The Collection

by Lance Charnes

  She’s way more excited about this than I am. I didn’t know I still had that card, and I’m not sure I want it. “It’s not that simple,” I finally say after trying a few other answers. “I was still with Janine when that happened. I—”

  “And she was crazy.” Chloe leans in when she sees me wince. “Sorry, but she was, and she was totally dragging you down. If I had that going on, and I met her—” she waves the card at me “—I’d jump her, too. So what’s the problem?”

  I should never have told her about this, but I’d just moved in and we were both drunk and playing “Truth or Dare” and I’d needed to tell somebody so it didn’t drill a hole through my gut. I never finished the story, though. “I felt like the ultimate asshole afterwards, that’s the problem.” Chloe starts to say something, but I hold up my hand. “Just… That’s the first time, the only time I cheated on Janine. I still sort-of loved her. She made it so hard, but… well, she was still my wife. I couldn’t tell her. I couldn’t do that to her. It tore me up.”

  I was sure Janine would sense it, but she didn’t notice. Every time she hit bottom, she’d say I should get rid of her, then accuse me of having an affair, but she’d been doing that for years. Before Geneva, I could deny it. After Geneva, I just changed the subject and drank more.

  Then she ran off with that guy from the Harley dealership and my friends started telling me about shit she’d done when she was manic. “Dude, you didn’t know?” they always asked. No. I didn’t. I wish I still didn’t. I just feel like a bigger idiot.

  Chloe’s looking at me like I’d just told her I have cancer. “So that’s why you were so down after that trip. You didn’t smile for, like, months.”

  “I couldn’t.” I grab the card from her hand and drop it on the discard pile.

  She sighs. “Matt, geez. We need to find you a someone.” She picks up the card again. “How ‘bout Allyson? I mean, a rich girlfriend? That’ll cheer you up.”

  Allyson? A girlfriend? Like that idea hasn’t kicked me in the butt a bazillion times since Geneva. But I always come up with the same answer. “She probably forgot about me before she got out of the elevator.” I take back the card and drop it on the trash pile. “You want her? Go for it. You probably have a better chance than I do now.”

  Chloe wraps her hands around my arm. “I’m serious! It’s not good for you to be alone.” Her eyes get wide. “Oh! I know! Remember Sam?”

  “Which one was she?”

  “Kinda retro. You know, Forties hairdo, stockings with seams?”

  Brass-colored hair, cherry-red lipstick. Plus she dumped Chloe, so really, how good a person could she be? “Sort of.”

  “Anyway, she’s bi, and she said you’re cute. Maybe—”

  I hold up my free hand. “When she finds out what I’ve been doing the past four years? So much for the second date.” I peel Chloe’s hands off my arm and hold them between my palms. They’re small and delicate and warm. “But thanks for the idea. You’re the best.” She smiles. I give her back her hands. “It’s past your bedtime, young lady.”

  “Seriously, I totally mean it.” She gets up without flashing me too much. “I hate seeing you alone. You deserve better.”

  I do?

  She bends over to kiss my forehead. “You’re the nicest ex-con I know.”

  She really is a sweetheart. I tap her nose. “And you know so many.”

  Chloe scrubs her fingers through my hair so it stands up, then shuffles away to her room.

  I start sorting through the business cards, putting them in two piles: one for people I want to keep, the other for people I’ve put in jail, or who’re dead, or who’ve threatened to kill me. The second pile grows pretty fast. But all along, I hear Allyson’s smooth alto: “What do you need?”

  I was the one-nighter, the fling. We never would’ve been “together.” I get that. Four years is a long time. With everything that’s happened, I’m probably radioactive to her.

  But I can’t keep going the way things are now. I’m not even keeping my head above water. Between rent and my bus pass and paying off the lawyer and six figures of restitution and the garnish for the student loans and medical bills I defaulted on, every dime I make disappears before I see it. I can’t even go bankrupt—most of my debt isn’t dischargeable. I don’t help Chloe nearly enough with our expenses, and I can’t stay here forever. Someday she’s going to find a nice girl and want to settle down, and I’ll be one of those homeless dudes sleeping on a cardboard box.

