Wesley turned and ran. Tony gave chase, and they careened through the party like billiard balls. Conversation stopped until they broke free of the crowd, and then resumed, as Tony, loping slowly but persistently, disappeared in the direction he thought Wesley had taken.
I wondered, briefly, if someone should go after them. Probably unnecessary, I decided. Drunk as he was, I didn't think Tony could catch Wesley, much less do him any harm. And judging by the frown on Mrs. Waterston's face, I had every hope she'd declare each of them persona non grata for the rest of the festival. I closed my eyes again and smiled slightly, contemplating the prospect of Wesley getting kicked out of Yorktown, or at least banned from the craft fair.
„Good job, lady.“
I opened my eyes to see another of Mrs. Waterston's blue rental coats, this one containing Roger Benson. Someone had made the mistake of letting him get his hands on a pewter mug that probably held at least a pint and a half of liquid, and the bartenders had compounded the mistake by filling it with something alcoholic – probably more than once, from the boiled lobster color of bis face, which nearly matched die bloodstains on his shirt.
„It's your doing, I know that,“ he said, slurring his words slightly. „Told that brother of yours to hold out on me. Think you can hold me over the barrel for more money.“
„That's not the idea at all,“ I said.
„Crap!“ he said, lurching forward and thrusting his face toward mine. Since we were almost the same height, I found myself standing practically nose-to-nose with him – close enough to identify the fumes from his mug as gin and tonic rather than beer. „You don't mean you really believe I stole some lousy program from that miserable little – “
„It's nothing personal, Mr. Benson,“ I said, interrupting him before he could say anything about Tad that would make me really lose my temper. „But I'm sure you can see that, under the circumstances, it's better for all concerned if we clear up these accusations before proceeding.“
„I can't believe you'd actually listen to that crap from Jackson,“ Benson went on. „You know what they're like – pathological liars, every one of them.“
„I've found most of the programmers I've met are unusually honest,“ I said. „Maybe a little overly literal, but I suppose they can't help that. Or were you talking about MIT graduates? I admit, I do find them a little vague on the difference between reality and cyberspace, but you know, it's not really Tad's fault. They offered him a better scholarship than Caltech and Carnegie-Mellon.“
„I don't care where he went to school. He's lying.“
„Mr. Benson, I've known Tad for some months, and I've never had any reason to suspect him of lying,“ I said. „I barely met you five hours ago, and already, if I knew where you were staying, I'd call them up and tell them to lock up the silverware. Don't push it.“
„Go ahead, Missy,“ he said, taking another step forward and spilling some of his gin and tonic on my skirt. „If you want to screw up your brother's chances of ever getting his miserable little game published, just keep on the way you're going. If I were you – “
„If I were you, I'd drop it,“ I said.
„But – “
„Get the hell out of here,“ I hissed.
Benson opened his mouth, then realized, even through the alcohol, how serious I was. He lurched away. I saw him stop by the bar for a refill, then he left the party. Good riddance.
Yes, I was definitely getting a headache. If I were a better person, I would go in search of Faulk and/or Tad; hunt down Mother and keep her away from Mrs. Waterston; mingle with the crowd to show off Mrs. Tranh's handiwork; or do any one of a thousand things to make the party a success. Instead, I snagged another glass of wine from a passing waiter and moved a little farther back into the shadows, hoping no one would notice me.
I could see Michael standing in a small group that included Dad, Mrs. Fenniman, Aunt Phoebe, and Uncle Stanley, within easy reach of the food tables and only a few paces away from the bar. They were all talking animatedly about something. A kamikaze installation of wrought-iron flamingos throughout the neighborhood, perhaps? Probably not. There were bound to be laws against that, and Uncle Stanley was a judge – a federal judge, though. Maybe federal judges didn't care about mere local infractions.
As I watched, Michael stepped toward the bar – a little away from the ffonp, but still close enough to talk to them over his shoulder. I watched as he ferried fresh drinks back to my relatives. I thought of joining them, then decided I was better off where I was. I'd rather be back in the tent, preferably with Michael. I'd have suggested leaving, but I knew that a few more glasses of wine would greatly increase the odds that, when we got there, Michael would be too busy helping me out of my stays to get into a discussion about the state of our relationship.