Trophy Widow

by Michael A. Kahn

  Tony Faust died a few years after the 1904 World’s Fair. His children married into the Anheuser and the Busch families, and his restaurant closed for good on the eve of World War I. That last night the waiters passed out extra napkins to wipe the tears shed by the loyal patrons. Sixty years later, the Adam’s Mark Hotel—constructed a few blocks from the site of the original Faust’s—revived the name for its premier restaurant.

  “Hello, counselor.”

  I looked up to see Nathaniel Turner’s beaming face.

  I nodded politely. “Commissioner.”

  He slid into the booth across from me, adjusted his gold cuff links, and gave me an appraising look and a wink. “You lookin’ fine today.”

  I gave him a sardonic wink in return. “You lookin’ fine today, too.”

  “Damn.” He chuckled. “I tell you, Rachel, I like a woman with spunk.”

  A young waitress appeared with a filled highball glass on a tray. She gave him a perky smile. “Hello, Commissioner.”

  “Belinda. Good to see you, darlin’. My, my, looks like you might have something special on that tray for me.”

  She blushed. “Boodles and tonic, sir.” She set it on the table in front of him. “With a twist of lime.”

  “You have read my innermost thoughts, young lady.” He gestured toward me. “Belinda, this is Rachel Gold, noted attorney and the only graduate of Harvard Law School who could pose for the Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition. You want Belinda to bring you something a little more exciting than that watered-down iced tea?”

  “Tea is fine for me.”

  We were still making Nate’s version of small talk when Belinda came back to tell us the specials and take our orders. I’d decided to let Nate get to the point of our meeting at his own pace. After all, this was his idea. The call came in Friday afternoon from his secretary. When I learned who the caller was, I had assumed that her boss was waiting to get on the line and blast me for my comment to the TV reporter the night before about a rat downtown—a comment given prominent play in the lead story on the ten o’clock news. Instead, though, his secretary told me that Commissioner Turner would like me to be his guest at lunch on Monday. I was surprised. Was he planning to lecture me over grilled tuna and couscous? As much as I wasn’t in the mood for lunch with Nate the Great, I accepted the invitation. Nate and I had only one thing in common: the Oasis Shelter. He posed the single greatest threat to its continued existence. Accordingly, my responsibilities to my client overrode any personal issues I might have with him.

  I watched him go through an elaborate selection process with the waitress as he tried to decide between the catch of the day, the veal chops, and the pasta special. Maybe he still planned to give me an angry lecture, I thought. I’d learned early on that his flirtatious overtures at the beginning of a meeting meant absolutely nothing. But as I watched him banter with the waitress, I realized that my dark hint to the TV reporter probably was as threatening to Nathaniel Turner as an empty water pistol. By the following morning the TV stations had consigned my comment to the news morgue in the scramble to cover that day’s stories. Although the print media was not as easily distracted, their resources were so limited that Nate and his henchman, Herman Borghoff, could easily deflect any effort to probe the health department action. Moreover, even if some persistent reporter found Nate’s shadow behind the health department smokescreen, there was no guarantee the newspaper would go with the story. Nate the Great was a particularly unappealing target to the local media. Not only were their editors and publishers caught up in the booster hype over Renewal 2004—in which Nate’s office occupied a pivotal role—but looming above Commissioner Turner was the ominous silhouette of Congressman Orion Sampson, who’d proven before that he was capable of bringing down a world of hurt on anyone foolish enough to mess with his sister’s boy.

  Which brought me back to this meeting. I knew that Nate was behind the health department’s attempt to condemn the Oasis Shelter, and he knew I knew it, but I couldn’t prove it, and he knew that as well. All of which made this meeting ever more mysterious.

  After the waitress left with our orders, Nate leaned back and said, “Caught you on TV the other night.”

  “Oh?”

  “Sounded like you had a rough evening.”

  “Not as rough as the one those women and children had.”

  “But you got them all back inside. That was mighty fortunate.”

  “It was.”

  “A rat problem, right?”

  “So they claimed. We had an exterminator inspect the buildings on Saturday.”

  “And?”

  I gazed at him a moment before replying. “He disagrees with the health department.”

  “Rats can be tricky little devils.”

  “So I’ve learned.”

  He was grinning. “I did some checking around at City Hall. It’s not really any of my business, of course, except that my people would like to get your shelter out of there, too. Sooner the better. But unlike the health department, we prefer to do our condemnations the old-fashioned way. I’m referring to the powers of eminent domain, with all the bells and whistles, due process for all concerned.”

  “How nice, Commissioner. I am tingling with anticipation.”

  “And while you’re tingling, Rachel, you won’t have to worry about getting blindsided by the health department.” He leaned forward, solemn now. “You have my word on that.”

  As if his word meant anything to me. But no reason to pick a fight. “That’s good to know. Thanks.”

