Chapter 1 Maw DiFazio liked to watch. He’d brought a swivel-chair from one of the salesmen’s cubicles and wheeled it to the shop—over behind a blue Lincoln Continental where Coney had the guy duct taped to a straight-back wooden chair. Coney hadn’t gagged him yet and the guy was trying to talk his way out of it. "Come on, man, what you wanna do this for?" the guy was saying, "lemme go, I make it worth your while. I gots all kinds a good shit— cigarettes, booze—gots twenty cases a Jack Daniels. It’s all yours, man, you let me go." The guy tried to force his hands loose, pulling hard and tipping back, jerking the chair’s front legs off the concrete and making a little grunting sound as he did, then giving up and looking at Coney again, hope there still in his eyes. "You look like a Marlboro man, I gots a fucking semi-load a Marlboro cigarettes. Camels, Newport Lights Virginia Slims— whatever you want. You like the Slims? They all yours, bro, no shit." His voice was high-pitched and panicked-sounding now. Coney didn’t seem to hear. He had his tools spread out on a roll-around mechanic’s bench, deciding on which one to start with and planning what he was going to do. "What’s your name?" Maw said. The guy in the chair looked over at Maw, noticing him now it seemed for the first time. "Willy," he said and paused, " look I—" "Willy?" "Tha’s right, Willy." It was quiet for a while. Coney had his back to the guy now, a pair of pliers in his hand. He was working the jaws, then reaching down and picking up a can of Three-In-One oil and applying a few drops. He opened and closed the jaws a couple of times, seemed satisfied, then laid them on the bench. "So," Maw said, "you know why you’re here?" Willy shook his head. "No, man, I don’t. I don’t even know you guys." He glanced at Coney who had turned to face Willy now. "You gots the wrong motherfucker. I’m tellin’ you." Coney had a piece of black heater hose in his hand and he looked at Willy, measured off a 5-inch length then cut it with a pair of tin snips. He held it up for Maw to see. "That look about right to you?" he said. Maw tilted his head and squinted. "I would think that should do." Coney nodded and put the hose down next to the pliers, then took off his overcoat and folded it across the hood of a pink Mercury Cougar in for a valve job. The car was spotless clean—one of those Mary Kay cars, Coney thought. Sell a bunch of make-up and they let you drive around in a Cougar. Sell a bunch more, they move you up to a Town Car or a Continental, something like that. Coney knew all about Mary Kay. He had once dated a Mary Kay woman. They had hit it off, and Coney had actually considered marrying her, but she was nosy, always wanting to know why he had to go out at those odd hours, how come he never talked about his job—shit like that until it became clear it was either her or his work. He’d chosen his work. Coney rolled up his sleeves, taking his time now, waiting for Maw to get through fucking with the guy and enjoying that quiet time just before the good stuff got started. Yeah, hell, Coney thought, how could a man give this up for a woman? Maw crossed his legs and folded his hands on one knee. "The reason you’re here is that you made some people very angry," Maw said, and shook his head sadly. "I’ve been asked to have a talk with you." Willy seemed to relax a little. "A talk? What’s that mean?" "Just what it says." Willy squinted, not sure now if Maw was serious. "We just gonna talk?" Coney and Maw traded looks. Maw put his hand over his mouth to hide his smile. He pretended to cough. Coney turned back around. "Just talk, that’s all we’re going to do," Maw said. "If we can come to some understanding, and if you can convince me you’ve seen the error of your ways . . . ." Maw shrugged. "There’s no reason we can’t clear up this up and have you home in time for breakfast." Maw leaned forward. "How does that sound?" Willy sagged. He glanced at Coney, then looked back at Maw. "Man, that sounds great. You guys had me going there." He smiled. "So, what you wanna talk about? What can I do for you?" "Well, Billy—" "Willy," Willy said. "Name’s Willy." Maw paused, put a confused look on his face. "I thought you said your name was Billy." Willy sat up straight. "Uh, well . . . ." "Which is it?" Coney said. "Willy or Billy?" "Well," Willy said, getting scared all over again. "That depends—" Maw and Coney looked at each other then at Willy. "It’s got to be one or the other," Maw said. Coney laughed. "Fuckin’ guy don’t even know his own name." Willy glanced at Coney, thinking. "It’s Billy," he said finally, "that’s what people call me," he nodded. "Definitely Billy." Maw looked over at Coney. "Were we supposed to talk to Billy and do Willy, or was it the other way around?" He scratched his