much is that?" he asked.
The attendant, a bony young man whose suit and tie were gray, gave him
an appraising glance. "That," he said, "is three thousand dollars."
"Three thousand ?" Gene looked at the figure again. After a moment he
said, "I'll take it."
The young man's eyebrows went up. "Very well, sir, will you step this
way?"
At the little desk in the back he produced a sales slip and began to
fill it in. "Do you have some identification, Mr. Davis?"
"Not with me, no, but I'd like to leave you a deposit now and I'll bring
you a certified check later."
"That will be perfectly fine."
"I'd like to meet Mr. Avila sometime. Does he live here in town?"
"Yes, sir. He's in the phone book, actually, but let me write it down
for you."
Chapter Nine
"Hello." A deep, impatient voice.
"Can I speak to Mr. Avila, please?"
"This is Avila."
"Mr. Avila, my name is John Davis. I bought your Hierophant at the Otis
Gallery yesterday."
"Oh, yeah. I heard about that."
"I was wondering, could I come and see your studio? Maybe look at some
of your other work?"
"Sure, why not. You know where it is? Come down about five o'clock.
Listen, the bell doesn't work. Walk up the stairs, fourth floor. What's
your name again?"
"John Davis."
"Okay. See you then."
The address was in a row of dingy, seemingly abandoned commercial
buildings on the Lower East Side. The plate-glass window beside the
entrance was lettered, "BELLER RESTAURANT SUPPLY," but the interior was
dark and empty, and there were cobwebs on the windows.
Gene climbed three flights of uncarpeted echoing stairs and found himself
on a landing with a single door painted dark green. A card on the door
was neatly lettered, "AVILA." He rang the bell.
"Come in!" called a distant voice.
Gene opened the door and found himself looking down the length of an
enormous room, in the middle of which three people sat near an oil heater
with a stovepipe that rose, supported by guy wires, through the ceiling
high above. Dust motes swam in the gray light from the window wall. "Mr.
Davis?" called the voice. The men's faces were in shadow; he could not
see which one had spoken.
"Yes."
One of the men stood up and beckoned. "Come in, sit down." Gene walked
toward them, trying not to trip over the electrical wires that lay
haphazardly on the bare floor. The man who had spoken was stocky,
powerfully built, with a seamed brown face. "I'm Avila," he said,
putting out his hand. "Sit here. Put your coat on the floor, wherever you
want. This is Darío Hernandez" -- a young man who put down his guitar
to rise and shake Gene's hand; he was as brown as Avila, handsome and
bright-eyed. "And this is Gus Vilsmas -- Vilis -- how the hell you
say it?"
"Vlismas," said the third man. He was paler than the others, middle-aged
and plump, with a gold tooth that flashed when he smiled. "Glad to
know you."
Gene sat in a wooden rocker that creaked under his weight. The others
were staring at him. "You're tall, but you're only a kid," said Avila
abruptly. "You want some wine? Maybe you're not old enough to drink it."
"No, that's all right," Gene said, flushing. "I just wanted -- Could I
look around your studio?"
"Sure." Avila stood up. "Come on, I give you the grand tour."
Under the windows there were big bins for clay, sacks of plaster spilling
their white dust on the floor, and a cluttered bench that ran half the
length of the room.
"I never saw any place as big as this before," Gene said.
"It's a loft," Avila told him. His voice was deep and resonant. "Before,
they use them for manufacturing -- some places you can still see where
the machines were."
Farther down the room there was a large wooden platform on wheels;
between it and the windows stood three modeling stands, one of them
draped in moist cloth. "Is this something you're working on?" Gene asked.
"Sure. You like to see it?" Avila lifted the bottom of the cloth and
carefully pulled it free of the damp clay. Gene
The attendant, a bony young man whose suit and tie were gray, gave him
an appraising glance. "That," he said, "is three thousand dollars."
"Three thousand ?" Gene looked at the figure again. After a moment he
said, "I'll take it."
The young man's eyebrows went up. "Very well, sir, will you step this
way?"
At the little desk in the back he produced a sales slip and began to
fill it in. "Do you have some identification, Mr. Davis?"
"Not with me, no, but I'd like to leave you a deposit now and I'll bring
you a certified check later."
"That will be perfectly fine."
"I'd like to meet Mr. Avila sometime. Does he live here in town?"
"Yes, sir. He's in the phone book, actually, but let me write it down
for you."
Chapter Nine
"Hello." A deep, impatient voice.
"Can I speak to Mr. Avila, please?"
"This is Avila."
"Mr. Avila, my name is John Davis. I bought your Hierophant at the Otis
Gallery yesterday."
"Oh, yeah. I heard about that."
"I was wondering, could I come and see your studio? Maybe look at some
of your other work?"
"Sure, why not. You know where it is? Come down about five o'clock.
Listen, the bell doesn't work. Walk up the stairs, fourth floor. What's
your name again?"
"John Davis."
"Okay. See you then."
The address was in a row of dingy, seemingly abandoned commercial
buildings on the Lower East Side. The plate-glass window beside the
entrance was lettered, "BELLER RESTAURANT SUPPLY," but the interior was
dark and empty, and there were cobwebs on the windows.
Gene climbed three flights of uncarpeted echoing stairs and found himself
on a landing with a single door painted dark green. A card on the door
was neatly lettered, "AVILA." He rang the bell.
"Come in!" called a distant voice.
Gene opened the door and found himself looking down the length of an
enormous room, in the middle of which three people sat near an oil heater
with a stovepipe that rose, supported by guy wires, through the ceiling
high above. Dust motes swam in the gray light from the window wall. "Mr.
Davis?" called the voice. The men's faces were in shadow; he could not
see which one had spoken.
"Yes."
One of the men stood up and beckoned. "Come in, sit down." Gene walked
toward them, trying not to trip over the electrical wires that lay
haphazardly on the bare floor. The man who had spoken was stocky,
powerfully built, with a seamed brown face. "I'm Avila," he said,
putting out his hand. "Sit here. Put your coat on the floor, wherever you
want. This is Darío Hernandez" -- a young man who put down his guitar
to rise and shake Gene's hand; he was as brown as Avila, handsome and
bright-eyed. "And this is Gus Vilsmas -- Vilis -- how the hell you
say it?"
"Vlismas," said the third man. He was paler than the others, middle-aged
and plump, with a gold tooth that flashed when he smiled. "Glad to
know you."
Gene sat in a wooden rocker that creaked under his weight. The others
were staring at him. "You're tall, but you're only a kid," said Avila
abruptly. "You want some wine? Maybe you're not old enough to drink it."
"No, that's all right," Gene said, flushing. "I just wanted -- Could I
look around your studio?"
"Sure." Avila stood up. "Come on, I give you the grand tour."
Under the windows there were big bins for clay, sacks of plaster spilling
their white dust on the floor, and a cluttered bench that ran half the
length of the room.
"I never saw any place as big as this before," Gene said.
"It's a loft," Avila told him. His voice was deep and resonant. "Before,
they use them for manufacturing -- some places you can still see where
the machines were."
Farther down the room there was a large wooden platform on wheels;
between it and the windows stood three modeling stands, one of them
draped in moist cloth. "Is this something you're working on?" Gene asked.
"Sure. You like to see it?" Avila lifted the bottom of the cloth and
carefully pulled it free of the damp clay. Gene
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