Sex, Murder And A Double Latte

“The two are interchangeable,” he said. “To admire my work is to admire me and to admire me, is to admire my work.”

“Yeah, you’re a piece of work all right,” Anatoly replied.

This time it was Marcus’s turn to redirect the conversation. “So, Anatoly, how did you and Sophie meet?”

“We met at Starbucks. I let her read my New York Times.”

I felt my right hand involuntarily clench but I managed to keep a smile plastered on. Anatoly’s eyes traveled down to my fist.

“She’ll have another martini,” he informed the bartender. “Mr. Balardi—am I pronouncing that right?”

“Donato.”

“Donato, I’m curious about the blank canvas over there.” Anatoly gestured to an empty canvas proudly displayed behind us.

“I’m so glad you asked this. That is my tribute to minimalism.”

“Your tribute to minimalism.” Anatoly spoke the words slowly.

“Yes, it is simplicity in all its purity.”

“Uh-huh.” Anatoly crossed his arms over his chest. “Tell me, Donato, do our tax dollars fund any of this?”

“Sooo, Anatoly, what part of San Francisco did you move to?” Marcus asked.

“I found an apartment in Russian Hill,” Anatoly said.

“What?” My drink sloshed over onto my platforms. “But I live in Russian Hill.”

“Well, this works out perfectly!” Marcus clapped his hands gleefully. “With you two living so close, I’m sure Anatoly wouldn’t mind giving you a lift home.”

“I thought you were giving me a lift home, Marcus.”

“Oh, I am, or at least I was. It’s just that…” Marcus transferred his jacket from arm to arm. “Well, you know I only have the two seats, and Donato is going to need a ride too….” Marcus’ voice then dropped to a low mumble.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?” I asked.

Marcus sighed and stuck his hands in his pockets. “Donato took the bus here.”

“I enjoy taking public transportation on occasion,” Donato said. “It gives me a feel for the people who make up a city, the people I do not usually have opportunity to meet.”

I was glaring at Marcus. He was engrossed in Donato’s tribute to minimalism.

Anatoly shrugged. “I didn’t drive here either, but I’d be happy to share a cab, Sophie—my treat.”

“Really, that’s not necessary.”

“No, I insist. It wouldn’t be right to force the artist to take the bus twice in one night. After all, there is a limit to how much time one can spend amongst the proletariat. And those people are known for their inability to appreciate spilt paint.”

Well, so much for Marcus’s attempts to avoid an explosion. But instead of taking offense, Donato just cocked his head to the side and smiled. “It is the rare individual who expresses his opinion when it is not popular to do so. I wonder if you would be willing to defend your views as vigorously as you attack others’.”

“I wasn’t attacking your views,” Anatoly said. “I just don’t like your art. Fortunately for you, there seem to be a lot of people here who disagree with me.”

Donato laughed, and Marcus exhaled. “Yes, there certainly is a wide range of opinion in this country in terms of what is acceptable in the art world and what is not. Pity we do not see eye to eye, but I do appreciate your candor.”

Anatoly nodded, but didn’t smile. I was beginning to think that the appropriate place for my drink was not down my throat but on his face.

Another patron approached Donato to question him about the source of his inspiration. He excused himself to give the woman a tour of his more complex pieces—those would be the ones with two colors.

Marcus took in Anatoly’s brown shoes and black pants, and then surveyed the room for men more likely to swing his way. There was one man that stuck out more than the rest. Not because he was especially gorgeous but because he so obviously didn’t belong there. He was no more than an inch taller than me and he wore his naturally highlighted brown hair pulled back into a high ponytail, which served to accentuate his goatee, groomed into a point like Lucifer’s. He was wearing a studded biker’s jacket and a pair of black velvet pants. I had to check the latest GQ, but I was pretty sure that wasn’t the new men’s look.

He strode over to Verdi and leaned in close enough that I felt the urge to remind him that this was a look-but-don’t-touch kind of event. He leaned back again and shook his head with a deliberate slowness. “This is shit.”

Anatoly took a large step forward. “I’m glad there are other people here who agree with me.”

“Where’s the social commentary?” the guy asked. “Where’s the controversy? This isn’t art, this is navel lint. A crucifix dipped in cow’s dung, a black-and-white photograph of a man sticking his fist up another guy’s A-hole. That’s art. That’s the kind of stuff that will make people stop and really think about their contrived Middle American sensibilities.”

Anatoly stepped back again. So much for bonding with Velvet Pants. Disappointed, the stranger’s head swiveled to Marcus in hopes of finding someone else sympathetic to his grievance.

Marcus made a little talk-to-the-hand gesture. “Don’t look at me, honey—I draw the line at gerbils.” He angled himself next to me in a manner that excluded Velvet Pants from our social circle. “How’s your drink?”

I looked down at my glass. It was only half full now, but I seemed to be having a hard time keeping it from spilling. “I think I’m finished.”

“Do you want to stay a while longer and get a better look at the train wreck, or shall we hail a cab now?” Anatoly asked.

“This isn’t New York,” I said. “You don’t hail cabs here, you call them.”

“Then it’s a good thing I have a cell phone. Marcus, it was very nice to meet you.”

I leaned forward to give Marcus a kiss on the cheek. “You owe me big-time.”

“Free cut and style for the next three visits.”

“I’m not hanging out, either,” the goatee guy announced in case one of us cared. “See you later, Sophie.”

My fingers tightened around the stemware. How many drinks had I had? But Marcus’s expression assured me that he’d caught it too. The night was getting way too bizarre for my taste.

Donato came up to us again. “Ah, now I must show you the rest of my collection.”

“Sorry, but your paintings reminded me that I need to pick up some stain remover to clean up the red wine that I spilled on my carpet,” Anatoly said. “Although maybe it would be more profitable to pull up the soiled fibers and mount them on a canvas—for those art collectors who prefer texture.”

That one left even Donato speechless. I definitely should have thrown my drink at Anatoly when I still had the ability to aim. As it was, it seemed the best course of action was to make a speedy exit.

“Thank you, Donato, your art is beautiful.” I gave Marcus’s hand a little squeeze before walking out into the cold.

Anatoly was close at my heels, so much so that when I whirled around to berate him for his latest impudence, he barely managed to stop in time to avoid a collision. The result was the two of us standing all of an inch away from each other. Old Spice. God, I love that scent. Without breaking eye contact, I became increasingly aware of his other body parts. If I took a deep breath, my breasts would press against his chest, and all he had to do was bring his hands slightly up and forward and they could secure my hips. His eyes finally left mine and lowered themselves to my lips.

He couldn’t possibly be thinking of kissing me. He didn’t even know me. And I hated him. He wasn’t even fully evolved. I needed to turn away. Yep, that’s what I’d do, turn away…in a minute.