chin. "What did Monk say? You remember, Coney?" Maw turned toward Willy now, putting on a sincere expression. "You’ll have to excuse me Billy—you’re young, your mind is still sharp—but me, well, I’m old and sometimes I get confused. You’ll know what I’m talking about when you get to be my age—"Maw snapped his fingers, putting on a look like something had just occurred to him. "Oh, that’s right," he said, looking at Coney and nodding, then back at Willy. "You’re as old as you’re going to get." Chapter 2 Jaz Reilly was late again. There were two doors to the studio and she went up to the second one—that would be the one in the back of the room—and walked in as quietly as she could. She needn’t have bothered. No one seemed to notice. The students were all knotted around one easel, Professor Mitchell in the middle, pointing to the painting and saying something about how nice the use of negative space was. Jaz put her bag with the tubes of oil paint and brushes down and joined the critique. "You see how she’s used the white space here?" Beck Mitchell ran his hand in a flowing motion across the canvas. "It’s not isolated, it’s integrated into the composition." He looked around at the young faces for some sign of understanding. "When you make art, what you don’t paint is as important as what you do." Jaz thought she knew what he was talking about. "Professor Mitchell . . . ." Beck Mitchell gave her a look. "Jaz, you know, you’re the only one who calls me that. My name is Beck, okay?" There were a few appreciative laughs from the other students. Jaz looked around, then back at her teacher. It made her uncomfortable the way the students called the professors by their first names. Maybe it was because all this was new to her. She’d never been to college before, and in Catholic school, it had always been Father this or Sister that. She’d never have dared to be familiar with her instructors the way most students were here at the art school. She guessed she’d have to get used to it. "Sorry," Jaz said, "anyway, what you’re talking about with the negative space, it’s sort of like that trick picture they show you in the psychology textbooks. The black and white thing where when you look at it one way, it’s a vase, and when you look at it another way, it’s two faces in profile looking at each other." Beck smiled and nodded. "Exactly right. That’s positive and negative space. The non-artist places much more importance on the positive space; the image, when in fact negative space is equally important to the aesthetic quality of a composition. It’s critical for an artist to understand that." There was a low murmur as the students mulled over this concept. Beck looked around the group, then back to Jaz. "Jaz, what have you got for us this evening?" Jaz sagged. "Do I have to?" Beck rubbed his hands together. "Uh-huh, you know the rule. Last one in the classroom is the first one to show. Come on, let’s see what you’ve got." Jaz put her painting up. "Hah," Beck said, "our resident Cubist strikes again." Jaz wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or not. "Tell us, Jaz, what were you trying to do with your composition?" Jaz hated this part. Having to talk about the work. Wasn’t it enough to have just done it? Couldn’t the painting speak for itself? "Well," she started out, "this is the view from my back porch and I—" Beck interrupted her. "No, no, no. That’s not what I mean. We don’t care what it represents, we want to know what you were trying to do. What you were feeling when you put paint to the canvas." "Okay," Jaz said, "uh, well it was afternoon, lots of different angles from the roofs and sides of the houses, and the way the sun was hitting everything made a lot of shadows and colors and shapes." She thought a minute. "I was trying to get everything down, but it was changing so fast . . . see, the sun was setting and the shadows would move and make it all look different." She stood back and looked at her painting. "I was trying to show . . . uh . . . ." Beck came over and stood next to Jaz. "Yes. You were trying to show what?" Jaz looked at him for help. "I was trying to show . . . ." Beck looked around the room. "Anyone. What’s going on in this painting?" Jaz looked hard at the painting, then it came to her. "Oh, yeah, change. That’s what I was feeling. I was sad the day was almost over. I felt sad because everything was changing too fast." It came out of her before she had time to think. Beck tilted his head and looked at the painting, then he turned to Jaz. "That’s what I feel when I look at it. I feel melancholy." He pointed to an elongated wavy shape amongst the other more jagged lines. "Look at that color." He shook his head. "It makes me want to cry." "Don’t you think he’s just the most sensitive man in the world?" It was