  “Herman tells me we should have our condemnation papers on file in a week or so.”

  “Super. I can’t tell you how thrilling that sounds.”

  “We’re prepared to go the whole nine yards if we have to, Rachel, but”—he paused, and then continued slowly—“we might still be able to work something out.”

  Finally, I thought. Time to get down to business.

  “What does that mean?” I asked.

  “For starters,” he said, raising his fork and pointing it at me, “you have to understand that any deal we cut must include relocation of that shelter. No way that shelter stays put. No way, no how. But no reason that shelter can’t house those women just as well in another part of town. As you know, my office has determined that your client’s operation of a shelter in that particular neighborhood constitutes what’s known under the statute as an ‘inharmonious use’ within the redevelopment area. But a use deemed inharmonious there could be just fine and dandy on property outside the redevelopment area.” He smiled. “And we got plenty of that kind of property.”

  “You’re suggesting a property swap?”

  “I’m suggesting we think about it. The city of St. Louis, through my office and through the collector of revenue, controls lots of property on the north side, including plenty of possible sites outside the redevelopment area, including some buildings bigger than the ones your client is squeezed into now.”

  The waitress arrived with our meals. Grilled tuna for me, veal chops and a second gin and tonic for Nate. As he flirted with her, I mulled over his settlement concept. The Oasis Shelter was in a marginal area of town, but at least the neighborhood seemed to be rebounding, and property values were on the rise. By contrast, the properties the city controlled outside the redevelopment area were, for the most part, buildings condemned by the health department, seized by the city for nonpayment of taxes, or abandoned by the owners—in short, properties in lousy shape in bad neighborhoods. That meant any swap would be a big step down in quality and surroundings. Nevertheless, a swap would also buy peace with Nate and, just as important, more room. Space was growing tight in the current facility—there were two bunk beds in every bedroom, and some of those rooms housed two mothers and three or four children. Even if we ultimately prevailed in the condemnation fight and even if the city approved the addition of ano
ther building to the shelter—an approval that would never happen under Nate the Great’s regime—there was no way we’d have enough money to expand the current facility. But the value of the existing facility, if honored in a property swap, would result in the acquisition of significantly more space. And if I could convince the city to help fund the renovation of the buildings as part of the settlement, maybe there was a deal in there somewhere.

  “Well?” Nate said after the waitress left.

  “I’ll talk to my client and see if there’s any interest in a swap.”

  “You do that, Rachel, and I’ll see if I can hold off those condemnation papers for a while. See if we can’t work this out to everyone’s satisfaction.” He gave me a playful smile. “Like I always say, no need for us to make war if we can make love.”

  Nate reverted to meaningless small talk. After the waitress laid the bill at his side and went off to get us more coffee, he said, “I hear you’re putting together an exhibit of paintings by Sebastian Curry.”

  I looked over, surprised. He was studying the bill.

  “How did you hear?” I asked.

  “Herman mentioned it to me the other day.”

  “How did he find out?”

  Nate looked up with a frown as he tried to remember. “Not sure. Someone must have mentioned it to him.”

  “Does he know Curry?”

  “I guess so. He knew I might be interested in the exhibit, though.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I have one of Curry’s paintings.”

  “Really?”

  “Never thought it was worth much before, but maybe I got myself a lost treasure. Where’s the exhibit going to be?”

  “We’re not sure. We’re still in the concept stage.”

  “Who’s the we you’re talking about?”

  My mind went blank. I couldn’t remember the name of my imaginary organization. “It’s a new group of artists,” I said, trying to sound matter-of-fact. “I’m helping them on the legal end. Curry is one of the local artists they have under consideration, but nothing’s final. How long have you owned yours?”

  “Long time. Think it’s worth much money?”

  “Hard to say. How much did you pay?”

  “Somewhere around a grand, I think.”

  “Did you buy it at a gallery?”

  “Think I bought it at one of those art fairs. Does that matter?”

  “No, just curious. Do you know Curry?”

  “I might have met him. Maybe at that art fair. He’s a brother, I believe.” He paused and then grinned. “Maybe I ought to put that picture of mine in your show, eh? Might increase its value. Who do I talk to?”

  “I’m a good one to start with. I’ll pass it along. If they decide to go ahead with the show, I’m sure someone will call.”

  “Who?”

  “Maybe me.” I paused as the waitress refilled our coffee cups, grateful for her interruption. When she left, I said, “I’ll let you know who.”

  “Good. You do that.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  I was at my desk working on a draft of an appellate brief when Jacki announced that I had a visitor. I looked up in surprise.

  “Really? Who?”

  “Sebastian Curry.” She stepped inside my office and pulled the door closed behind her. “We’re talking hot,” she whispered.

  I smiled. “Really?”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Oh, yes.”

  I touched my hair. “Then show him in.”

  A moment later, he was standing at my door.

