The Palace Guard by Charlotte MacLeod

collages.”
    “Time I get that cat over to my pad, man, I got collages. Empty a wastebasket into a puddle of glue, man, you got a collage.”
    “Man, you got no wastebasket.”
    “Man, you got no higher vision. Me, I dig them genuine steel engravings like Abraham Jackson and Ulysses S. G-note. Fare thee well, man. I got to cut me a piece of the action.”
    He or she scrambled to his or her feet and went in quest of the rhomboid with the rubles. Above the pandemonium Sarah could now pick out Bittersohn’s usually agreeable baritone, now sounding pompous, moderately drunk, and a touch imbecilic. “Of course I also collect recognized masters,” he was saying as he crawled back under the tarpaulin, trailed by at least half a dozen unrecognized geniuses.
    “Man, how you like to collect a genuine Mondrian?” urged a short, wiry type with a ferocious Fu Manchu mustache and chin whisker.
    “Man, that Lupe is a gas,” muttered the cynic who was now sprawled across Sarah’s left foot. “He copies them Mondrians off the linoleum at Sears and Sawbuck. Man, I say a real creative artist ought to think up his own Mondrians.”
    “Lupe ain’t an artist, he’s an operator,” said the body now sprawled across Sarah’s right foot. “Man, he can smell a live one all the way to Charlestown. Like he goes to one of them cut-rate supermarkets, dig, and buys a case of oregano and bums the use of somebody’s oven and like dries it out till it gets good and brown. Then he peddles it for grass.”
    “Man, that ain’t right.” The left-foot sprawler took what was left of a very homemade-looking cigarette from his or her lips and regarded the roach sadly. “Man, like I was really beginning to elevate.”
    Nobody was paying any attention whatever to Sarah. Lydia had betaken herself elsewhere. Bernie was dozing with a drink in his hand, the glass tilted dangerously toward Sarah’s lap. She reached over to take it out of harm’s reach and he opened one scarlet-rimmed eye. “Who’re you?”
    “I’m Maxie’s old lady, the society broad,” she replied. “Don’t you remember? You introduced me to Lydia downstairs.”
    “Oh, yeah. I’m not talkin’.”
    “I can see you’re not.”
    “What are you, some kind of a wise society broad? I’m not sayin’ a word, see? Not one word,” he bellowed.
    “I’m not asking you to,” Sarah replied, somewhat alarmed.
    “He tol’ me. He said don’t tell Max.”
    “But I’m not Max.”
    “Whadda you mean, you’re not Max?” Bernie rubbed his eyes and took a closer look. “Hey, you’re not Max. You’re Maxie’s ol’ lady. I gotta look out for Max.”
    “Who says so?”
    “Who says what?”
    “Look out for Max.”
    “Thass ri’. Look out for Max.” Bernie dropped the glass and went back to sleep.
    Sarah moved as far as she could get from the wet spot made by the spilled drink and puzzled over this interesting vignette. If Bernie wasn’t supposed to tell Max, then Bernie must know something Bittersohn would want to hear. But who would be fool enough to entrust a secret to a lush like Bernie? Lydia Ouspenska might, but whatever else she was or could have been, the countess was definitely not a he. As for the rest of this lot, they might be males, females, or androgynous for all Sarah could tell. However, none of them appeared to have any previous acquaintance with Bittersohn or any reason to have expected he’d show up here, so why would they have warned the pianist against him?
    Sarah had a sudden vivid picture of those flying, delicate hands in the antique shop. Bernie had sat there watching while Bill Jones whispered into Mr. Hayre’s ear. Musicians were used to interpreting gestures made by conductors; maybe Bernie had read Bill’s gestures as Sarah herself had. Maybe Bernie had let Bill know that he’d learned what was supposed to have been kept from his ears and maybe it was Bill who’d told him not to tell Max. Tell Max what? Jones had been most obliging about