after class and Jaz was sitting at a table in the Snack Pit with two other students. One, a girl from Woonsocket was saying how in love with Beck Mitchell she was. Jaz shrugged. "I don’t know. He’s a little too pretty for me." The two young women looked at Jaz and laughed. "Like you wouldn’t jump his bones in a second." Jaz took a sip of her Diet Pepsi. "Guys like that? Pretty boys, I mean? They’re usually jerks." She gazed off across the room. "When you children gain a little maturity, you’ll find out looks aren’t everything." "Oh yeah? You’re sooo much older. What are you, twenty-two?" "Twenty-four." "Okay, twenty-four, big deal." "Besides, I don’t think it’s right for professors to date students," Jaz said. The two girls nudged each other and giggled. "Peach. Now there’s one lucky chick," the girl from Woonsocket said. "Did you hear they’re living together now?" The girl from Woonsocket gave a little squeal, turned and grabbed her friend by the shoulder. "No! You’re sure? Who told you?" "It’s all over school." "No!" "Can you imagine living with Beck Mitchell?" "He’s absolutely the coolest, most sophisticated, most . . . most together man I’ve ever met." "Isn’t he just?" "So cool and confident." "It doesn’t hurt that he’s got a shitload of money, either," Jaz said, rolling her eyes. The two girls got dreamy looks. One sighed. "I guess he’s got just about the most perfect life you can have." Jaz gave a little laugh. She shook her head. "You guys are hopeless." She checked her watch. 10:36 p.mg. Time to go to work. She stood up, walked toward the door and paused near the recycle bin to toss her empty Pepsi can in. She was thinking about what the girls had been saying. Most of it was ridiculous, but there was one thing they were right about: Professor Beck Mitchell was a man who definitely had his act together. Professor Beck Mitchell gazed out at the lights of Providence. The city looked virginal beneath its clean white mantle of new snow. Too bad it was a goddamn cesspool. Beck shifted his position a little, almost slipped and grabbed at the window frame. He steadied himself and looked down. Traffic was light on Benefit street below, only a few cars crawling past this late. Snow had drifted onto the window ledge where Beck stood and he scuffed some with the toe of his shoe. The white powder fell lazily, sparkling in the light coming from the next window down, then disappearing into the dark night. Beck shivered. Jesus, it was a long way down. Did he really want to do it? Beck ran a trembling hand over his face. His palm came away wet. Christ, twenty degrees out and he was sweating. He thought about his tenure review tomorrow. There was no way he could go through with it. He had nothing for them. It wasn’t because he hadn’t tried. He’d spent the last two weeks pouring over his paintings, working on them and trying to put together a dozen, hell, 10 even that would pass as a coherent body of work. Something to show the tenure committee that he was fit to move onto the next step toward full professorship. It had been two years since his last review and now the college wanted to check his progress. But his progress had been poor to say the least. Beck had been suffering through the painter’s equivalent of writer’s block for the past 18 months. He’d started fifty paintings and finished only three. And those stank. He’d shown his work in a couple of group exhibitions and had gotten terrible reviews. Now he didn’t want anyone to see his paintings. Especially that damn tenure committee. Beck put his head back and looked up at the sky. A few patches of starry black showed through ragged tears in the clouds. He stared into the darkness and imagined the humiliation that awaited him at the hands of his fellow faculty members. Dear God, they’d rip him to shreds. He could not bring himself to face that kind of torture. But what could he do? Resign? No, that would be worse. He would have to face everyone and answer a lot of uncomfortable questions. There would be whispers behind his back. Beck looked down at the hard pavement eight stories below. There was only one way out. At least this way, there was a chance he’d be mistaken for a tormented genius—a sensitive artist driven to suicide by an uncaring world. Maybe his paintings would even start to sell. Beck took a deep breath, let go and was starting to fall forward when he heard a knock on his office door. Beck grabbed the window frame, pulled himself back, twisted around and looked inside. Who could that be? He glanced at his watch: 11:10. It would have to be Carl, the custodian coming to clean up. That’s all he needed. Have the janitor catch him out here on the ledge. Would Carl try to talk him in? How pathetic and humiliating would that be? Now Beck could hear Carl’s key hitting