Domino (The Domino Trilogy) (8 page)

“Neither. I’m Jewish.”

That just confused me. “So you see yourself as something separate from ethnic Russians or Ukrainians?”

He smirked. “I’m not the only person who thinks that. The Russians and Ukrainians think the same thing. It’s not easy being a Jewish person in Central Asia.”

“And yet, you don’t seem to bring up Judaism in your art.”

He shrugged. “So?
I’m assuming you’re probably from a Christian background, even though you don’t have a crucifix tattooed on your forehead.”

I heaved a sigh of frustration. Just when I thought I was getting somewhere, he started evading my questions again
, turning the tables on me like an expert. Out of desperation I broke the cardinal rule of journalism----making the interview about me. “So, why did you want to have dinner with me if you don’t want to talk?”

“I never said I didn’t want to talk. I just prefer not to talk about myself.”

“That’s obvious.”

Instead of responding to my snide remark, he dug into the second half of his sandwich.
Layla finally arrived with mine. As she set my plate down in front of me, she cast her eyes from me, to Peter, and back again. “Everything OK here, hon?”

“Fine. Can you bring me a Diet Coke when you have a chance?
Light ice.” I had a feeling we’d be here a while, and I knew I’d need the caffeine. Layla nodded and discreetly sauntered off.

I dug into my own meal----delicious, as it always was here at the Salt-n-Pepper----and refrained from saying anything more. I hoped I could get the silence to stretch on long enough to compel Peter to speak. That, and I just wanted to study him. I found every detail of his face and physique fascinating. The way his forehead crinkled into three tiny “Vs” when he swallowed. The distinctive pattern of the lines around his eyes, which added nothing to his age, but only made him seem that much more mysterious. The cleft in his chin, the likes of which I’d never seen before. His unusual
haircolor, a russet brown that reminded me of new cattails in spring. And those deep icy-blue pools of his.

Those eyes.

Those eyes that penetrated my inner depths, and yet gave absolutely nothing away about their owner.

I was almost halfway through my own burger and fries when Peter finally spoke. “You know Nancy, you’ve told me next to nothing about yourself.”

I smiled. I could evade questions, too. Two could play this game as easily as one. “There really isn’t much to tell.”

He raised one eyebrow. “Surely you jest. By all accounts you are a highly unusual young
woman.”

“You’ve already hit all the highlights.”

“Refresh my memory on them, if you don’t mind.”

“I’m a college student at Case Western, studying literature and journalism. I’m doing this article as a freelance assignment. M
y roommate is the Midwestern correspondent at
Art News Now
and I got the gig through her. I think most contemporary art is a stupid waste of time. That’s pretty much it.”

He cocked his head at me. “Surely there’s more to you than that.”

“Not really.”

“Do I detect a bit of a Boston accent? Or New England at least? You certainly don’t sound like you’re from Ohio.”

“You’re right, I’m not from Ohio. I grew up just outside of Boston. My parents are both college professors at Beverly.”

“Good little school, or so I’m told.”

“It is. But I didn’t want to go to the same school where my parents taught. I got a partial scholarship to Case Western so that’s how I ended up out here in Ohio.”

He seemed amused at that remark. “You say
out here
as if Ohio were some sort of cultural wasteland.”

“That’s because it kind of is. At least, compared to Boston or New York it is.”

“Well, perhaps in that context, yes.” He polished off the last of his French fries and regarded me thoughtfully. “In retrospect, I probably should have picked a different town to do this exhibit opening. Richard emailed this morning to tell me that nothing in the show sold, and that even if there hadn’t been an, ahem, incident with the models, the police say we’d have run afoul of the public indecency ordinance with just the photographs alone. Ridiculous. People certainly are uptight around here.”

I nodded agreement.
“Living in Ohio is like living in a time warp sometimes. Though I think you still would have gotten into trouble in New York or Boston for the painted naked modelshaving kinky butt sex in public.”

He chuckled. “New York, not likely. Boston I’ll give you though.”

“Touché. It’s all those Irish-Catholics, don’t you know.” I picked at my French fries, which had mostly gone cold by then. “But seriously, what did you think was going to happen when you chained up two naked people like that together under a sheet? Like you said before, nature took its course.”

Peter shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
“I expected the installation to be highly erotic, even shocking. But I didn’t actually expect nature to take its course, at least not with those two models. They’re professionals. I’ve worked with them on projects for years. They should have known better than to do what they did.”

“And yet, they did it anyway.”

He dug back into his milkshake, spooning out the thick chunks of ice cream. “If you’re looking for an explanation into why it happened, I don’t have one.”

“Bullshit. You knew it would happen from the get-go. You designed the whole exhibit that way.”

He choked on a mouthful of milkshake. “What on earth makes you say that?”

I sat up straighter. I was on a roll now, even a little shocked at what I was daring to say out loud.
“Anyone who walked into that gallery couldn’t help but get really turned on,” I said, hearing my voice quaver a bit. “It was extremely erotic, one of the most intense things I’ve ever seen. I’m sure it was the same for the models. They probably just couldn’t help themselves. Nobody could have. In fact, I’m willing to bet that if the cops hadn’t shown up when they did, there would have been a lot more fucking going on in that place.”

He leaned back in his seat and studied me for a moment.
“Are you saying that you couldn’t help yourself, either?”

I finally lost my footing. “Um, well, um---“ Suddenly the dregs of my milkshake became very interesting.

“Nancy, it’s a perfectly fair question, and nothing to be embarrassed about.”

“Who said I was embarrassed?” I said, my voice coming out as only a high-pitched squeak.

“The color of your cheeks, for one.” Peter turned to flag down Layla, who strode right over carrying my long-overdue Diet Coke. “Miss, could you get my lady friend here a nice cold glass of ice water, pronto?” Layla smiled and nodded, then went to get it.

