you’ll be in and out in an hour. Or we’ll come and get you.”
“You are a dear!” said Emma, shuffling toward the revolving door. “Your mother would be proud.” She turned to the other cop. “Yours, too.”
“My mom was a drunk,” he said. “She beat me with a belt.”
Emma pretended not to hear that and shuffled into the museum as quickly as she dared.
Safely inside, Emma headed toward the atrium gallery. A sign on a silver pole directed them to the Delado exhibit opening night party, and through a small corridor to the event. Unlike the claustrophobic, crowded party at Haiku, this gathering was spacious and sparse. Half a dozen sculptures were lined up in the center of the cathedral-sized room.
About forty people milled around the artworks, a dozen more stood at the table in the front of the gallery, picking at the platters of yellow and orange cheese cubes, crackers, and green grapes. No naked women as food platters in sight, which was both a disappointment and a relief.
Emma avoided the samplings. She was focused. Nothing, not even cheese, would distract her from her mission—
transmitting Daphne’s portrait into Dearborn’s mind. She would not imagine him undressing himself. She would not turn into a human fireball when she touched him. Most of all, she would remind herself that she was doing a job for payment which she direly needed. November first was less than a week away. Time to get serious.
Harnessing her powers of concentration, Emma scanned the thin crowd for her prey. Dearborn wasn’t at the
refreshment table. She looked down the length of the gallery. The room was too long (even for her) to see everyone.
She’d have to stroll among the sculptures, blend in.
As she neared the first sculpture on display, Emma smiled at a man with golden dreadlocks in an army jacket. He wore ink-blue jeans, worn Nikes, and a bright red T-shirt. “Hello. I’m Alfie Delado,” he said. “Thank you for coming. I couldn’t possibly express the full extent of my gratitude.”
The artist. Emma inhaled. He smelled like good coffee and better marijuana. She liked him instantly. “Congratulations on your show,” she said, still scanning the room for Dearborn.
Delado said, “Thank you, thank you. The exhibit is a dream come true.” He got a bit choked up. Emma was afraid he might cry. Were all artists insatiable beggars for the approval of strangers? What a living hell that had to be, thought Emma.
“I’ve heard some wonderful things about your work,” she said, taking pity, trying to extricate herself and find her target.
“You have?” said Delado, incredulous. “Please, let me show you my favorite piece.”
A hand on her back, Delado steered the gimpy, cane clattering Emma toward his first sculpture. He said, “I call it Penis Christ. ”
The piece of art, at first glance, was a Christian cross. On even closer inspection, Emma saw that the two intersecting parts were shaped like penises. On the top of the vertical shaft, and on either end of the horizontal, Delado had fashioned the glans to resemble little fists. The base appeared to be a squat scrotal sac.
Delado said, “The penis shape with a fist represents the masculine brutality of Christianity.”
“And this?” asked Emma. She’d shuffled toward the next sculpture. It was a gold-plated Star of David. The three arms of the two interlocking triangles had the same fisticock motif. “Does this represent the masculine brutality of Judaism?
” she pondered.
He grabbed Emma by the shoulders and shouted, “YES! Exactly! Finally, someone understands what I’m trying to
say.” Then he hugged Emma tight.
“Get off me,” she demanded, sensing other people’s attention, the opposite of what she wanted.
A glance up the gallery confirmed her worst fears. William Dearborn, of fucking course, was bearing down on them.
He was followed by Ann Jingo in tweed again, and Victor Armour in his chocolate brown Hugo Boss—the suit
“You are a dear!” said Emma, shuffling toward the revolving door. “Your mother would be proud.” She turned to the other cop. “Yours, too.”
“My mom was a drunk,” he said. “She beat me with a belt.”
Emma pretended not to hear that and shuffled into the museum as quickly as she dared.
Safely inside, Emma headed toward the atrium gallery. A sign on a silver pole directed them to the Delado exhibit opening night party, and through a small corridor to the event. Unlike the claustrophobic, crowded party at Haiku, this gathering was spacious and sparse. Half a dozen sculptures were lined up in the center of the cathedral-sized room.
About forty people milled around the artworks, a dozen more stood at the table in the front of the gallery, picking at the platters of yellow and orange cheese cubes, crackers, and green grapes. No naked women as food platters in sight, which was both a disappointment and a relief.
Emma avoided the samplings. She was focused. Nothing, not even cheese, would distract her from her mission—
transmitting Daphne’s portrait into Dearborn’s mind. She would not imagine him undressing himself. She would not turn into a human fireball when she touched him. Most of all, she would remind herself that she was doing a job for payment which she direly needed. November first was less than a week away. Time to get serious.
Harnessing her powers of concentration, Emma scanned the thin crowd for her prey. Dearborn wasn’t at the
refreshment table. She looked down the length of the gallery. The room was too long (even for her) to see everyone.
She’d have to stroll among the sculptures, blend in.
As she neared the first sculpture on display, Emma smiled at a man with golden dreadlocks in an army jacket. He wore ink-blue jeans, worn Nikes, and a bright red T-shirt. “Hello. I’m Alfie Delado,” he said. “Thank you for coming. I couldn’t possibly express the full extent of my gratitude.”
The artist. Emma inhaled. He smelled like good coffee and better marijuana. She liked him instantly. “Congratulations on your show,” she said, still scanning the room for Dearborn.
Delado said, “Thank you, thank you. The exhibit is a dream come true.” He got a bit choked up. Emma was afraid he might cry. Were all artists insatiable beggars for the approval of strangers? What a living hell that had to be, thought Emma.
“I’ve heard some wonderful things about your work,” she said, taking pity, trying to extricate herself and find her target.
“You have?” said Delado, incredulous. “Please, let me show you my favorite piece.”
A hand on her back, Delado steered the gimpy, cane clattering Emma toward his first sculpture. He said, “I call it Penis Christ. ”
The piece of art, at first glance, was a Christian cross. On even closer inspection, Emma saw that the two intersecting parts were shaped like penises. On the top of the vertical shaft, and on either end of the horizontal, Delado had fashioned the glans to resemble little fists. The base appeared to be a squat scrotal sac.
Delado said, “The penis shape with a fist represents the masculine brutality of Christianity.”
“And this?” asked Emma. She’d shuffled toward the next sculpture. It was a gold-plated Star of David. The three arms of the two interlocking triangles had the same fisticock motif. “Does this represent the masculine brutality of Judaism?
” she pondered.
He grabbed Emma by the shoulders and shouted, “YES! Exactly! Finally, someone understands what I’m trying to
say.” Then he hugged Emma tight.
“Get off me,” she demanded, sensing other people’s attention, the opposite of what she wanted.
A glance up the gallery confirmed her worst fears. William Dearborn, of fucking course, was bearing down on them.
He was followed by Ann Jingo in tweed again, and Victor Armour in his chocolate brown Hugo Boss—the suit
Similar Books