  What do you need?

  Anything. Everything.

  Allyson’s card isn’t hard to find again. I don’t know how long I sit there staring at it, debating. I’d had my chance at a job back then and didn’t—couldn’t—take it. A beautiful night with a beautiful woman is supposed to end that night; you’re not supposed to go work for her afterwards. What would I even say to her? “Hi, we slept together. Will you hire me?” Right.

  Finally I say, fuck it. I can’t get any more humiliated. I tap out an email on my phone:

  We met in Geneva four years ago. You admired my Corot auction. You mentioned you need art specialists. I’m interested in learning more.

  Matt Friedrich

  Nothing ventured, right?

  It’s radio silence for twenty-three days. Allyson’s probably written me off. Maybe that old email address is dead. It was a nice idea, though. A reason to think about her, and what was, even if the guilt’s still there.

  Then I’m riding a Santa Monica Big Blue Bus back home from an open-to-close shift and I get a text. I figure it’s Chloe telling me she’s staying with a girlfriend or something. Then I notice the sender’s a blocked number.

  One Pico, Shutters on the Beach

  11:30 Tuesday

  Chapter 3

  Shutters on the Beach—a faux-shingle-style New England saltbox monstrosity right on the beach at the edge of downtown Santa Monica—is just a few blocks from work. Expensive rooms, its own spa. Forbes rated it one of the best beach resorts in the world. Figures Allyson would stay there.

  One Pico is the hotel’s restaurant. It’s supposed to be very good. The lunch menu has a $20 hamburger, which should tell you all you need to know.

  I arrive ten minutes early and see Allyson sitting at a four-top against a window in the far corner. My heart starts pounding. She’s really here. I’m really going to see her again. God, what am I going to look like to her?

  “Sir?” The hostess stares at me. “This way?”

  She leads me across hardwood floor past cream-and-white woodwork, tongue-and-groove ceiling decks above exposed rafters, and clerestory eye windows. Wooden boat-hull models and black wrought-iron faux gas lanterns hang from the beams.

  Allyson stands when I arrive at the table. Looking at her for real, I see my memory’s Photoshopped her a bit. She’s not beautiful or gorgeous. She’s striking, the kind of woman everyone in the room turns to look at when she enters. Presence, not looks.

  Gar force-fed me a steady diet of upmarket fashion magazines while I was at the gallery. “Your customer tells you who he is, she is, with the clothes,” he told me. “Learn the language.” I kept it up at PEN; the staff would confiscate the men’s mags, but my Vogues and Ws would sail on through with more T&A than Maxim or FHM. Before Gar, I couldn’t tell Armani from Army surplus; now I can guess the label and line about 90% of the time.

  Allyson’s wearing St. John today: a camel notched-lapel maxi-vest over a black knee-length pencil skirt with a scalloped lace hem. It’s worth four months of my pay, but it’s a great look on her. Hell, hijab would be a great look on her. I’m wearing my last good suit—a navy Canali single-breasted—and a fresh haircut, but she makes me feel ragged.

  We stand there a moment, her sizing me up, me trying not to stare. Then she extends her right hand. Her arms are toned and sleek, like I remember the rest of her being. “Mr. Friedrich.”

  So “Matt” and “Allyson” are out the window. O
kay. I hesitate before I shake her hand. It feels the same as it did back then. So does the residual guilt. “Ms. DeWitt.”

  She doesn’t let go right away. She must see something in my face, because her mouth goes a little tight. “This is a business meeting,” she says in that voice I’ve been dreaming about for so long.

  I nod a few times before I can say, “I know.”

  Allyson finally lets me go and gestures to the walnut scroll-back chair next to me. “Please, have a seat.” She signals for the waiter, who’s there in an instant. “May I offer you something to drink?”

  I’d love a beer—hell, I’d like a double vodka right now—but I need a clear head. “Iced tea, please.”

  She nods to the waiter. “Another cappuccino scuro, please.”

