was dropping.
"Reed lives a more illusory existence than that poor fellow," said Shenz. "At least Borne understands what he is made of, but his predilection for the mysteries of shit is altogether repugnant to society at large.
Can you imagine his neighbors' horror when they realized he was collect-ing it? We live in an age in which everyone pretends to be an angel. Think of all the painters who have taken that winged theme as their subject."
"On the other hand," I said, "he wasn't simply analyz-ing it with an eye toward diagnosing one's health; he was predicting the future with it. That seems somewhat deranged. Not a bad old man at all, though."
"Useful too," said Shenz.
"He at least corroborated much of Mrs. Charbuque's story and gave us her maiden name, Londell,"
I said.
"A name we can trace," said Shenz.
"It also reminds me that at some point I must get around to asking her about her husband. Who, then, is Mr. Charbuque?"
"Of course," said Shenz, "but one thing we need to give some time to is that warehouse Borne told us about. The one on Fulton with the O painted on it. We need to get in there and have a look around."
"It doesn't seem as if anyone would have the key at this point, though. Didn't it sound as if Ossiak stocked the place and then died? I'll wager no one knows who owns it, and they just Page 38
assume someone does. There it sits, like an ancient tomb, guarding its treasures."
"I thought I was the Romantic," said Shenz. "I have an acquaintance who can get us in there."
"The Man from the Equator?" I asked, smiling.
"No, a man from West Thirty-second Street."
"One of the Kitchen's dignitaries?" I asked.
"An artisan in his own right," said Shenz. "This man knows locks the way Borne knows what he had for dinner last week. He has crafted a ring of skeleton keys that is legendary in the underworld, on a par with the Holy Grail, and wields a hat pin with more finesse than Vermeer did a brush."
"Why should he help us?" I asked.
Shenz laughed. He took out his cigarette case and drew forth one of his opiate specials. After lighting it, he blew a stream of smoke out the window and said, "Cash."
"You propose we break into that warehouse?"
"Think of what we might find there, Piambo," he said. Besides, I'm curious to see Malcolm Ossiak's golden eggs, not to mention that nugget of Abraham Lincoln's. Now that's historic."
"I had better call Bloomingdale's asylum and reserve you a room. I'm not about to break into a warehouse. Come now, you're more adamant about this commission of mine than I am. Get a hold on yourself."
He sat back in his seat, as if my words had wounded him. Turning his gaze out the window, he watched the passing lights of Broadway. When his cigarette was three quarters finished, he tossed the rest into the street and closed his eyes. In minutes, he was asleep. As I sat study-ing his features in the intermittent light from the boule-vard, I felt remorse for having rebuked him.
Shenz was somewhat older than I, his age in the middle ground between those of Sabott and myself.
It was becoming increasingly obvious to me that the opium was beginning to erode his health.
His skin tone had become more sallow in recent months, and he had lost a good deal of weight.
When he was younger he had been quite muscular and had always exuded a great sense of energy. His exuberance now, though, had a frantic edge to it, more like the nervous excess resulting from the consumption of too much coffee. Also, his work had begun to decline in its precision and freshness, and the commissions he now drew were less than choice—the Hatstells'
children were a good example.
I wondered if I was looking at a portrait of myself in another few years. I also wondered if perhaps
Shenz, when looking at me, was seeing a portrait of himself a few years younger when he still had an opportunity to mar-shal his powers and, as my father had entreated me, "create something beautiful." It came to me that perhaps that was
"Reed lives a more illusory existence than that poor fellow," said Shenz. "At least Borne understands what he is made of, but his predilection for the mysteries of shit is altogether repugnant to society at large.
Can you imagine his neighbors' horror when they realized he was collect-ing it? We live in an age in which everyone pretends to be an angel. Think of all the painters who have taken that winged theme as their subject."
"On the other hand," I said, "he wasn't simply analyz-ing it with an eye toward diagnosing one's health; he was predicting the future with it. That seems somewhat deranged. Not a bad old man at all, though."
"Useful too," said Shenz.
"He at least corroborated much of Mrs. Charbuque's story and gave us her maiden name, Londell,"
I said.
"A name we can trace," said Shenz.
"It also reminds me that at some point I must get around to asking her about her husband. Who, then, is Mr. Charbuque?"
"Of course," said Shenz, "but one thing we need to give some time to is that warehouse Borne told us about. The one on Fulton with the O painted on it. We need to get in there and have a look around."
"It doesn't seem as if anyone would have the key at this point, though. Didn't it sound as if Ossiak stocked the place and then died? I'll wager no one knows who owns it, and they just Page 38
assume someone does. There it sits, like an ancient tomb, guarding its treasures."
"I thought I was the Romantic," said Shenz. "I have an acquaintance who can get us in there."
"The Man from the Equator?" I asked, smiling.
"No, a man from West Thirty-second Street."
"One of the Kitchen's dignitaries?" I asked.
"An artisan in his own right," said Shenz. "This man knows locks the way Borne knows what he had for dinner last week. He has crafted a ring of skeleton keys that is legendary in the underworld, on a par with the Holy Grail, and wields a hat pin with more finesse than Vermeer did a brush."
"Why should he help us?" I asked.
Shenz laughed. He took out his cigarette case and drew forth one of his opiate specials. After lighting it, he blew a stream of smoke out the window and said, "Cash."
"You propose we break into that warehouse?"
"Think of what we might find there, Piambo," he said. Besides, I'm curious to see Malcolm Ossiak's golden eggs, not to mention that nugget of Abraham Lincoln's. Now that's historic."
"I had better call Bloomingdale's asylum and reserve you a room. I'm not about to break into a warehouse. Come now, you're more adamant about this commission of mine than I am. Get a hold on yourself."
He sat back in his seat, as if my words had wounded him. Turning his gaze out the window, he watched the passing lights of Broadway. When his cigarette was three quarters finished, he tossed the rest into the street and closed his eyes. In minutes, he was asleep. As I sat study-ing his features in the intermittent light from the boule-vard, I felt remorse for having rebuked him.
Shenz was somewhat older than I, his age in the middle ground between those of Sabott and myself.
It was becoming increasingly obvious to me that the opium was beginning to erode his health.
His skin tone had become more sallow in recent months, and he had lost a good deal of weight.
When he was younger he had been quite muscular and had always exuded a great sense of energy. His exuberance now, though, had a frantic edge to it, more like the nervous excess resulting from the consumption of too much coffee. Also, his work had begun to decline in its precision and freshness, and the commissions he now drew were less than choice—the Hatstells'
children were a good example.
I wondered if I was looking at a portrait of myself in another few years. I also wondered if perhaps
Shenz, when looking at me, was seeing a portrait of himself a few years younger when he still had an opportunity to mar-shal his powers and, as my father had entreated me, "create something beautiful." It came to me that perhaps that was
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