Keeper of the Keys (7 page)

Ray worked at Wilshire Associates, an architectural firm, in an office he kept intentionally low-tech. Other than a laptop and a big flat-screen monitor he attached when needed, he spent most of his time at a large, north-facing drafting table that overlooked the tall shining glass windows with a view of West L.A., drawing freehand with soft, smeary charcoal pencils. The architectural offices, on the fifth floor of a building on the boulevard, featured one whole wall of windows almost two stories high. He and Martin Horner, as partners and senior architects, had the views. Associates and assorted other support rabble skulked on the darker backside of the floor, which, true to the classy image the firm enjoyed cultivating, also had windows, only smaller.

Today he worked at his tilted table on the Antoniou mansion. Deadline for the preliminary drawings was only three days away, on Thursday. Achilles Antoniou, a restaurant owner originally from Athens, thought Ray was designing the Parthenon warmed over for his eight-bedroom spread in Laguna Cliffs, and Ray had started out with enough Doric columns to satisfy him, but this morning he had tossed the preliminary drawings and started over with a stunning modern structure that would give Antoniou the thing he was actually looking for, social cachet. Ray could talk him into the new design, he was sure.

He had never done this before, ignored the client’s vague wishes. He had always teased them out and brought them to life before.

Today he felt unable to do that. Everything else in his life had gone to hell. He did not want this project to go the same way. Antoniou would get what he needed, not what he thought he needed. And so would Ray.

People knew better than to interrupt him when he was sketching, and Suzanne fielded his calls, so he spent most of the morning alone. At quarter to one, he put his pencil down. He would grab something from the vending machines, then take off. He checked the hallway. No one. Good.

Too late, he spotted Martin, and Martin spotted him.

“Hang on, Ray. I need to talk to you. I’ll just be a minute here.”

Ray grunted and sat down in a chair at a messy desk. Meanwhile, Martin, continuing a process that had gone on for quite some time already judging by the client’s fatigued look, worked his charm by the overgrown acacia tree in the far corner, where the windows were high and the view awe-inspiring. “We create a vision for you, something supremely yours, something that says, hey, I’ve made it, and I get to make things look how I think they should look.”

The potential client, a director with fashionably thick intellectual glasses and a beard, who was famously rich and image-conscious, nodded.

“You want an indoor-outdoor pool, we provide it. The parties will never end.”

The potential client took off his glasses and wiped them with a sparkling clean ironed handkerchief.

That’s a no, Ray thought to himself, but not to worry. Martin was on top of it. “Or a Japanese garden with pines imported from Kyoto and nephrite boulders taken from the coastal waters off Big Sur. We can do that, too.”

The beard moved as though the guy was preparing to smile. Bingo.

“A teahouse,” Martin crooned. “Wabi-sabi walls, golden bamboo. Gravel walks. Ginkgos. Peace. A wonderful torii gate. We can build you that.”

“I have always wanted to visit the temples at Kyoto.”

“You could look for some very special addition to your garden there. Or look for tea-bowls. I know a dealer in the Ginza who has eighteenth-century bowls from a Zen monastery. I’ll call him. You are gonna impress the hell out of your neighbors. Not that you care about that.” Martin got a full nod there, wild enthusiasm from this cautious man.

Not a great architect, Martin was a great people-reader. Ray often watched client sessions with reverence. These people danced with Martin, and they danced to Martin’s music, however vulgar and jerky.

“Look, I know you’ve interviewed a few other firms. That’s just smart business, and you’re a savvy guy; everybody knows that. An investment like this, of course you’ve got to be careful. But here’s what we can give you that they can’t.”

Ray was dying to hear what that could be.

“A chance to play God.”

An eyebrow raised slightly.

“A chance to create your personal universe. You are part of the creation, every step of the way.”

The guy totally bought Martin’s horseshit. When Ray next passed the desk, Martin was shoveling paperwork toward the client, smooth-talking in between signatures, chuckling like a little kid.

“How come he got born under the brightest lucky star?” Martin said after the new client left.

“You’re doing okay, last time I looked.”

“Yeah,” Martin said. “Thanks for waiting. I hate waiting and I know you do, too.”

“No, it’s a rare privilege to get a close-up view of a sea lion devouring an otter. Nature at its most bestial.” Ray looked at his watch. “I’m in a rush. I have to run.”