the lock. Beck turned and pulled himself back inside his office just as the door opened and Carl walked in. Beck turned around. "Oh, hi, Carl." he said nonchalantly, "how are you this evening?" Carl stood at the door. He looked past Beck at the open window, then at Beck. Something wasn’t right. The professor’s shoes were covered with snow, his face was red, like it was cold, and his hair was frosted with tiny specks of ice—the man standing there in his nice warm office but looking for all the world like he’d just come in from outside. Carl went over, stepped past Beck and closed the window. "You all right, Professor Mitchell?" Carl said. Beck assumed his confident persona: eyebrows raised, a slightly haughty but reassuring smile playing across his lips, his right hand tucked neatly in the pocket of his navy blazer. He cocked his hip and put one foot forward, striking the pose he believed made him look like he knew what he was talking about and usually reserved for lectures. "Why yes, Carl," he said with a practiced little laugh, "why do you ask?" Jaz had stopped by her place and changed into work clothes: a short-short red miniskirt and low-cut black satin top with a push-up bra. Now she sat on a stool in a bar called the Rusty Scupper and watched the men come and go. It was an upscale place, a hotel bar with indirect lighting and dark parquet—the kind of joint where executives hang out after they’ve told their wives they’re working late. In the last twenty minutes she had been approached by no less than five men, and had told each one to get lost. She was waiting for someone special. Jaz watched the entrance and in a few minutes saw a man walk in, stop and look around. He was in his late forties, medium height, broad shoulders that were probably really something twenty years ago, but now sagged a little. His dark hair had gray at the temples and framed a slightly pudgy face. The guy had a set of jowls that reminded Jaz of pictures she’d seen of Dick Nixon when he was president. Yeah, he was the one. The guy was still looking around, saying something to the greeter who nodded, then backed away. Now the guy spotted Jaz and a thin smile played across his lips as he reached up and straightened his tie and squared his shoulders in the $3,000 Saville Row double-breasted suit. He started toward Jaz. Jaz took a drink of Diet Pepsi, and when she put the glass down, he was there beside her, making a big deal out of getting settled on the next stool over—taking off his overcoat and draping it over an empty bar stool then sitting down next to Jaz and motioning to the bartender. "Hi, Chuck, I’ll have a G & T please." He paused and glanced over at Jaz, "And one for the beautiful young lady as well." Jaz thought, oh brother. She turned toward him a little, giving her black hair a toss and smiling just enough. Looking the guy over, acknowledging him with her eyes but not saying anything. Jaz turned back to her Diet Pepsi. When the guy’s drink came, the G&T, she stood up, pulling at the hem of the mini-skirt and turning on the stool, then stepping in behind the guy and saying into his ear, "We gonna hang out here all night, or do you want to go have some fun?" Jaz walked off without waiting for him to answer. By the time she got to the elevator, he was there ahead of her, pressing the ‘up’ button. They didn’t talk in the elevator either. Jaz looked straight ahead, watching the floor indicators blink them to the 9th floor. When the doors opened, Jaz stepped out first, letting the guy get a good look at her can—putting something extra into the walk and giving him a little bonus, although it wasn’t strictly required. He followed her down the hall to 956. She stopped and got the key out of her bag that was shaped like a little backpack, and opened the door. It was a deluxe suite. The far side of the room was all glass and looked out onto the lights of Providence, and farther over, past the post office, onto College Hill with Brown University and the Rockefeller Library. Jaz walked to the bed, sat down and looked up at the man. He hesitated by the door for a moment, then shrugged and came on over. He sat down next to her and put his arm around her. Jaz thought it was funny. Standing up, they were about the same height—5-11—but sitting down on the bed that way, she had to angle down a little to meet his eyes. He brought his face close, getting his lips almost on hers before she turned away. "No kissing. I don’t kiss." The guy pulled back, keeping his hand on her shoulder and giving her a look. He smiled. "You’ll go to bed with me but you won’t kiss me?" He laughed. "What kind of party girl are you?" Jaz gave him the smile from the bar again. "A $250-an-hour-party girl." She put her hand out palm up. "You pay first." The guy got a surprised