The Schwarzschild Radius

by Gustavo Florentin

  Greyson looked at his watch―he had an appointment he had been looking forward to all week. He left Sotheby’s and returned to his apartment on Eightieth and Fifth to assess his options. Brazil had no extradition agreement with the US. He would have to liquidate all his assets here first, and that wouldn’t be easy. He couldn’t put the co-op in the name of an LLC; the association wouldn’t permit it. He had a home in Greenwich, Connecticut―the wife would probably get that anyway. Last summer, he had spent two weeks in Fortaleza, Brazil, and in between romps with fourteen-year-old girls, he checked out some beachfront property. It would be a good place to disappear to. Living was cheap and peaceful. Not many art galleries, but you couldn’t have everything.

  His phone rang.

  “Yes, please,” he said. Minutes later, there was a knock on the door.

  “Hi, Armand. This is my friend, Lisa.”

  “Welcome, Lisa. Come in. How’s my favorite niece?” said Greyson.

  “Right,” said Sonia.

  “You have a beautiful apartment,” said the other girl, scanning the massive stone fireplace, twelve-foot ceilings, fine art, sculptures, and antiques from all over the world.

  “Let me show you around,” he said. “You can put your jackets in here. Sonia’s seen all this before, but maybe you’ll be more interested, Lisa.”

  “Yeah, I’ll sit this one out,” said Sonia.

  “These are things I’ve collected during my travels over many years. These are masks from the Akan tribe in Ghana. Those are Balinese theatrical masks. This hallway―after you―has some of my favorite pieces.” As she walked in front of him in the narrow hall, he was inspecting her thoroughly. His pulse raced when she had taken off the denim jacket, displaying her beautiful breasts in a white tube top. The cut-off jeans revealed lovely, creamy white legs. She would have no tan lines. He was torn between a genuine passion for the articulation of art and his addiction. The addiction won every time.

  “Very beautiful,” said Lisa. “Your whole apartment is beautiful.”

  “You have good taste. It was built in 1931 and designed by Rosario Candela, New York’s most celebrated luxury residential architect.”

  “How many rooms is it?”

  “Fifteen rooms total. Five bedrooms, four and a half baths, two maid’s quarters, five fireplaces, eighteenth century oak floors. It was love at first sight. Do you believe in love at first sight, Lisa?”

  “I guess.”

  “Have you ever been in love?”

  She shook her head.

  “And how old are you?”

  “Fourteen.”

  “Are you new in town?”

  “Sort of. A few weeks. I’ve been hanging with Sonia for about a week.”

  “She’s a doll. Well, fourteen’s a great age.”

  When the tour was over, Greyson poured himself a drink and flipped through his vast collection of music for some ambiance.

  “It’s dinner time. What would you girls like?”

  “Menus?” said Sonia.

  “I have them memorized.” Armand began rattling off the specials from Josie’s, The Center Room, and Café Lalo with the speed of a head waiter.

  “I’ll have the cheddar burger, onions, mushrooms and that Italian cheese cake from Lalo’s,” said Sonia.

  “Done―Lisa.”

  “Same here.”

  “I love symmetry,” said the art dealer. “I’ll balance that with the angel hair pasta and garden vegetables.”

  As they ate in the formal dining room, it was evident that Greyson was a practitioner of the lost art of conversation, which often strayed into his love of the Old Masters.

  His appearance belied his accomplishments. He was tall and skinny with a comb-over, red notches along the sides of his nose from the glasses he wore during the day, but was likely too vain to wear now, a college ring on one hand and a signet ring on the other. The suit was tailored, but with telltale dandruff along the shoulders. He looked like a salesman at Men’s Warehouse. Rachel wondered if the doorman really believed that Sonia was his niece. It’s amazing what money can do, she thought.

