote. Ava? Yes. He sat down on a stoop so he could concentrate, first scoping the vicinity for rats. All clear.

Ben:

i guess that makes you a first-rate intelligence?

Rebecca:

oh look somebody knows how to google famous quotes

Ben:

right like you had the george eliot one just teed up

Rebecca:

you don’t know my life

Ben:

i know george eliot

Rebecca:

personally?

Ben:

are you always like this

Rebecca:

a first-rate intelligence?

Ben:

guess that’s why rose adams asked you to represent the estate

Rebecca:

don’t be a sore loser

Ben:

it was hardly a competition

Rebecca:

lucky for you

Ben:

srsly i would love a competition

Rebecca:

ok here’s an idea

get the book back from your friend

Ben:

not my friend

Rebecca:

really?? then why does rose think so

Ben:

i can get the book

Rebecca:

i have a better chance of getting it than you

Ben:

haha seriously??

oh you’re serious

i’ll take that bet

Rebecca:

if he hasn’t already left it at a publishing house

Ben:

cold feet?

Rebecca:

these are the terms

book needs to be delivered by monday all in one piece

and if it’s been copied it doesn’t count

four days do you accept the terms

Ben:

what is this mission impossible

Rebecca:

maybe for you

Ben:

winner gets what

Rebecca:

to give rose the book back

Ben:

and

Rebecca:

clear validation of superiority

Ben:

always so petty?

Rebecca:

cold feet?

Ben:

you’re on

Rebecca:

may the best man win

best person

Ben:

nice to see you evolving in real time

He turned his phone off before she could respond and enjoyed a momentary glow of satisfaction. It lasted until he began the long slog up to his apartment. Was he just playing into her hands? She had a lot more to lose if the book got published than he did. Had she set this whole thing up to motivate him to get the book so she and Avenue could go ahead and rake it in with the Lion’s backlist and new work?

The door on the third floor creaked open a crack. “Well, aren’t you a tall drink of water!”

Ben saluted and continued up the stairs, his mind racing. He would get the book for Rose. He would get the book to prove his—what had Rebecca said—clear superiority. Of course, if he got the book, he would see her again. He stopped on the final flight of stairs and stretched his hamstring. Maybe he would just take a quick look to see if she had responded. Ben pulled out his phone. Nothing. Fine. He pressed info on her phone number. Create New Contact. He hesitated. Better to be prepared next time. He couldn’t deny the frisson of something, be it irritation or excitement, as he typed into his phone: “Rebecca Blume.”