look on his face. "You expect me to pay? Hell, I never paid for it in my life." Jaz held the smile, looking into the guy’s brown eyes, then shrugged. "Sorry, sir, I misjudged you. You’re one of those principled men who don’t consort with women like me." She stood up, slinging the little backpack purse over her shoulder and headed for the door. The guy stood up and went after her. He reached out and held her by the wrist. "Okay, okay." He pulled out his wallet and peeled off the bills. Jaz took the money and put it in her bag. Now Jaz went back toward the bed and stood near it, at the foot where the light was good, and began to undress. She undid the zipper on the mini-skirt and stepped out of it, then pulled the blouse over her head. The guy stood rooted to the spot. "Jesus H. Christ," he whispered, and came for her. Jaz had on thong panties, white, and a white bra. The underwear stood out against Jaz’s dark skin and she posed there waiting with her arms hanging loosely at her sides, her hip slightly cocked. She watched him walk toward her. It was hard to keep a straight face. God, it was so easy, men were such children. When he got close enough, she reached for him. He fell into her arms and began kissing her neck, little moans of ecstasy escaping his lips. Jaz said into his ear, "Aren’t you going to get undressed?" The guy had his jacket, shirt and slacks off in about ten seconds and was back in Jaz’s arms, kissing her neck then down to her breasts. They fooled around for a few minutes, doing various poses, turning this way and that, then the guy reached around to unhook her bra. Jaz pushed him away. "Uh-uh, not yet. I have to get ready." She picked up her purse, gave him a look, stepped into the bathroom and locked the door. Jesus, thought Jaz, what a way to make a living. She washed her hands and face, then ran the cloth over where the guy had been kissing her chest. Ugh, she hated having the creep’s saliva all over her. Jaz looked in the mirror and felt a twinge of shame. What would her dad say if he saw her like this? Half dressed in a hotel bathroom with some horny forty-eight-year-old businessman in the next room? Not much, she thought. He’d look at her with those green Irish eyes—her eyes—and smile. He’d say something to make her feel better. Her dad was like that: always looking at the good side of people. Like the way he’d looked at her mother. She was black, a Baptist, and he was white Irish-Catholic, and man, did he ever catch hell from his family when he’d married her. But they’d loved each other and Jaz had never heard a harsh word between them in thirty years of marriage. She looked in the mirror and smiled. Thinking of her folks made her feel a little better. Now the guy in the other room was saying something Jaz couldn’t make out. She ran her fingers through her hair and pulled out the tiny microphone. Reaching into her purse she took out a cell phone and hit the speed dial. It rang once, and a voice came over the other end. "Jaz, you’re a work of art. You got me all steamed up. What are you doing later?" "Hey, Leo, did you get it?" "Yeah, Jaz, I got it good. Video and stills. Guy’s gonna roll over like a sea otter when his wife’s lawyer springs it on him." "Okay, Leo, I’m splitting, see you later." "Hey, I was serious about later," Leo said Jaz pushed the end button and put the cell phone and miniature microphone into her purse and came out of the bathroom. She went to the end of the bed, avoiding the guy’s eyes. She started to get dressed. The man was propped against the headboard with pillows fluffed up behind his back, legs crossed, still wearing his socks to make himself look extra sexy, Jaz guessed. "Hey, what’re you doing?" the guy said. Jaz pulled her skirt up and zipped it, then put on her top. "I changed my mind." She was halfway to the door. The man was out of bed in a hurry and had Jaz by the shoulder. He spun her around and jerked her hard toward the bed, but Jaz pulled back and they stood there for a minute. She narrowed her eyes, reached in her purse and pulled out the money he’d given her then threw it at the bed. The bills scattered over that end of the room. "There’s your money. Now let go. I told you I changed my mind." Her voice was cool and even. The man smiled. "It ain’t that easy, bitch. I see something I want, I take it." Jaz almost laughed in his face. Here’s this guy, forty-eight but looking more like sixty now in his underwear—the flab folding over the elastic of his boxers—and he’s threatening her. Jaz sighed. "Listen, mister, I don’t want any trouble. I’m just a poor working girl trying to make a living. It’s just that I . . . well, I changed my mind, that’s all." She gave him a sorrowful look. "That’s a girl’s prerogative isn’t it?" The guy, hearing something in Jaz’s voice