Man With a Squirrel by Nicholas Kilmer

in his chosen venues of London and Paris. Rather than reading, though, Fred was trying to grapple with the question of how to proceed. Molly came in from the kitchen, where he had half-heard her first taking the side of homework versus Sam and Terry, and then talking with what must be Ophelia on the telephone.
    â€œFred, do you know a painter named Byron Ponderosa?” Molly asked. “That’s Pheely’s Denver discovery. He does tennis, cowboys, and historical romance, she says.”
    â€œCan’t say I know him,” Fred said. “But I can imagine.”
    â€œI can too,” Molly said. “A flat Fasanella with everyone on a diet and no hang-ups about breasts.”
    â€œAnd guns instead of swords.”
    â€œI got Cover-Hoover’s unlisted number from Pheely,” Molly said. “If you want it.”
    â€œYou’re going to call her?” Fred asked.
    â€œI don’t plan to. I mention it in case you want to ask her about that painting.”
    â€œThe framer’s the one to talk to,” Fred said. “If I can figure out how to approach it. But just the same…”
    Molly wrote the number on a From the Desk of Mom memo pad Fred had guided Sam to last Christmas. She tore the pink slip off for Fred.

12
    â€œI shall not go to Holland,” Clay announced. He sounded like Caesar standing naked on the bank of the Rubicon and noticing how cold and wet it seemed. He had called Fred on the house phone Monday morning after he heard Fred come in. “There is a show at the Metropolitan I must see,” Clayton continued, “although it means traveling to New York.”
    â€œThere is?”
    â€œFlemish paintings. Earlier than Vermeer but pertinent nonetheless. Incidentally, Fred, where is the Copley?”
    â€œWith Roberto,” Fred said. He listened for the explosion. From the earpiece of his receiver he heard the measured tap of graphite on dull blue china activated by raised white Greeks in decorous activity.
    â€œI would have advised against it,” Clay said. “But I suppose it is your project.”
    Fred listened to the pencil tap. “I shall find a noon train,” Clay said, “and stay at the Carlyle. The exhibition is said to go into the methods of the Flemish painters.”
    â€œNever put off tomorrow what you can put off the day after,” Fred said.
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    â€œA maxim of Molly’s mother’s,” Fred told him.
    â€œI have not had the pleasure,” Clayton said. His pencil tapped. “I shall look at the Vermeers of the Frick and the Metropolitan with renewed interest.”
    â€œLet me know when you get back. For the hell of it, take a peek at the Christie’s East European sale. There’s a little Zorn…”
    â€œIt is on my list,” Clay said.
    Oona’s call did not come until after noon. “Fred Taylor?” she asked.
    â€œRight. Wait. Is that Oona?”
    â€œDon’t come before ten, but if you come after ten I might have something.”
    â€œThe same people?”
    â€œCome at ten o’clock, Fred Taylor. Tonight.”
    Molly called during her lunch break and Fred let her know he might not be back tonight. Depending what developed with Oona, he could decide to sleep on the office couch.
    â€œI got Cover-Hoover’s new book from the library,” Molly told him. “ Power of Darkness. We’re not supposed to, but I jumped the line. It’s the sort of book you can follow by reading the chapter titles and subheadings. It’s full of graphs and statistics, which nobody will pay attention to, and footnotes nobody will read. It looks very academic until you get to the junk food, which is what’s selling the book—the confessional illustrations. If you’re fast you can have it after me.”
    â€œThat’s OK,” Fred assured her.
    â€œSpeaking of popular culture, we also have the best-loved works of