“That sounds like a cancellation. Have I done something to turn him off?”
“Absolutely not. He adores you. Why do you think he paints? He can’t wait for the end of school, so he can go out to the beach for as long as you’ll have him. He’ll clean brushes till the bristles fall out.”
I phoned, and my hunch was right. Alan was sorry, but he had this heavy math exam tomorrow and he hadn’t nearly finished reviewing for it. I said, evenly, I thought he had stayed home from school today to do exactly that.
“Take it easy, Dad, I did. But then I got this call from the principal’s office and I had to go in. Coming and going and everything killed a good two hours. And it was weird. I wanted to tell you about it.”
I was disappointed and a little pissed. “So tell me.”
“A guy from the Treasury Department had come in to school to see me.”
“The Treasury Department? To see you?” I spelled it out. “The United States Treasury Department?”
“He showed me ID. It looked good to me. And to the assistant principal, I guess, or he wouldn’t have called me at home and scared the shit out of me. Oh, yeah, I had faked being home with a bad cold. So I had that to deal with too. Man.”
“Okay, what did this Treasury agent want?”
“He wanted you, Dad. But he said he couldn’t find you. He said he had some questions he needed answered in a hurry and if I could help him he wouldn’t need to track you down. I must have looked funny because he said not to worry, they weren’t looking into your taxes—‘there’s no IRS audit,’ he said; they didn’t do things that way.
“I said, so what was it about? He said it was a complicated interstate matter he couldn’t explain because of, he said, ‘confidentiality rules,’ but that you weren’t in any kind of trouble. He gave me some bullshit I couldn’t follow, and then he started asking questions.”
“Like what?”
“Like, did I know who my father sold paintings to, and I said I had no idea. And were my parents still legally married. That one I answered, because it’s a public record, right? And then he wanted to know whether my father still received paychecks from the New York Police Department, and that sounded to me like a tax question and I told him I wasn’t going to answer any more questions because I had to go study for an exam. I gave him your number at the beach and told him to talk to you. And I got out of there.”
“Good for you, Alan. You did fine.”
“What’s it about, Dad? Should you be worried?”
“About the IRS? Forget it. I’ve never earned enough to cheat on my taxes. I think I know what this is about, and it’s not important.”
What it was about, I had decided, was the impending action against me and the city that had blown up this morning with the claimant’s death. Ray Drummit’s lawyer must have set an investigator snooping to find out if I had assets worth pursuing, and he hadn’t had time to call the man off. I told Alan I was sorry I wouldn’t be seeing him tonight and I was looking forward to our spending at least some of the summer together.
“Me too, Dad. And I’m sorry to leave you stranded for dinner.” He took a beat. “Hey, why don’t you ask Mom? I know she’s not doing anything special.”
“Uh-huh. Thanks, I’ll see.” The little matchmaker.
When I got off, Lonnie looked up from searching for a piece of paper on her desk. “Everything okay?” she said.
“Fine. He’s just got too much work to go out.”
“That’s a shame.” She held up a fax. “This is what I wanted you to see. You know how I hate to lose a client. When I blew the deal with the Turkintons on Seated Girl I wanted to find out if they might be serious collectors.”
“Translation: Do they have enough money to make them worth chasing?”
“Have it your way. I’m sure you’re aware that Dallas is fertile soil for an art dealer. I’ve said it before: There’s more oil on the walls than in the ground. And paintings don’t deplete.” Her blue eyes were shining with the rightness of it.
She said, “I have this contact in the Dallas—Fort Worth area I occasionally ask to look into prospects for me.”
“Lonnie, a PI?”
She didn’t like being confronted with the term. “I suppose that’s what he is.”
I thought, You’ve come a long way, Baby, from apprentice sleepwear buyer. I said, “You put him on the Turkintons?”
