Even so, Will knew that of all the city’s arts organizations, the Cincinnati Symphony was the kingdom and the power and the glory. It was fiercely protective of itself. This would be a difficult meeting.
He showed his badge and was greeted by a wren of a dark-haired woman from the marketing department, looking fine in a navy blue suit with a skirt slightly above the knees. She led him back to the president’s office.
“Forgive me if this is too personal,” she said. “But I hope you’re not in pain.”
The damned cane again.
“Not much,” Will said.
“My husband had an accident on his motorcycle,” she said. “Since then, he’s been in terrible pain, and nobody can really help him. He’s afraid of getting addicted to Oxycontin or something like that. But…”
“If you like, I know someone who might be able to give you a referral. My friend, Cheryl Beth Wilson…”
They were almost there when a tall man threw open the door and nearly slammed it. Will was paying more attention to the wren and the daydream of Cheryl Beth, but the movement ahead caught his attention. The man bent over, tied a shoe, and then fiddled with the back pocket of his baggy jeans, producing a ball cap, which he slapped on. Then he stalked toward them, looking down, and shaking his head. His long-legged stride covered the ten feet that separated them in seconds. Will stopped walking and stood.
“Excuse us,” the wren said.
The man looked up and halted abruptly. He had a face young but rutted with creases, and set off with a wide mouth, and strong jaw. At the moment, it held an indignant expression. He stared Will in the eye. Will was past dancing with anyone who was in his path. He couldn’t move that fast any longer, so he continued to stand there. The man glared harder, then sidestepped, and brusquely walked on. Under his breath: “Get the fuck out of the way.”
Will thought about making something of it, but stopped himself. He wondered if his stepson would act any better in the circumstances. Hell, he remembered his old, impatient self when facing someone with a disability. He wouldn’t have cursed, but he might well have wondered why this person was in his way. He was no better than anybody. In any event, he was on a peace mission from the chief.
“Sorry,” the wren said. “That’s the president’s son. He can be a bit abrupt.”
“Those aren’t the words I’d use.”
She smiled uncomfortably and led him into more spacious digs.
In two more minutes he was sitting in a deep comfortable chair facing the desk of Kathryn S. Buchanan, president of the CSO. He hoped he could get back out of that chair without too much trouble. His legs had awoken him after an hour’s sleep and he was still sitting on the balcony. He had gotten, maybe, four hours of sleep last night, his new normal.