  “Miss Gold?”

  Ellen McNeil had described him as eye candy. That was an understatement. Sebastian Curry was a hot fudge sundae with whipped cream and, well, nuts. He was tall and lean and athletic—broad shoulders, narrow torso, slim hips. He had on a black turtleneck, tan cargo pants, and black army boots. Dreadlocks framed a strong, angular face. His skin was the color of milk chocolate and his eyes were emerald-green.

  He was literally breathtaking, as I discovered when I spoke. “Please come in,” I said in a hoarse voice.

  As he approached my desk, he gave me a pleasant smile that revealed perfect white teeth. “I’m Sebastian Curry.”

  We shook. My hand disappeared inside his.

  He took a chair facing my desk. “I should have called first. I’m meeting someone for lunch over at Bar Italia and was early so I decided to give it a try. Thanks for seeing me. I’ve really been wanting to talk to you.” He had a friendly, low-key manner.

  “What’s on your mind?” My voice was back to normal, thank goodness.

  “I wanted to find out if it was really true about the show.”

  “The show?”

  “My paintings. I heard there might be a show of my paintings.”

  His hopeful expression made me feel guilty. It’s one thing to mislead a bunch of wealthy purchasers, especially when most of them have no discernible emotional attachment to paintings they apparently bought solely as investments. But it’s an entirely different thing to mislead the artist, and especially one in Sebastian Curry’s circumstances. From what Ellen McNeil told me, his career had been in the dumps for years.

  I said, “We’re looking at several local artists. You’re one of them. We’re not yet sure whether there’ll be a show. It’s too early to say.”

  “When will you know for sure?”

  I shrugged. “Another month or so.”

  “Who’s the organization?”

  “It’s a new group of artists and gallery owners.”

  “Cool. What’s their name?”

  I still couldn’t remember the name Ellen and I had concocted. “They haven’t picked an official name, yet. How did you hear about it?”

  That question flustered him. He sat back in the chair, eyes blank. “Well, I think someone—I can’t remember who—someone must have told me—said you were, you know, looking at my paintings.”

  “We did look at several of your paintings,” I said. “Mostly, we saw ones that were sold several years ago by the 309 Gallery.”

  “Right. They sold a whole bunch.”

  “Samantha Cummings ran that gallery, didn’t she?”

  “She sure did.”

  “Did you know her well?”

  “I guess you could say that she and I—well, what do you mean?”

  “Just curious. She sold a lot of your paintings.”

  He shrugged. “Yeah, I knew her, sure. No big deal.”

  “How did she end up handling so much of your work?”

  “Does that matter?”

  I smiled, trying to keep things low-key. “You seem to have been her most successful artist. I thought maybe the two of you had a special relationship.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Like maybe you were in art school together, or maybe she met you when you were just getting started.” I offered a cheerful smile. “Something like that.”

  “Maybe she just happened to like my work.”

  “That makes sense,” I told him, even though it didn’t.

  I tried to steer the conversation toward topics that would seem less threatening than his relationship with Samantha Cummings. He told me that he was still painting but hadn’t been having much luck with sales or galleries lately. He did occasional modeling work—mostly fashion shoots for the local department stores—and waited tables at a restaurant.

  “I work nights. I try to keep my days free to paint.” He hesitated, almost sheepish. “Maybe your group would like to look at some of my newer work.”

  “I’m sure they would.”

  He took his wallet out of his back pocket. “Here’s my card.”

  “Great.” I took the card.

  “My studio’s in a loft on Washington Avenue. I live there, too. I’m usuall
y up and around by ten in the morning. Just drop by someday and I’ll show you my work.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “And be sure to let me know what your group decides.” He checked his watch and stood up. “I better go. Thanks for seeing me.”

  “Sure. One last thing, Sebastian. Are you represented by an agency?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Just so we know who we need to deal with. What about the older paintings? The ones Samantha Cummings handled for you.”

  “What about them?”

  “Wasn’t there an agency involved back then?”

  He looked puzzled. “An agency?”

  “Millennium Management Services?”

  His demeanor cooled. “How do you know about that?”

  “The name showed up on some of the records.”

  “What records?”

  I pretended that I was trying to remember. “Something with the paintings. I can’t recall. I just remember seeing the name. I thought maybe they were your agent.”

  “No. They never were.” He shook his head adamantly. “I had nothing to do with them. Ever.”

  “Who were they?”

  “I don’t know. Look, that part was none of my business. I know nothing about them. Nothing. I never did.”

  “Did they work for the gallery?”

  “I just told you I don’t know anything about them. They had nothing to do with me. You have to understand that, Miss Gold. Nothing.”

  “I hear you.”

  “Nothing.”

  “Right.” I nodded. “Nothing. Got it.”

  ***

  It’s obvious, Rachel.”

  “What’s obvious?”

  “He was shtupping her.”