  Time’s stood still for her. She looks exactly the same—not one extra wrinkle, not one gray hair. She’s got to be in her mid-forties by now, and she’s still one of the most attractive women I’ve ever met. That’s saying something, considering who my clients used to be. I wonder what the portrait in her attic looks like. “You look… fantastic.”

  She gives me a small, almost self-conscious smile. “Thank you. You look… older.”

  “I know. It’s the miles, not the years.”

  I see her the way she was right at the end—sitting naked on the bed, her hair tumbling around her face, her cheeks flushed, her eyes shining in the bedside lamplight. I have to look out the open double-casement window to the beach and ocean. This was such a mistake. I’m such an idiot.

  “Mr. Friedrich.” Her voice is low but firm. “Just by meeting you, I’m breaking a promise I made to myself. I don’t mix business and pleasure anymore. I don’t form personal relationships with my staff. It’s much easier for everyone.” She hesitates enough to make me turn back to her. Her hands are folded on the slate-blue tablecloth and she’s drilling through my head with her eyes. “What passed between us is in the past. If you’re here to try to… rebuild that connection, you should leave now.” She pins my ears back. “Do you understand?”

  I’d figured as much. Still, hearing it goes down hard. “Yes. I understand.”

  “Good. Should I take you on, you will never mention to anyone—anyone, but especially not a client or another staff member—the nature of our prior acquaintance. If you do, I’ll terminate you immediately. I also have the ability to make your life extremely unpleasant. You can agree to that condition?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Though I don’t know how she can make my life any worse.

  We pause while the waiter doles out our drinks. Once he leaves, Allyson asks, “How did you know to contact me?”

  “You left me your card. I kept it.”

  She nods. Some silence passes by.

  I say, “Um, before we start? I just want to say that, well, that night was—”

  “Don’t.” It’s like a slap. Then she takes a deep breath and says in a much softer tone, “I know what you’re going to say, and I know you mean it to be flattering, and I appreciate the thought. But, please don’t.”

  Yeah. She’s heard it before. I’m not the first. “Sorry.”

  She nods once.

  To cover the awkward pause, I unzip my black leather portfolio. “I have a resume if you’d—”

  “I have it,” she says.

  Okay then. A tablet’s propped up on its black folding cover next to her charger plate. It’s not the right shape for an iPad, but I can’t tell what it is. She whisks a finger across the screen a couple times. That must be her copy of my resume, my credit reports, my last physical, and maybe my baby pictures.

  “You’ve had a very eventful four years,” she says after a moment.

  “Yes, I have.”

  “You work at Starbucks. Why?”

  “It pays better than McDonalds.”

  Her dark eyes rake over me. “I believe my question is, why aren’t you working as an architect? That’s your training.”

  “Well, there’s that felony conviction. But the big reason is, there’s too many architects now. The architecture schools keep churning us out, but there’s no place for us to go anymore.” It’s been that way for years. It’s depressing to keep seeing your degree show up on those “Worst College Majors” lists.

  “That’s the reason you were at Heibrück Pacific?”

  “One of them.”

  Allyson looks up again. “Mr. Friedrich. Given our experience, we ought to be very frank with each other. There are no right answers here.” She dips a hand toward her tablet. “I know what you’ve done. I want to know the why. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” It kills me to call her ma’am, but I have to so I don’t call her Allyson, which I can tell won’t go over well.

  She settles back into her chair and scans me again. “Why Heibrück Pacific? Why a gallery assistant? You don’t exactly fit the profile.”

  “Gar asked me at the interview, ‘What do you think of when you hear “gallery assistant?”’ And I told him, ‘A 22-year-old blonde with a BFA and a black dress.’” That gets an almost-real smile out of Allyson. “I needed a job, something that didn’t involve french fries. Parsons laid me off after they botched their contract to build clinics in Iraq. Kunstler Homes crashed when the economy did. The studios I applied to, they said they got four or five hundred applicants for one position. It was nuts. I was carrying two rent payments, one for the apartment and one for COBRA, which is incredibly expensive. I needed that for Janine, my wife. She was—”

  “I remember. You told me at dinner.”