  He told them how he had started out as a warehouse worker in Long Island City. It was a company that sold art supplies and instructional books. He bought some supplies with his employee discount and started what he thought would be a great career as a painter. He ended up getting a scholarship to the Parson’s School of Design. That led to a job at Christie’s and, years later, his own gallery.

  “I really worked at the painting, but the competition in that field is beyond brutal,” he said.

  “What sort of art did you paint?” asked Rachel.

  “Nudies,” answered Sonia.

  “Sonia has a talent for over-simplification. I painted what’s known as Fantasy Art. I’ll show you some afterward. It hearkens back to mythology with super muscular men, women and animals. It demands a lot of imagination―you create your own monsters.”

  When dinner was over, he was true to his word. “This way to my studio. By the way, here’s carfare.” He handed them each two hundred in cash. The host led them into a great room that would have been well-lit during the day. The curtains were drawn now. On the walls were paintings of voluptuous women wielding battle axes and Scottish Claymore swords. They rode on the backs of tigers and two-headed steeds. Rachel had to admit, it was impressive and powerful.

  “She look familiar?” asked Sonia, pointing to a scene of a girl in a silver thong holding a spear in one hand and a mace and chain in the other while facing a bison-like figure emerging from a cave. It was Sonia.

  “He laid it on with the tits and ass, but a pretty good facsimile, right?”

  “It looks exactly like you,” said Rachel. “You’re really good. These must sell for a fortune.”

  “These don’t sell at all,” said Armand. “Strictly my private collection. I make a living now selling other people’s work.”

  “Well, I’m going to take a shower,” said Sonia.

  Rachel turned to follow when Armand said, “Oh, Lisa, could you stay a moment?”

  Rachel could see this one coming.

  “I would love to paint you nude. I know you’re here for a show, but I’d rather we spend the time creating something more meaningful and lasting. You would look beautiful in a painting.”

  “Won’t that take a long time?”

  “Oh, I take photos and work from those. I’m quite a skilled photographer. I can tell you it would be something really special because you’re so special. And next time you come here, you’ll see yourself transformed into one of these.”

  “You gonna take pictures of me?”

  “Yes, of course. No one would ever see them, so no need to worry about that.”

  “Well―I guess so. I was gonna ask. I don’t have a place for tonight. You mind if I stay till the morning?”

  “Of course you’re welcome to spend the night.”

  “Okay,” said Rachel.

  “Fine. Well, let me get my equipment. Why don’t you get undressed and stand over here.”

  Rachel was having a hard time keeping up the facade of the fourteen-year-old homeless kid. Just get it over with and spend the night rifling through his house.

  The art dealer stood motionless as Rachel took off her clothes. She watched him scanning her body. He didn’t make eye-contact.

  “No tan lines or tattoos. Good,” he said almost to himself. He set up the camera and tripod without taking his eyes off Rachel’s body. It was as though he was in the thrall of something so powerful that it directed his movements.

  “Stand against that white background. I need to take a shot from all four angles. That’s good, Lisa. Now sit in that chair and put one leg under you. Look up at where the wall hits the ceiling. I’d like a serious expression.” The camera flashed. Stand. Turn around. Shake your hair. Lie down on the bed. Open your legs. The poses were barked out with increasing hostility. He was now videotaping her as well as taking still shots.

  Rachel
could see his erection through his pants and knew she was one step away from getting raped. Sonia, where are you? The fear, the humiliation was breaking her down. She swore this wouldn’t happen, but she couldn’t help it.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “I need you to stop crying.”

  She turned her back, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of making her cry. He photographed her pain. Her revulsion. And finally her hatred.

  “I think that will do,” he said. “You still owe me an hour and twenty minutes before you earn that two-hundred. Step into the living room.”

  reyson poured himself a scotch and sat back in a leather wing chair. “Let’s lose the TV and get on with our own show, shall we?”

  A commercial break came and the newscaster said, “New details about the honor student disappearance at eleven.”

  This seemed to break the host’s concentration. He took a sip of his drink and stared into space for a moment.