that made him think he had the upper hand, got up close, getting romantic and brushing his lips over Jaz’s neck, saying something now, almost moaning it. He still held her wrist. Jaz could see he’d need to be convinced. She pulled her wrist free then reached up and took his hand—the one on her shoulder—and in one quick movement, spun him around, twisted his arm up behind his back and brought her forearm across his throat. The man tried to wiggle loose. "Goddamnit leggo of me or . . . ." Jaz pulled up on his arm, forcing him to bend at the waist. He resisted, but in a few moments, Jaz had pried him to his knees. Now the guy was getting mad and he reached for Jaz with his free hand, but she applied more leverage to his arm and tightened her hold across his throat, getting him down onto his stomach. He struggled, and Jaz held him there until he was out of breath—which took about two minutes. She waited a couple of beats, showing the man she was in charge and that there was nothing for either of them to worry about. Now Jaz let go of his throat and jabbed her knee into the small of his back. "You going to behave?" She punctuated her question with a sharp upward twist of his arm. He gave a little whimper then went limp. The guy was making short gasping sounds now and Jaz was afraid for a moment that he might be having a heart attack. "You’re going to behave now aren’t you?" The man nodded. "Okay. I’m leaving." Jaz said. "You just calm down and take it easy. You’ve got enough troubles, you don’t want to get on my bad side do you?" He muttered something that Jaz took as no, and she let him go. Walking calmly toward the door, she had it open when the guy turned over onto his back and got propped up on his elbows. His face was red, his eyes points of pure hate. "Fucking bitch whore," he said between wheezes. Jaz stopped and took a step back toward him, coming at him fast and quick and stamping her foot and making a little growl as she moved. The guy’s eyes got big and he scrambled toward the bed, scooting along on his butt and elbows. Jaz smiled, shook her head, turned and went out the door. She walked to the elevator, not bothering to look back—pretty sure the guy would stay put for a while. Chapter 3 "You’re thirty-seven years old and her professor, for Christ’s sake. That’s why it’s unethical and immoral." Carson Ward-Wells sat behind his desk, a serious look on his face. He had a pencil in his hand and he tapped it against his open palm. He paused, giving Beck time to think about what he had said, then he leaned forward. "Look, Beck, I want you to consider me your friend, not just your department head. That’s why we’re having this little talk strictly off the record." The two men sat in Ward-Wells’ office on the second floor of Benson Hall. Two doors down from the studio where Beck had just endured his 7-year tenure committee review. It had been pure hell, worse even than he had expected, and now Beck had several new names to add to his enemies list. Professor Mecham Bonzell, for one. The man had been merciless. "Well, Professor Mitchell, I don’t know, I just don’t know . . . ." Mecham Bonzell had stood back, rubbing his chin, slowly shaking his head. "How, exactly, would you characterize your body of work? What would you say is your idiom?" Mecham Bonzell made a sweeping motion with his hand, indicating Beck’s dozen or so oils arranged on easels around the studio. What kind of question is that? What is my idiom . . . give me a break. Beck had been leaned back against the wall, his hands folded at his waist. He had a sudden urge to reach over and strangle the old bastard. Instead, he took a few steps forward, gave Mecham Bonzell his most sincere look and said, "That’s a good question, Professor Bonzell." He paused, "I guess I would have to say my work really doesn’t fit into any didactic school or idiom. I think of what I do as an eclectic exploration into—" "Yes, yes, we’ve heard all that before. It’s the copy from your last exhibition catalog," Cheryl Pouge said, sounding irritated. Cheryl Pouge was a second-rate painter who considered herself a champion of the photo-realism school. Cheryl spent her days doing oils of giant kitchen utensils—all painted in excruciating, if not exactly pleasing detail. Beck always found them disturbing. It had something to do with the woman’s use of tone, shade and value. Beck suspected she was secretly colorblind. She scratched at her arm. "I just wish you would show us some consistency, these are all so . . . so . . . erratic, and well, if you’ll forgive me for saying, not very good." Cheryl Pouge had been—strictly for general purposes—somewhere in the middle of Beck’s enemies list for a long time. Her last comment moved her up to number three, or maybe even number two. Beck looked off at the