“What’s up?”

“I have an appointment on the museum project in a few minutes.” In fact, the appointment wasn’t until the next morning, but he didn’t want to talk to Martin, didn’t want to spend time with him, didn’t want to deal with him. At some point, he was going to have to figure out what he did want to do to Martin. “One of the directors asked for another model on grounds that ours is white Styrofoam and looks it. Our competitor spent at least thirty grand on their model and it shows.”

Martin shook his head. “I hate losing that competition, but that’s more money than we can front on spec. These people have no idea how much time, money, and expertise goes into building a model. Also, they have no imagination.”

“Don’t worry, we can talk him out of it. Models are a thing of the past.” Funny thing to say, Ray thought, interrupting himself momentarily. “Wait until he gets a load of the computer renderings. I’m taking along the Parks project, too, just to shut the director up. Denise says the final presentation’s coming along well, although you know Denise. She never panics until the last minute.”

Denise Bell, one of the windowless-office denizens, took their models and made them look absolutely real by combining real photos with computer jazz. Then she created presentations that were more like mini-Hollywood films, including music, interviews, narration, and sound effects. Her talent brought them a lot of business.

“We ought to start giving Denise bonuses on the big ones,” Ray went on.

“Maybe,” Martin said, which was a surprising concession, since he never spent a dime he didn’t have to.

“Okay. So I’m out of here.”

“This will take just a second.”

Conspicuously, Ray checked his watch, then gritted his teeth and sat down in the high-backed plush chair opposite. “Snap. Snap.”

“I need to ask you something,” Martin said.

Ray tapped his foot.

Martin knocked the end of a drawer twice, then pulled it open. Inside, he had told Ray once, he hid problems and, sometimes, solutions.

He pulled out a bottle of wine.

“Hey, Martin, what the hell. Are you joking? It’s the middle of the day! And I told you—”

“I promise this won’t slow you down. It keeps me creative,” Martin said. “Check this out. It’s lunch.” He poked his head around a door. “Suzanne’s gone. She always locks the outside door.” The clock had clicked one, and everyone had rushed right out the door by the time it clicked one o one. “It’s just you and me this fine warm afternoon.” He uncorked the wine, pulling two crystal glasses from the drawer.

Ray shook his head. “No thanks. You’re an idiot, Martin.”

“It’s medicinal.”

“I don’t need medicine to feel creative, pal.”

“Well, your loss. Still, I’m surprised.”

“Why?”

“Leigh likes it so much.” Martin poured his glass full and crossed his leg. “Glug glug,” he said, smiling, and let his handsome head with its thick brown hair fall a little back so Ray could see his Adam’s apple bobble as he swallowed. It reminded him of Leigh on the night that—

It was then that Ray realized how much he hated Martin. The hate burst into full and complete existence, undeniable, hot. He could feel his face reddening. He couldn’t hide it.

So Martin wanted to talk about Leigh, and drinking gave him courage. Okay, Ray thought. He’ll get more back than he expects on that subject.

“We’re different, Leigh and I,” Ray said in a hard voice that Martin should have noted.

“In my opinion—not so much,” Martin remarked. “You’re yang, aggressive, male, and all that, and she’s yang, too. Yang yang. Like clashing bells.” He breathed in deeply.

Ray felt the bloom of blood vessels flaring in his face and said nothing.

“Is everything okay between you two?”

“What fucking gall, asking me that.”

“Are you two fighting?” Martin asked. “Because you should tell me. We have mutual clients and Leigh doesn’t answer her phone at work—the receptionist told me she hasn’t come in at all today. In fact, she’s worried.”

“Poor, neglected Martin,” Ray mocked. “Did Leigh miss an important date?”

A pause. Martin poured himself another glass, figuring things out. His hand was shaking. “What?”

“A date.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve been sleeping with her. I assume that involves arrangements.”

Air blew from between Martin’s sensual lips. Had that attracted Leigh, the exaggerated definition of Martin’s upper lip? Ray rubbed his own with his fingers.

“Oh, shit, Ray.”

“I followed you. The Camelot Motel, Torrance, Pacific Coast Highway. Like a country tune. I watched her going in there, wearing that black lace shirt she wears that makes her breasts look big.”