  “How about some music, maestro,” said Sonia. “Or you want mime?”

  “Yes, put something on,” he said vacantly. “And turn that off.”

  They danced to salsa.

  Greyson’s eyes were on this new girl. He looked at her as a sculptor looks at a block of marble and all the possibilities, all the outcomes that lie within it. If only the artist could bring it out. He imagined her living here permanently as his niece. His sex slave. He could tutor her in art and history, so she would be educated and make intelligent conversation. He would teach her the art of sex, the art of submission. When she pulled off her panties, a rush came over him that only this could produce. Greyson desired her with an overpowering force that compelled him to put everything he had at risk. He knew he was reckless, but that didn’t sway him. He could only yield to this power, not defeat it.

  Then his revelry was broken by the stark truth that he would soon leave this country. Could he take her with him? The fantasy wouldn’t let go. No, he couldn’t, was the answer.

  “That’s good. I’m ready to turn in,” he said.

  “I’m sorry I cried before,” said the girl.

  He ignored the remark. “You can sleep in the maid’s quarters. Unless you want to join us in the bedroom.”

  “The maid’s room is fine.”

  “Well then, this is yours. I enjoyed the show. I hope you come back, Lisa.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Greyson,” she said, taking the hundred dollar tip.

  When they were gone, Rachel put her clothes back on and went to the bathroom.

  You’ve got to do this, she told herself. You’ve got to hang in there. She washed her face and hands. She felt like taking a shower, but she didn’t want to take her clothes off again. In her hand, she held the flash drive. Please let this work out, she prayed. Please don’t let this be for nothing. Please watch over me.

  She locked the room to one of the maid’s quarters and lay still on the bed for half an hour until they were settled in. Then barefoot, she walked soundlessly throughout the carpeted apartment. She began with the studio. Always have a reason for being in a room, she told herself. She could say she wanted to see the paintings again. There was a file cabinet. Locked. She opened the drawers of a desk. In it were the usual office things: paper clips, stapler. The place smelled of paint and thinner and brought back memories of the Long Island Institute of the Arts where she studied piano for a year. The first target was the camera that held her own naked pictures. That memory stick came out. Then the camcorder.

  Two big busted Amazons stood like sentries over three camera cases sitting on a shelf. She pulled a chair over and hopped on top to reach the cameras. She took one down and looked at the case. The flap was held closed with Velcro. She began to tug on it and it sounded as loud to her as a flatbed emptying a load of gravel. She put it under the covers of the bed and opened it. Once the camera was freed, she quickly flipped open the memory compartment and pulled out the memory stick. Replacing that camera, she proceeded in the same way with the other two.

  After putting the chair in its original position, she rifled through his bookshelf, which contained more papers than books. Something occurred to her. She went back to the desk. There was a key. It opened the file cabinet.

  The tabs said, PARIS, NEW YORK, LONDON, ROME. There were photos of paintings and sculptures. Notes on the provenance of various pieces. She was looking for pictures of kids. She was looking for Olivia. She went through all three drawers, but no luck. This guy had to have pictures of kids around. Rachel had seen how his eyes had lit up when she said she was fourteen. The man was sick. There had to be evidence of his sickness here somewhere.

  Rachel pushed aside a pocket door to a study. There was a burgundy leather recliner and a brass lamp. Everywhere, fine books―Alexander Pope, Will Durant’s The Story of Civilization, all thirteen volumes, leather-bound Harvard Library volumes of The Iliad, Ivanhoe, Churchill’s A History of the English-Speaking Peoples. Not the reading list she would have expected of a pedophile.

  There was a laptop case leaning against the recliner. Rachel stood perfectly still and listened. The walls were thick in this 1930’s building, and it seemed to filter the passion out of Sonia’s sounds until only a distant homing signal arrived.

  Rachel picked out a book which she’d grab in case she was interrupted. It was entitled, The City of Florence.

