that’s fine with me.”
“I was wondering,” he said. “About the client.”
“Refresh my memory, Keller. Didn’t we already have this conversation?”
“Suppose you were to call whoever called you,” he said. “Suppose you ask how the client feels about mushrooms.”
“You going into the catering business, Keller?”
“Innocent bystanders,” he said. “Drug dealers call them mushrooms because they just sort of pop up and get caught in the crossfire.”
“That’s charming. When did you take to hanging out with drug dealers?”
“I read an article in the paper.”
“That’s where you get your figures of speech, Keller? From newspaper articles?”
He drew a breath. “What I’m getting at,” he said, “is suppose something happened to a guy in Brooklyn, and his wife and kid got in the way.”
“Oh, I see where you’re going.”
“And the art gallery’s another possibility, but there too you might have people around.”
“So I should run it past my guy so he can get in a huddle with the client.”
“Right.”
“And I report back to you, and then what? Don’t tell me the job gets done and we can all move on.”
“Sure,” he said. “What else?”
Keller sat in front of the Hopper poster, taking it in. If you wanted to hang something on the wall, you couldn’t beat a poster. Ten or twenty bucks plus framing and you had a real piece of art in your living room.
On the other hand, how many posters could you hang before you ran out of wall space? No, if you were going to collect art in a small apartment, stamps were the way to go. One album, a few inches of shelf space, and you could put together a tiny Louvre all your own.
He could go either way. He could start a topical collection, art on stamps, or he could look for a few more posters that hit him the way Hopper’s did.
He put on a tie and jacket and got on a crosstown bus.
It was ridiculous, he thought, walking from the bus stop to the gallery. The painting he liked best, #19 on the laminated price list, was one of the larger ones, and the price they were asking was $12,000. It would be nice to be able to look at it whenever he felt like it, but he could walk over to Central Park anytime he wanted and look at thousands of trees. He could get as close as he wanted and it wouldn’t cost him a dime.
The same Vassar graduate sat behind the desk, reading the same Jane Smiley novel and waiting for her Wall Street prince to come. She nodded at Keller without moving her head—he wasn’t sure how she managed that—and went back to her book while he crossed the room to the painting.
And there it was, as vivid and powerful as ever. He felt himself drawn into the picture, sucked into the trunk and up the branches. He let himself sink into the canvas. This had never happened to him before and he wondered if it happened to other people. He stayed in front of the painting for a long time, knowing that there was no question of passing it up. He had the money, he could spend it on a painting if he wanted.
He’d tell the girl he wanted to buy it, and they’d take his name and perhaps a deposit—he wasn’t sure how that part worked. Then they’d record it as sold, and when the show came down at the end of the month he’d pay the balance and take it home.
And have it framed? It was minimally framed now with flat strips of dark wood, and that worked okay, but he suspected a professional framer could improve on it. Something simple, though. Something that enclosed the painting without drawing attention to itself. Those carved and gilded frames looked great around a portrait of a codger with muttonchop whiskers, but they were all wrong for something like this, and—
There was a red dot on the wall beside the painting.
He stared at it, and it was there, all right, next to the number 19. He extended a forefinger, as if to flick the dot away, then let his hand fall to his side.
Well, he’d left it too long. Remembering to look before
“I was wondering,” he said. “About the client.”
“Refresh my memory, Keller. Didn’t we already have this conversation?”
“Suppose you were to call whoever called you,” he said. “Suppose you ask how the client feels about mushrooms.”
“You going into the catering business, Keller?”
“Innocent bystanders,” he said. “Drug dealers call them mushrooms because they just sort of pop up and get caught in the crossfire.”
“That’s charming. When did you take to hanging out with drug dealers?”
“I read an article in the paper.”
“That’s where you get your figures of speech, Keller? From newspaper articles?”
He drew a breath. “What I’m getting at,” he said, “is suppose something happened to a guy in Brooklyn, and his wife and kid got in the way.”
“Oh, I see where you’re going.”
“And the art gallery’s another possibility, but there too you might have people around.”
“So I should run it past my guy so he can get in a huddle with the client.”
“Right.”
“And I report back to you, and then what? Don’t tell me the job gets done and we can all move on.”
“Sure,” he said. “What else?”
Keller sat in front of the Hopper poster, taking it in. If you wanted to hang something on the wall, you couldn’t beat a poster. Ten or twenty bucks plus framing and you had a real piece of art in your living room.
On the other hand, how many posters could you hang before you ran out of wall space? No, if you were going to collect art in a small apartment, stamps were the way to go. One album, a few inches of shelf space, and you could put together a tiny Louvre all your own.
He could go either way. He could start a topical collection, art on stamps, or he could look for a few more posters that hit him the way Hopper’s did.
He put on a tie and jacket and got on a crosstown bus.
It was ridiculous, he thought, walking from the bus stop to the gallery. The painting he liked best, #19 on the laminated price list, was one of the larger ones, and the price they were asking was $12,000. It would be nice to be able to look at it whenever he felt like it, but he could walk over to Central Park anytime he wanted and look at thousands of trees. He could get as close as he wanted and it wouldn’t cost him a dime.
The same Vassar graduate sat behind the desk, reading the same Jane Smiley novel and waiting for her Wall Street prince to come. She nodded at Keller without moving her head—he wasn’t sure how she managed that—and went back to her book while he crossed the room to the painting.
And there it was, as vivid and powerful as ever. He felt himself drawn into the picture, sucked into the trunk and up the branches. He let himself sink into the canvas. This had never happened to him before and he wondered if it happened to other people. He stayed in front of the painting for a long time, knowing that there was no question of passing it up. He had the money, he could spend it on a painting if he wanted.
He’d tell the girl he wanted to buy it, and they’d take his name and perhaps a deposit—he wasn’t sure how that part worked. Then they’d record it as sold, and when the show came down at the end of the month he’d pay the balance and take it home.
And have it framed? It was minimally framed now with flat strips of dark wood, and that worked okay, but he suspected a professional framer could improve on it. Something simple, though. Something that enclosed the painting without drawing attention to itself. Those carved and gilded frames looked great around a portrait of a codger with muttonchop whiskers, but they were all wrong for something like this, and—
There was a red dot on the wall beside the painting.
He stared at it, and it was there, all right, next to the number 19. He extended a forefinger, as if to flick the dot away, then let his hand fall to his side.
Well, he’d left it too long. Remembering to look before
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