“That’s exactly what I did.” She handed me the fax:
Hi there, Leona,
Well, Honey, I’m afraid there’s damn little I can give you on this one. Yes, there’s an account under that name in the bank you gave me, and it’d cover the check you faxed. But I can’t find a home address for a Ben Turkinton, and he doesn’t vote here. I did find a business address for a Ben Turkinton. That turns out to be a Mexican restaurant downtown. Three partners, none named Ben Turkinton, none, for that matter, an Anglo. Try as I might, I couldn’t find out where his mail gets forwarded—if he gets any. No trace of any Tess Turkinton. I don’t have to tell you, this pair smells like last week’s fish. Sorry, better luck next time.
Cal.
I said, “I hope you didn’t pay a bundle for this information. Because I could have told you that those two were probably pulling a con.”
“Probably, but not definitely. What in the world are they after?”
“A few hundred thousand off Mikhael Sharanov for a restaurant that will never happen.”
“They didn’t ring true, but they didn’t seem crooked.”
“They may think they’re not. They may think they’re performing a public service by fleecing Sharanov.”
“Here’s the only part that interests me, Sid. I believe in the end we’re going to sell Seated Girl to the Turkintons.”
“What gives you that idea?”
“We know they set aside the money for it, and it’s exactly what they need to firm up their swindle. When their deal ripens in a week or two, they’ll be back to me.”
“Maybe, but the painting won’t be here.”
“What do you mean?”
The idea hadn’t formed till I voiced it. “I’m taking it off the market. For the time being at least. It’s going into my ever-expanding personal collection.”
“Sid, don’t be foolish. You need this sale.”
“Tell me. But I just decided I can’t bring myself to exploit this dead girl. Or let the Turkintons do it. Specifically, the idea of her hanging on Sharanov’s wall makes my flesh crawl. You’ll sell someone else another one of my paintings.”
“Not tomorrow, I can promise you that much.”
“Sooner or later. I have faith. Right now here’s what I’m going to do.” It was hurting but I had to say it before I changed my mind. “My pickup’s in a garage not far from here. I’m going to ransom it and bring it around. Would you have Seated Girl wrapped for me?”
And then I said something else that came out before I had given it any conscious thought. “Before I take her home, how about you and I go out for a bite to eat? I mean, if you’re free.”
Lonnie, who was almost never at a loss for words, took some time to find a few. “That sounds do-able. Let me see if Jackie will hold the fort. And then, I insist, dinner’s on me. I can charge it to the business.”
She had almost spoiled it. I said, “No, this isn’t business. I came out on top in a legal action today. I was going to celebrate with Alan but now you’re the lucky winner.”
I was damned if I would let her floor me with her economic muscle. That had been a principal cause of our breakup the first time around.
I caught myself. What the hell did I mean by the first time around?
* * *
BEFORE I KNEW it we had slipped under the East River and were on our way to Brighton Beach. I don’t know why, except that we weren’t that far from the Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel and I knew we wouldn’t need a reservation at the Tundra on a weekday, especially at this early hour.
We didn’t. When we arrived, fewer than two hundred diners wer
e at work downing the Slavic noshes that sat on thousands of small plates. Gallons of vodka speeded their passage. There were still enough unoccupied tables in the hangar-size room to cause snow blindness—a problem, come to think of it, not that unusual on the tundra. I had figured Lonnie would be amused by the place, and she was. And incredulous.
“Does this go on every night?” she asked.
“This is nothing. You can’t get in on a weekend.”
We had kept the talk general and bland on the drive out: how well the kids were doing, the current state of the art market, how much SoHo had changed and how little Quincacogue had. It didn’t come easily; we had trouble getting a handle on a dialogue different from our usual one—Lonnie nagging me about my work and me needling her about her commercial bent.
But after a few minutes at our corner table we had smoothed out the social kinks with vodka. The several shots it took to wash down the plates of herrings, smoked fish, and God knew what soon had us swapping reminiscences about our early years together. Before we knew it we were out on the floor dancing to the mammoth retro orchestra that came on duty at eight-thirty.