“I-I’m sorry, I have to admit I’m a little out of my league here.” I finally managed to steady my voice a bit, but it was clear that despite my best intentions, this so-called “interview” was over. “I should probably just go home now. I’ll leave
enough money to cover my bill.“ I stood up to leave, but Peter placed a firm hand on my wrist, stopping me in my tracks.

“Please, Nancy, don’t go. You are delightful company and I very much enjoy speaking with you.”

“I didn’t agree to sit down to dinner with you because I like you,” I lied, taking my place in the booth once again. “I’m a reporter after a story, and I’ll get it any way I have to.”

His eyes twinkled. “Any way you have to, eh? Hmm. Be careful what you wish for, Ms. Delaney.”

“Oh, so I’m Ms. Delaney now?”

He polished off the last bits of his dinner, balled his napkin, then set it and his empty plate aside. “Since you insist upon being formal instead of friendly, yes. Absolutely divine meal, by the way. Don’t worry about paying either, it’s my treat.”

“It would be unethical of me as a reporter to let you pay for my meal,” I said drily, twirling the ice in my Diet Coke with a straw. Layla had remembered to include a lime slice, just as I liked. I took a quick sip first, then picked the lime out with my spoon, squeezed its tart juice into the fizzy beverage, and popped the remains into my mouth to suck without even thinking about what I was doing. It cleared the hamburger grease from my palate and the first hint of caffeine hitting my system gave me the boost that I so desperately needed.

My Diet Coke-and-lime ritual dated back to high school, I did it on autopilot without even thinking what Peter would think as he watched.

He stared at me, fascinated. “Are you always this sexy when you drink soda?”

I spat the lime wedge out onto the table in shock. “Excuse me?”

“The thing you did with the lime is extremely sensual,” Peter said. “You didn’t realize that?”

I shrugged my shoulders. Apparently not.
And yet, I felt the familiar warmth creeping into my groin again. I was turned on, just like I’d been at the gallery.  I couldn’t think straight, and I was making a fool of myself.  “I really should go,” I said. “It’s late, and I have class tomorrow, and I’m really very sorry about all of this.” I got up for real that time, even though half of my dinner still sat untouched.

Layla
appeared, carrying my promised glass of ice water. “Going so soon? Do you want a box for your burger, hon?”

I shook my head. “No, just leave it.”

She gave me a concerned look. “There wasn’t anything wrong with it, was there? I’ll get the manager over here if there was.”
“No, I’ve just lost my appetite, is all. Thank you, Layla. You know I’ll be back.”

She gave me a nod and a knowing smile, and set off to wait on some other customers.

I dropped enough cash to cover my side of the bill on the table, then bolted out of the restaurant without looking back.

FOUR
 

The drive home was a complete blur. Everything seemed out of focus, and I felt so hot and bothered (an expression I was only now beginning to understand) that I had trouble concentrating on the road. Making matters worse, Ginger’s transmission
was on the fritz again. I’d sprung the dough for a halfassed temporary fix over the winter, but it seemed that had run out. Poor Ginger kept stalling out between second and third gear, no matter how gently I let up on the clutch. She’d had that problem for years now, but I’d always been able to get around it, either through cheap repair jobs or gentle downshifting. But now the engine protested any time I tried to accelerate, and I could barely make the speed limit on I-90 on the way back to campus from downtown.

I took the University Circle exit and was almost
back in my own neighborhood when Ginger completely died. The engine came to a complete grinding halt at an intersection, and the only sound that emitted from her when I turned over the ignition was the horrid grinding sound of metal on metal.

Fortunately she stalled at the head of the
downward-sloping side street where Hannah and I had our apartment, so I could push Ginger downhill the rest of the way. I put her gears in neutral, tossed my stuff in the backseat, and got out to push. Ginger’s unwashed, rusty fenders would prove lethal to the clothes I’d borrowed from Hannah, though. I’d get stuck with a cleaning bill at minimum, might even have to pay to replace the duds if Hannah was in a bad mood. At least I’d had the foresight not to wear heels.

It took me almost fifteen minutes to push Ginger down the street to the cul-de-sac where our apartment building stood. Luckily there was enough of an incline for me to sort-of steer the car into a
final resting space based on gravity alone. I’d have to have her towed, likely to the junkyard rather than the repair shop. The repairman who did the cheap transmission fix over the winter had warned me it probably wouldn’t be worth sinking any more money into her, and that she was unlikely to survive another Cleveland winter. I’d been in denial at the time (Ginger and I went way back----originally my mother’s car when I was a kid, I’d learned to drive in her and she’d been my faithful source of transport since the age of sixteen) but I knew there was no denying it now.

Poor Ginger,
I thought.
Boy, we had some great times.
I pulled the parking break, heaved a sigh at my pathetic predicament, and headed towards my building. Hannah’s car was nowhere in sight, which meant she was still out at the symphony with Ted.

It was already quite late----well after ten---by the time I keyed into the apartment. But I’d have to wait up for Hannah and break the news of my complete disaster of an evening. Not only had I managed to not get what I needed to do the gallery openin
g review properly, I’d blown my chance at the investigative feature, too. I could not conduct an interview of Peter Rostovich to save my life. Talking to him was like trying to talk to the Rosetta Stone without the answer key.

Artists.
Sheesh.

Sure, I’d sold the scoop piece to the
Plain Dealer
on the fly out of the deal, but with almost nothing acceptable to write for
Art News Now
I was going to let my best friend down, and I hated that. I hated losing the feature article opportunity on Rostovich before I’d even had a chance to start even more. Boy, that could have been such a sweet gig. Especially if it had turned into a real staff-level journalism job before I’d even managed to graduate.