âHeâs been working very hard. Too hard.â
âHe wonât have to work here,â I said. âNo piano.â
Quinn looked at me. âAh, you know who he is.â
âZee knew. Sheâs a fan.â
âHeâs a wonderful player,â said Zee. âAnd heâs so young.â
âHeâs twenty-eight,â said Quinn. âWe both grew up in Evanston. I met him when he was just a kid. We lived next door. I was a sort of big brother. We used to sneak off to White Sox or Cubs games sometimes when heshould have been home practicing. His mother did not love me for that, but his dad understood. Later he and his dad and I used to go up-country trout fishing. Dave and I played hoops together at the gym, and went to a movie now and then. Stuff like that. Then we grew up and I got married and then divorced and he got famous and we both moved. I went to Boston and heâs been around the world a dozen times.â
âThen he won the Tchaikovsky competition,â said Zee. âI have a record of him playing Liszt. Incredible!â
âHeâs got a manager who keeps him on the run. Too much. Dave looks good, but he needs a rest.â Quinn sipped his cognac. âHe called me from New York last week. Said he needed to get away. I thought of this place.â He glanced at us. âA few days where nobody knows who he is or what he does.â He grinned his wry Irish grin. âIâve stolen him away, you might say. He was supposed to play at Symphony Hall tonight and for the next two nights and then go on to St. Louis. But heâs not going to be there, and so there will be a stink raised. Worse yet, even his manager wonât know where he is. It will be quite a story. You should see it in tomorrowâs papers.â
Zee frowned. âWonât this get him into trouble? Wonât people sue him for breaking his contracts?â
âMaybe. Maybe not. Dave left his manager a note telling him not to worry, but to tell everybody that he was sick, and that the doctors say heâll be back on the tour in a week. He didnât say where he was going, or that he was going with me.â
I looked at him. âWill any of your buddies at the Globe figure it out? They know you like to come down here, and they must know that you two know each other. If I was a reporter and I knew that, and if you and DavidGreenstein just happened to disappear at the same time, I know where Iâd start to look. Too good a story not to.â
âYeah, except I told everybody I was going to Chicago to visit my sister and catch some Cubs games.â
âYou have a sister in Chicago?â
âYeah, And sheâll lie for me, too. Anybody contacts her and asks if Iâm there, sheâll say yes. Sheâs a good kid. Loves her big brother. Do anything for him. I told her that if anybody asks her if Dave is out there, sheâs to hedge, then hint that he is. She said it was no problem as long as Dave gives her two tickets for his next Chicago concert. Her husband is a classical piano freak.â
I shook my head. âYouâre a sweetheart of a guy, Quinn.â
âYou hear that, Zee? Iâve been telling you that for years, and now J.W.âs finally admitting it. You belong with me, kid.â
âYouâre too good for me, Iâm afraid,â said Zee, taking my arm. âI like the low-life type.â
âYou guys will keep quiet about Dave?â
âI donât know about Zee,â I said, âbut I plan on selling the story to the National Tattler as soon as I can find their telephone number.â
âTell him not to shave,â said Zee. âA lot of guys do that when theyâre down here on vacation. Heâll look like everybody else.â
âIf he hangs around us, heâll be fine,â I said. âWe go places and do things that donât interest the gossip columnists.â
âA week of
Rebecca Hamilton, Conner Kressley