Motor memory is forever: Once you learn to ride a bike you can go thirty years without, then take off on one with never a wobble. Lonnie and I hadn’t danced since well before the divorce, but we fell in with each other as easily as though it was yesterday. We had been pretty good and we were still pretty good, especially with the joints nicely oiled. And Lonnie’s supple back and still slim waist felt not much different than they ever had. Better than good enough.
I would never have shown my face at the Tundra if I thought Sharanov might be on hand. But I knew he had still been out at the beach this morning supervising the redecorating of his bedroom, and he was likely to have stayed out, since he was expecting the Turkintons for the weekend. I did glimpse the faithful Nikki at the far end of the room sheepherding the staff in his tux. He glanced in our direction and then quickly away. He must have been keeping tabs on us, but he seemed no more interested in a confrontation than I was.
The dinner passed in a rose-tinted glow. I was, arguably, with the best-looking woman in the room, and we were having a mellow good time. We ate, we drank, we danced; eventually we even sang, if softly. It was only when the check came and I pulled it to me and took a quick peek that I was struck with a dampening thought: The Tundra didn’t take plastic.
Not remotely did I have enough cash on me to cover this tab, and I would rather have hung by my thumbs than ask Lonnie for help. I slid the check into a pocket and left the table, supposedly in search of the john.
Instead I found our waiter and drew him behind a potted palm, out of Lonnie’s line of sight. “Okay if I give you a personal check?” I said.
He looked me up and down. “Is possible. I must ask the manager.” There was a note of doubt in his voice like a winter wind off the steppes.
I said I’d wait for him not at the table but right here, and he took off.
Terrific. I had this flash image. The waiter comes back with Nikki, who says, We do usually take personal checks but in your case we will make an exception. In your case we will beat the shit out of you and throw you into the alley.
I waited behind the potted palm like a hotel detective. A minute or two later I could see Nikki approaching from the entrance foyer, the waiter trailing. Sure enough, the giant was fuming, his face the color of beets. This seemed an excessive reaction to my modest request. When he got close he sent the waiter packing in Russian.
I said, “Hey, Nikki, how you doing?”
His return greeting was “Come wid me,” spat through clenched teeth. Without waiting for a reply he turned and marched back the way he had come.
I followed, but at a less purposeful pace. For a lousy $112 he was definitely overreacting.
He led me through a narrow side door in the foyer into the coatroom, where he ordered the frightened elderly attendant to get lost. She did. This was the coatroom, I recalled, where a body had been found three years ago with two slugs in its chest. Nikki was rummaging around behind some coats. He came out with Seated Girl. Part of the brown paper wrapping had been ripped away from the front, revealing most of the two faces, the one looking up and the one looking down.
“What is dis?” Nikki demanded. “What de hell is dis?”
What had happened was that when Lonnie and I parked in the Tundra’s lot I realized I couldn’t leave the painting unattended in the open flatbed of the pickup, so I had brought it in to the restaurant and checked it. It was tightly wrapped and I can’t even guess what instinct had made Nikki rip away the wrapping.
I answered his question. “It’s a painting,” I said reasonably. “I’m taking it out to the beach.”
“It is de dead girl,” Nikki said, and his carved yam of a face actually trembled. “Why? Why you bring dat here?”
“Easy does it, Nikki.” He was looking at the portrait hypnotically, almost in awe; I thought of Russian peasants in attendance on an icon reputed to have mystical powers. “It’s just a picture I painted.”
“You bring it here to show Mr. Sharanov. To make him feel bad. Get it out of here.”
“I intend to. Just as soon as I pay this bill.” I was holding it out.
He snatched it out of my hand and crushed it; he would brook no delays. “Get out! You hear me? Take dat picture out of here now.”
“Sure. Absolutely. I’ll get my lady and pick up the painting on our way out.”
“Do it.”
I went back to the table and threw a couple of tens down for the waiter. “Come on,” I said to Lonnie. “We’re leaving.”
She said, “Now? Don’t you have to pay the bill?”
“No,” I said, and flashed her a confident smile. “We’ve been comped.”