  I can’t remember half of what I said to her back then, but I remember every word she said to me. “Sorry.”

  “We have limited time here.” Allyson’s tone is restrained, like she’s holding something back. “I have clients to meet. Assume I already know everything about you in the public record. I’d rather you spend our time here telling me what I don’t know.” She pauses. “Shall we?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Her eyebrows shrug. “Actually, I have more than simply the public record. For instance, I have your confession, and your testimony in the other trials. I noted your obvious hostility toward wealthy people, or at least toward a particular kind of them. Given what happened to your parents, I can’t say I blame you. I should tell you, though, that nearly all my clients are quite wealthy, either as individuals or as organizations. Feeling the way you evidently do, would you be able to work in their interests?”

  Just the question I wanted to avoid. I can’t dance around it, though. I watch the breeze ruffle the palm fronds outside for a bit. “If I work for you, my loyalty’s to you, not them.”

  “Just as your loyalty was to Mr. Heibrück?”

  I walked into that one, eyes wide open. The nearest other diners—five Ladies Who Lunch half-a-dozen tables away—start laughing. Like they’re laughing at me for thinking I’d have any control over this interview once it started.

  “Gar threw me under the bus. He kept telling me, ‘We have to stick together, we’ll win if we stick together.’ Then the minute he gets bailed out, the son-of-a-bitch runs off to Indonesia. No extradition.”

  “I know. However—”

  “So suddenly, I’m the only thing left of Heibrück Pacific that anybody can throw to the wolves. And man, did they. The feds piled on every charge they could and some even my lawyer couldn’t figure out. They were talking decades in prison. I didn’t know it then, but that’s SOP for them. So when the U.S. Attorney offered the plea deal, I jumped on it. I’m not a martyr, not when I’m hung out to dry.”

  She half-nods. “Is there anything you regret about your time at the gallery?”

  “You already know that. You have my confession.”

  “There’s what you told the authorities, and what you’ll tell me.”

  “True.” There’s this deep, twisting pain in my gut every time I think about or say the name. “Ida Rothenberg.”

  “You regret getting
caught, then?”

  “No. I regret it ever happened. It was a mistake. Gar was in a hurry and we got sloppy. That canvas should never have made it in the back door. That’s the one thing I wish I could take back.”

  Allyson nods. She’s been peering into my eyes, like she’s lost something and hopes to find it there. “Why do you want to work for me?” She holds up a palm. “If you say it’s because you have some sort of feelings for me, I’ll end this interview.”

  “I thought there aren’t any right answers.”

  “This is an exception.”

  I’d figured she’d ask something like this, and I’d worked up a few slick answers. They’re all bullshit, though, and she’ll know it. So I try something radical—the truth.

  “You said you need people who understand… what was it? ‘The gray and blurred lines of life?’ Well, I’ve crossed most of those lines. It’s hard enough for a normal person to get a job these days. The Target in Culver City had fifteen openings last week, and a thousand people applied. Somebody like me? I can’t afford the jobs I can get. The truth is, I don’t have a lot of options. I don’t want to go back to prison, Al—Ms. DeWitt, sorry, but the whole making-an-honest-living thing isn’t going so well. It seemed like you had a job for me in Geneva. Since you asked me here, I figure you still do.” I hesitate, knowing I may be about to push too far. “If you do, I need that job.”

  For the first time, Allyson looks out the window. I’m not sure she’s seeing anything, but she isn’t X-raying my soul anymore. After a few moments, she sighs, clicks off her tablet, and closes its cover. I guess the interview is over.

  She looks up. “I never told you what it is I do, did I.”

  “No. All you said was, you ‘fill needs,’ whatever that means.”

  She nods. “I do things for people who need things to be done.”

  “Why don’t they do it themselves?”

  “They haven’t the skill set. They can’t be seen to be involved. They’re restricted from operating. Any number of reasons, none of which you’ll ever be privy to should I employ you.”