  She made note of the position of the zippers before opening the case. After lifting out the Dell, she placed it on the chair and opened it. She pressed the power button and turned the screen away from the door. Now her own breathing was the only sound.

  The machine began to boot and what a long time that took now that she was in a hurry. She plugged in the flash drive. Two minutes―another interminable age. The laptop booted all the way, displaying a Rembrandt-adorned wallpaper. She pulled out the drive and shut down the machine. Now to swiftly and deftly replace… suddenly the Windows logoff sound played. It pierced the silence like an alarm. Someone stirred in the next room. Footsteps came her way. It was too late. The light came on.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Greyson had a towel around his waist.

  Rachel was breathless and excuseless.

  “I thought I might play some video games. I didn’t think you’d mind. I’m sorry.” He pushed her against the wall.

  Shoving the laptop into the case he said, “Don’t EVER touch anything without permission. Now get out of here.”

  “Hey, chill,” said Sonia, standing by the door naked. “She didn’t break anything. Let’s go back to bed.”

  “She leaves.”

  “I’ll go. It’s okay.”

  “No, wait. You can’t just throw her into the streets now, it’s late.”

  “Can’t I?”

  “She was gonna play some fuckin’ video games. What’s wrong with you?”

  “I don’t need someone lurking around my house like a cockroach.”

  “You’re fucked up. I’m outta here,” said Sonia.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” he asked her.

  “I go with her.”

  “Enough. Both of you. Out.”

  “Damn straight.” The girls scrambled, gathering their jackets, knapsacks, and were out the door.

  Greyson spent the next fifteen minutes checking to see if anything was missing. Then he found something that wasn’t supposed to be there. On the carpet, near the laptop, was the plastic cap of a flash drive.

  orry I wrecked the night,” said Rachel outside.

  “Don’t sweat it. There’s more where he came from. The world is full of asshole guys willing to pay for us. And by the way, that’s why you get paid up front.”

  “Listen, yesterday when we went to see your friends―”

  “Yeah.”

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “The answer is yes.”

  “Huh?”

  “Yes, I’m HIV positive.”

  “I’m…”

  “Skip
the condolences. I’m going to beat this.”

  “What about the men you sleep with. Do they―”

  “Some of them know.”

  “And it makes no difference to them?”

  “For some of them, it increases the thrill. What can I tell you? Kirsten was positive, too. We were going to beat this together. But everyone I love leaves.”

  Rachel looked behind them to make sure they weren’t being followed.

  “How did you two meet?” asked Rachel.

  “I was in the Mid-Manhattan Library one day last year. I was feeling pretty lonely and I went on Facebook. I looked through a bunch of guys’ profiles, then I told myself I really needed a friend, not a lay, so I looked through the girls’ profiles. She was from Minnesota, blonde, really pretty, and fifteen. She was on the streets over there, and we started corresponding, and a funny thing happened. It became something to look forward to. That I had someone. We started talking on the phone, and I told her, since she was already on the streets, why not come to New York and stay with me. It’s better than the streets. I have an apartment, sort of. I remember the day I was waiting for her at Port Authority. I was waiting for her with all my heart, and when she got off that bus we just fell into each other’s arms.

  “We started doing outcalls, but I wouldn’t let her fuck any of the guys. She just danced. I wanted to keep something clean in this world and she was clean. And she was mine. But they started offering her a lot of cash and she gave in. She told everyone she was twelve and she looked it. Eventually, she moved in with a boyfriend and we drifted apart. And now she’s dead.” The wind blew her hair away from her face, but there were no tears.

  “Let’s not talk about that. Look, we’re doing good. Let’s head back to my place.”

  Rachel was torn between getting into the memory sticks and keeping Sonia company. They both needed a friend tonight.

  “Sure. Where’s your place?”

  “We’ll take the D uptown.”

  The apartment was on Tremont Avenue in the South Bronx, not a place you’d want to be at two in the morning. It was a fifth floor walkup.