“Hell. Ray, you’re hurt, man, but I’ve never known you to be mean-spirited—”

“I watched you leave the motel first a few hours later. You have a nasty five o’clock shadow at the end of the day,” Ray said. “You ought to shave twice like Nixon did.”

“You probably want to punch me out. I can’t blame you for that.” Martin was already moving into his smooth-over mode; he obviously felt he would not get punched out, that Ray was a professional, for God’s sake.

Ray continued his own train of thought. “She came out…disheveled. Her blouse hung low on the left and her jeans, they weren’t buttoned all the way up. She was still messing with them. When she came home that night, she said she had worked late and accomplished a lot. I wondered what she thought she was accomplishing at a motel on a noisy highway on Wednesday night with my partner, my former friend. Designing a one-of-a-kind armoire?” He laughed.

“So you caught us.”

“Yes.”

Martin set his glass on the desk and licked his lower lip back and forth, apparently trying to think about how to approach this catastrophe.

He was so predictable, Ray could have mouthed the words he would say next.

“It’s completely over. I swear it. She dumped me. She loves you, Ray.”

“Go on,” Ray said.

“No need to get worked up about it,” Martin said, and to Ray’s satisfaction, he began to look apologetic. “We’re a good team. Can’t let a mere woman get in the way, even one as outstanding as Leigh. Leigh and I—we never had a regular thing. She was a slipup. Very brief.” He cocked his head as if waiting for Ray to refute this obvious bull. “I’m sorry. I hope we can get past this.”

Ray said nothing.

“Can we?”

“No.”

“It will never happen again,” Martin said. “Our relationship—yours and mine—is much more important. I can’t believe I put that in jeopardy. I hope you can rethink this once we’ve all had a chance to cool down about it.” Then he asked, “But, Ray, where is she? Her receptionist at work is having to close up the office today. Is she sick? Did she—leave you?”

“Did she want to leave me?”

“I can’t speak to that.”

Had Leigh maintained some feeble level of discretion after all? Had she refused to talk about her relationship with Ray to her lover? Ray hoped so. The woman he married, the one he thought he knew once, would never have betrayed him like that. “When did you see her last, Martin?”

“Wednesday. We went to the movies. She wanted to end it. Wanted to tell me all about you, how much she loved you.” Gesturing, glass in hand again, he needed to explain some more. He didn’t seem to notice Ray’s hands, fists now, the tension in his body.

This fury—Ray loved this fury. He felt like he was being defrosted by this murderous heat radiating inside him.

Martin said urgently, “Ray, listen to me. I’d like to be honorable, insofar as a bastard can be honorable under these circumstances. It was only a few times. When she felt neglected. Trivial. No effect on your marriage, you know?”

Ray recalled the moment he knew, not the moment he confronted her, just the instant he saw what was going on.

Leigh had come home, not too late, around nine, on a night a week or so before their final fight, bedraggled, heading for a shower.

“Come to bed,” Ray had said, worried. “Wrap me in your lovely arms.”

Her skin under the badly buttoned clothes glowed. Her eyes had a luster.

Ray recalled that look. Postcoital. He knew instantly. He stepped back from her.

She didn’t notice. “Okay, sweetie,” she said, needing transition time, grabbing a towel from the linen cupboard, running toward the bathroom. “Just let me take off the day’s grime.”

So, for ever after, he would think of Martin Horner as the day’s grime.

“No effect on our marriage, huh?”

For the first time that afternoon, Martin really looked at Ray. “That’s the last time we got together. I swear it.”

So, they went to the movies together, not just to creepy motels. The idea of them sharing such casual intimacy crushed Ray. “What did Leigh say?”

“About?”

“The future. Ours.”

Martin sucked unhappily on his wine. “She doesn’t like talking about you, okay? But this one time, she was crying. She broke down, said you’d changed lately. Got cold on her. Scared her sometimes, because you always seem angry lately.”

“You fucking asshole. You’re a bad friend, an unfaithful husband, an absent father, a lousy architect. I ought to walk out of here and never come back.”

“Oh, hey, Ray, no.” Martin looked around as if seeking a miraculous solution to his problem. “I screwed up, okay? I’m truly disgusted with myself. I took advantage of her when she was down and I—betrayed a friend. It’s unforgivable. Yes! But this is business, Ray! This is not about the sorry state of your marriage. This is important!”