She flicked from her breasts imaginary crumbs, or bees, or the pollen from imaginary exotic flowers. She looked across at Fred in a direct and unmistakable manner. “Next question. Unless you’re one of them, but my instinct tells me I’m warm here, when do we move this expedition to the next plateau?”
“It would be a pleasure and an honor,” Fred said. “But also not prudent, at least for me. I get confused when I can’t make out the line between business and pleasure. Let’s wait till we see where this is heading. Otherwise we both lose sight of the main objective.”
***
“Hell, with her it’s all business,” he muttered five minutes later on the stairs, after he and Suzette had made their wary farewells. “The packaging, the time spent in the gym, the big grin. She’s the personal assistant and curator for big money from Toledo named Agnelli, who puts her up at the Ritz, and I’m invited to dip my wick? Thank you. Weird holy picture, she says. She’s spotted our Leonardo.
“Correction, Clay’s Leonardo.”
Though the rain was long over the night was damp. Fred took a taxi to Charlestown and slept in his solitary bed.
***
Wednesday morning he was on Mountjoy Street at around ten, carrying two cardboard cups of coffee in a paper sack, along with containers of cream and packets of sugar. A couple was just leaving the basement entrance, a man and a woman, in their late fifties. Clay, in the doorway, splendid in a blue satin robe, was telling them, “Next week, then,” when he saw Fred on the sidewalk. Fred stood aside to let the couple pass, then held up his sack and called, “I brought coffee. I was in the neighborhood.”
Clay said, suspiciously, but hesitantly making room in the doorway, “An unexpected pleasure.”
“Franklin Tilley. I ran into him on the street and—well—the upshot of the matter is, he wants to buy it back. The chest. His offer is ten thousand.”
“Inside,” Clay ordered.
Fred carried his sack to the worktable in the office and began taking out its contents. “Actually,” he said, “and it’s not my business: there are other things you should know.”
“You’re stirring things up,” Clayton said. He stood indecisively next to the desk that was being commandeered by this large visitor. The blue satin robe had been put on over gray suit pants, a white shirt and tie. The man’s hair was in the same wild tousle of white strands. If this was his idea of dishabille, it was as conscious as Suzette’s had been, in her appearance at the Ritz. The painted chest, stripped of its top, still sat there on the floor. Its top had taken so much of his attention up to now, Fred hadn’t really looked at the rest of the object. The interior was dark wood, unpainted, pocked with worm holes. It gave off a musky smell, as if someone had been keeping his grandmother in there, clean, but dead. Outside, the decoration, carved, gilded, and painted, was not easy to place, mostly because Fred had never bothered to spend time looking at such things. If it was evidence of anything, he was too ignorant to read it. The angels were nicely painted, with large, flat, delicate wings. The angels reminded him of something. Maybe Fra Angelico? Except it was furniture.
“Stirring things up,” Clay repeated.
“Maybe. But things were already stirred up. Heavy objects. We want to keep track of them if we can.”
Clay hesitated a long minute before he sighed and shifted course. “My one desire is to be left alone, to study and to think about what I have purchased. Would that the present might be simple, so that I could indulge the complexities of the past. Yet the present is not simple. Here you are again. It is difficult to welcome you, since you bring bad news. Still, most kind.” He sighed again. “The coffee. I regret—it is my single eccentricity—that I eschew stimulants. Forgive me. I appreciate the gesture.” He sat in the chair at the worktable and motioned Fred to the couch.
“It would be a pleasure and an honor,” Fred said. “But also not prudent, at least for me. I get confused when I can’t make out the line between business and pleasure. Let’s wait till we see where this is heading. Otherwise we both lose sight of the main objective.”
***
“Hell, with her it’s all business,” he muttered five minutes later on the stairs, after he and Suzette had made their wary farewells. “The packaging, the time spent in the gym, the big grin. She’s the personal assistant and curator for big money from Toledo named Agnelli, who puts her up at the Ritz, and I’m invited to dip my wick? Thank you. Weird holy picture, she says. She’s spotted our Leonardo.
“Correction, Clay’s Leonardo.”
Though the rain was long over the night was damp. Fred took a taxi to Charlestown and slept in his solitary bed.
***
Wednesday morning he was on Mountjoy Street at around ten, carrying two cardboard cups of coffee in a paper sack, along with containers of cream and packets of sugar. A couple was just leaving the basement entrance, a man and a woman, in their late fifties. Clay, in the doorway, splendid in a blue satin robe, was telling them, “Next week, then,” when he saw Fred on the sidewalk. Fred stood aside to let the couple pass, then held up his sack and called, “I brought coffee. I was in the neighborhood.”
Clay said, suspiciously, but hesitantly making room in the doorway, “An unexpected pleasure.”
“Franklin Tilley. I ran into him on the street and—well—the upshot of the matter is, he wants to buy it back. The chest. His offer is ten thousand.”
“Inside,” Clay ordered.
Fred carried his sack to the worktable in the office and began taking out its contents. “Actually,” he said, “and it’s not my business: there are other things you should know.”
“You’re stirring things up,” Clayton said. He stood indecisively next to the desk that was being commandeered by this large visitor. The blue satin robe had been put on over gray suit pants, a white shirt and tie. The man’s hair was in the same wild tousle of white strands. If this was his idea of dishabille, it was as conscious as Suzette’s had been, in her appearance at the Ritz. The painted chest, stripped of its top, still sat there on the floor. Its top had taken so much of his attention up to now, Fred hadn’t really looked at the rest of the object. The interior was dark wood, unpainted, pocked with worm holes. It gave off a musky smell, as if someone had been keeping his grandmother in there, clean, but dead. Outside, the decoration, carved, gilded, and painted, was not easy to place, mostly because Fred had never bothered to spend time looking at such things. If it was evidence of anything, he was too ignorant to read it. The angels were nicely painted, with large, flat, delicate wings. The angels reminded him of something. Maybe Fra Angelico? Except it was furniture.
“Stirring things up,” Clay repeated.
“Maybe. But things were already stirred up. Heavy objects. We want to keep track of them if we can.”
Clay hesitated a long minute before he sighed and shifted course. “My one desire is to be left alone, to study and to think about what I have purchased. Would that the present might be simple, so that I could indulge the complexities of the past. Yet the present is not simple. Here you are again. It is difficult to welcome you, since you bring bad news. Still, most kind.” He sighed again. “The coffee. I regret—it is my single eccentricity—that I eschew stimulants. Forgive me. I appreciate the gesture.” He sat in the chair at the worktable and motioned Fred to the couch.
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