* * *
FIVE MINUTES INTO the drive back to Manhattan Lonnie was fast asleep, a casualty of the vodka. As she nodded off her body movements told me she was wrestling with a decision: Should she slump down with her head resting on my shoulder, or in the other direction? The latter choice offered the hard and probably cold surface of the door and window, and she began sliding toward me. But not far. She soon checked herself. And tilted the other way, settling firmly against the doorpost.
I made sure her door was locked.
* * *
AT WEST ELEVENTH street she stirred as I eased the Chevy to a stop in front of her brownstone. She forced her eyes open. Not many women look good when they first wake up. Lonnie always had, and she still did. I would have invited myself in with the excuse of needing a cup of coffee against the long drive on the expressway, but what would have been the point, with Alan up there, asleep or studying? And even without Alan, was anything likely to develop that would be of interest to my libido?
While I weighed this useless question Lonnie pecked me on the cheek and opened her door. “Don’t bother getting out,” she murmured. “It’s late and I can manage. Nice evening.” She was cold sober.
As she climbed down, the brisk night breeze seemed to give her a jolt of energy. She said, “Sid, not to nag—that’s the last thing I want to do—but would you please at least think about doing some work with sales potential? If you’d take on portrait work I could land you a commission in five minutes. How painful would it be to paint the teenage daughter of a stock broker or Wall Street lawyer sitting on her favorite jumper or cuddling the family dog? How about it? Sid, would you at least consider what I’m suggesting?”
The air had definitely gone out of my balloon. I said, “I can’t paint animals. I never know what they’re thinking. Find me a teenager I can paint cuddling the family fortune.” And I slammed the door.
She shot me a What’s the use? look and turned to march up her stairs.
And with Cassie Brennan lying in the flatbed behind me for company, I began the long drive home.
TWENTY-TWO
IN THE MORNING I bowed to the inevitable and called the only lawyer in the area I knew, Tony Travis, a man about my a
ge who had an office over the hardware store in the village. The word was that Travis had been eased out of a Wall Street firm when a drinking problem kept him from making partner, and after his wife dumped him he retreated here to do a little lawyering and a lot more drinking.
I first met him at the bar at Pulver’s, and we would run into each other there once in a while, but nowhere else. I don’t think I had ever seen him when he wasn’t drinking. I had no idea how good a lawyer he was, but I suspected he came cheap, because how heavy a hitter can you be in an office over a hardware store? Cheap was what I needed.
I called him at his office, and he said he could see me at eleven. His voice sounded different—crisper and firmer. This would be the sober, prelunch Tony Travis. Good; my grand jury appearance on Monday was scheduled for 11 A.M.
The call to Travis forced me to face up to another I had to make. But rather than phone Lonnie at home and get into a dialogue that could end in a blowup, I called the not yet open Leona Morgenstern Gallery. After taking a few deep breaths to steady myself I left a message on the machine:
“It’s Sid. I’ve been thinking about the sensible suggestion you made last night. You’re right, I can do portraits. Alan has told me the one of you I did when you were pregnant with him is hanging over your working, if smoky, fireplace. Not a great spot for it, and I hope you’re not making a statement. Anyway, as you know, I am facile, and can work in many styles. It’s a curse.
“Here’s what I’m getting at. Besides Sarah’s school fees, I’m going to have a lawyer’s bill before long that I don’t think I can get comped. So, yes, if you can find me a portrait commission I’ll take it. No animal companions, if possible, but I’ll happily take on a composition with two human heads. Two heads pay better than one, right? As you can tell from my choked voice, I am calling with a mouth full of humble pie.”
* * *
I HAD LOADED my drawing gear in the pickup, and after the session with Travis I drove up to the bay and parked at a dead end on the water where I had never sketched. I put in a couple of therapeutic hours on half a dozen drawings, not all of them good. I had gone several days without drawing, and it took a while for my fingers to get a fix on the dense vegetation at the front of the rocky bay, so different from the spare seascapes I more often drew these days.
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