ceiling as though he were giving serious consideration to Cheryl’s observations. "Erratic," Beck said, nodding and putting on a contemplative look to show how insightful he thought Cheryl Pouge was being. "E-rat-ic . . . ." He glanced over at Cheryl. He imagined her tied to a spit, slowly roasting over a roaring fire. Barbarians danced and whooped all around her, hacking at her flesh with long shiny blades as she screamed out in agony. "Yes, Beck, that’s what I said, erratic," Cheryl Pouge said, giving him that look now. Number one. Definitely number one on the list, Beck thought. The rest of his review had gone pretty much like that. Even Carson Ward-Wells, who was supposed to be his friend, had worked out on him, calling his paintings ‘interesting.’ Then, when the ordeal was finally over, Carson had grabbed him and dragged him into his office to give him hell about his personal life. Why couldn’t these people let him be? Let him teach. He was a terrific teacher. "That’s not the point," Carson was saying now. "The point is you’re dating one of your students." He waved his hand. "You saw how your review went," he shook his head, "Christ, Beck, if Bonzell had known about you dating Peach, you think you’d have gotten off as easily as you did?" He shook his head. "We won’t know the committee’s decision for another week. As you know, their recommendation will determine whether your contract will be renewed for next year." Carson paused. "I can call in a few favors, but there’s only so much I can do . . . ." Beck looked down at his shoes. He could feel little pinpoints of perspiration popping out on his forehead. He looked up at Carson. "Look, Carson, I—" Carson waved him off. "This is the deal: I’ve done all I can. If you insist on continuing the relationship . . . ." He shrugged. "I won’t be able to defend you to the tenure committee." Carson paused and looked off. "Besides, Peach’s father is an important man in Providence. He gives a nice check to the school every year. The man considers himself some kind of connoisseur. We invite him to some openings, things like that. Makes him feel like he’s one of us." Carson gave Beck a knowing look and laughed derisively through his nose. "Anyway, I’m sure he can’t be too happy about what’s going on between you and his little girl. The last thing I need is a scandal in my department." Beck looked out the window at the falling snow. Three inches of new powder coated the Henry Moore sculpture down in the quad. Beck was thinking about his relationship with Carson. He had always been ambivalent about the man. Not seeing him as a friend especially, but also thinking of him as an enemy. But sitting there in the man’s office, taking this lecture, Beck was thinking now maybe there was room for him on the list after all. Beck turned back toward Carson. "I know. I know," he said. Carson smiled. "Okay, so what are you going to do?" Beck took a deep breath. He thought what he ought to do is tell Carson to go straight to hell, then get up and walk out. But he didn’t. "Look, Carson, I appreciate that you’re trying to help me, but, uh, I really don’t think who I date is anyone’s concern. I mean, she’s over 18. She can make up her own mind, can’t she?" His voice was high-pitched, defensive. He adjusted his position in the chair. Carson gave him a look. "You know how many people would kill to have your position? Tenure track associate professor at the New England College of Art? The most prestigious art school in the country, the world maybe?" He shook his head. "You’re on the way up, my friend. Play it right and you’ll get tenure in another three or four years, and after that?" Carson shrugged. "No one can touch you. You can go around making love to fire hydrants if you want." He stood and came around the desk, sat down in a chair and scooted it close to Beck, leaned in and put on a sincere expression. All buddy-buddy now. "How bad you got it, pal?" "I don’t know," Beck said. "What I’m saying is, if you really are in love with this girl, then maybe she’s worth sacrificing your career. I can’t make that decision for you." He shrugged, "There are a lot of very fine junior college art departments that would be tickled to death having someone like you on their faculty." He smiled. "I know of an opening at the North Omaha Community College. I can give them a call if you want . . . ." Beck had been staring down at the floor. He brought his eyes up to meet Carson’s. Beck sighed then gave his boss a repentant look. "I’ll take care of it." Beck said finally, then, " . . . and Carson?" "Yes, Beck?" "Thanks for being my friend." Beck threw that last part in for its ass-kissing value and was immediately disgusted with himself for being such a fraud—but then—what could he do? It was what Carson wanted to hear.