Hot Ticket by Janice Weber Read Free Book Online Page A

I said after a moment.
    His smile exposed teeth the color of bamboo. “Yes, for those of us who don’t sleep with conductors. Mind if I smoke?”
    “Just blow it the other way.”
    Fausto lit a cigarette. “You don’t believe in tempting fate?”
    “Not with tobacco.”
    He studied my face for the next half inch of Dunhill. “How does it feel to be a widow?”
    Blam
went the blood. I returned his even, taunting gaze. “About the same as it feels to be one hundred pounds overweight, I think.”
     While he was trying to laugh, I asked, “Why aren’t you married? Can’t find anyone who loves you for yourself?”
    A few puffs. “No one’s had a chance. I haven’t been myself.”
    “Since when? You stopped playing piano?” I patted his hand. “Maybe that’s just as well. You would have made a lousy husband.
     Maybe a lousy pianist, too.”
    The philosopher blew another cloud at the gods. “May I ask something? Why’d you come to breakfast?”
    “I was hungry. Why’d you invite me?”
    “I adore women with talent. And secrets. They’re so much more challenging than politicians.”
    For a horrific instant, I was certain that Fausto had seen me hanging off Barnard’s balcony, that he knew exactly who I was
     and why I endured his insulting familiarity.
Calm down, Smith. His tongue is his only weapon.
“Too bad you gave up music.” I sighed cheerfully, smiling across the room. “Is it more edifying to feed a pack of wolves?”
    “Depends on who’s eating my eggs.” With great deliberation, he rubbed his cigarette into the ashtray. “You don’t like Washington.”
    “Not my style.”
    “No? Men here are no different than anywhere else.”
    “The roulette wheel spins a little too fast here.”
    “Don’t be a hypocrite, darling. Musicians have so much in common with politicians. Always onstage, polishing the image. Always
     trying to subdue the orchestra, charm the press, always aware that one slip could finish them.”
    “Nice try, Fausto. I’m just a fiddle player.”
    “Really? You married a conductor thirty-five years your senior. Now dead, poor chap. Your last lover was the director of the
     Leipzig trade fair. Also dead. Not to mention that dashing young recording engineer. But I’m sure they all expired in various
     stages of ecstasy.”
    I folded my napkin. “Get to the point.”
    “What point? I envy them all.” My host smiled. “You like powerful men.”
    “I like powerful brains.”
    “Then we’ve got a lot in common.” Fausto offered me his elbow. “Would you like to see my little concert room?”
    Now that he had wrecked my appetite, why not. I accompanied him to a capacious hall decked with tons of brocade, oak parquet,
     and a Steinway D. “I’d be delighted if you rehearsed here,” Fausto said, lifting the piano lid. “It’s so much nicer than the
     East Room. What’s your accompanist’s name? Zadinsky?”
    “Duncan.” The score of the Brahms sonata we had just played at the White House rested on the music stand. “Aha, you
have
been practicing.”
    “Good God, no! I haven’t touched that piece in years.”
    Then what was it doing on the piano? I played a chromatic scale: the tuner had visited within the last twenty-four hours.
     Fausto had been expecting me.
Don’t disappoint him,
Maxine had said. “Maybe I’ll bring Duncan over this afternoon.”
    “Lovely.” Fausto glanced lazily out the window, registering comings and goings. “I don’t know whether it’s you or the planets,
     but no one’s leaving with the person they came with today.” We peered outside just as the secretary of defense was ducking
     into Justine’s Mercedes. “Dennis has been trying to screw her for three years,” Fausto said.
    “Really? I thought he was gay.”
    “Screw figuratively.” Fausto dropped the curtain. “Who told you about Dennis?”
    “Minister Klint,” I lied.
    “Damn Germans. Always know twice as much as they let on.” We returned to the foyer, where