Saving Jason by Michael Sears Page A

surgeons who believes in alternative treatment.”
    “Ahh,” I said.
    “Champagne, sir?” A male model in a tuxedo had appeared at my side.
    “Pellegrino?” I asked.
    “Certainly. Two?”
    “Thank you.” He moved off through the crowd.
    “So, what’s a Gilhooly?” I asked Skeli.
    “Chihuly. Blown-glass sculpture.”
    “How do you know this?” I said.
    “Because I read.”
    “I read,” I said.
    “Something other than the
Journal
and the
Post
.”
    An unfair description of my reading habits. I also read books on autism. Nevertheless, her point, though phrased for effect rather than accuracy, was well taken. My knowledge of modern art and culture kept safely within boundaries. Though I enjoyed a plethora of musical styles, I tended to listen to work by artists who had first recorded more than twenty years ago. When I read for pleasure, I leaned toward books on baseball. And when I visited art galleries or museums, I gravitatedtoward the classical realists who painted pictures that looked something like the subject matter. That and the occasional nude.
    “I’d guess this artist has never been arrested, right? Otherwise I would have read about it in the
Post
.”
    Jill stopped us by a small group surrounding a tall, slightly stooped man in his sixties. She introduced Dr. Wanda Tyler to the group and left us. The sparkling water arrived and I handed a glass to Skeli. She flashed me a quick smile and went back to work charming the white-haired doctor. I saw a plate of crab cake appetizers moving through the room and began edging in that direction. No one noticed me leaving.
    The crab cakes were good. I wrapped six in a paper napkin before the twenty-something server managed to get away from me. I wandered around looking for someone who might not be terrified to be caught speaking with me. Aimee Devane saw me across the room and gave me the kind of smile that says,
Yes, I see you, but you don’t really need to come any closer.
I kept moving.
    I saw an ex-mayor of New York, a well-known British actor who had just closed a limited run on Broadway, and an obese New Jersey politician who was pumping every hand he could grab as though unable to stop running for office. I avoided him.
    “Whaddaya say, Stafford? How’s biz? Whatayagot? What’s up?”
    Michael “Mickey the Mouse” Moskowitz had been one of my brokers when I first entered the foreign exchange markets. He had wrestled for years with a combined alcohol and cocaine problem, which had finally sidelined his career. Despite having been out of the markets for a decade, he still maintained his connections. The Mouse prided himself on always having the most au courant gossip on Wall Street.
    “Hey, Mouse. What brings you out? I thought you only left Long Beach for hurricanes.”
    “We’re in Point Lookout now. But, yeah, I don’t get in to Manhattan much these days.”
    He was older, thinner, and, surprisingly, exuded a touch of goodhealth, as though he might have been eating right and exercising occasionally.
    “So what’s the draw?” I asked.
    “I heard about this party last week and figured I could pick up something juicy. So what are you working on?”
    “Gee, what can I share with you that won’t interfere with my loyalty to Virgil Becker? Hmm. I’ve got it. Nothing. Nada. Not a thing.”
    “Come on, then, ask
me
a question.”
    “Then you’re going to expect me to trade and I’ve got nothing for you,” I said.
    “Go ahead. Ask. Maybe I’ll give you a freebie.”
    “Okay. Tell me about our host. He’s a big hire and Virgil hasn’t let me run a background check on him. What’s his story? Can I trust the guy?”
    “Come on, we’re eating the guy’s food. I can’t talk about him here. I got
some
standards.”
    “All right. Here’s one for you. Al Mitzner to Daiwoo to run interest rates.”
    “Nyah. He turned them down a month ago.”
    “True. They just upped the ante.”
    “Did they really? No shit. All right, that’s good.