The Collection

by Lance Charnes

  Smart. Everybody understands fear. “He bought that?” She smiles and nods. Is it wrong to like her more for being a good liar? “Are you going to show me around?”

  “Yes. Come.” She grabs my hand and tows me around the space. Blue painter’s tape on the slab marks partition lines for the offices, viewing room and storage. I ask about finishes and she pulls swatches and samples out of the copier-paper box next to her chair. Gianna’s lit up like a house fire. It’s catching—Angelo or no, I really want her to have a shot at this dream even though I know it’s going to cause her a lot of heartache.

  “This is a great space,” I say when I can get a word out. “But this building’s… scary outside. I mean—”

  “Yes, it is scary—outside.” She gives me a kilowatt smile, then she’s off and running again. The new owner is rehabbing the apartments. She knows the status of every building a block on either side of here: which ones have sold, which are being renovated, what’s happening to rents, what other businesses are going in. If the art thing doesn’t work out, she’ll make a damn good real-estate agent.

  I want to tell her go for it, but I’m supposed to be the savvy businessman, so I have to try to rain on her parade. “With all that, how can you afford this space?”

  “I have a good friend, I meet her when I work for Conti. I stay with her after the party. She is a very good friend of the man who owns this building. She lives here now in a flat.”

  “She’s his mistress.”

  Gianna shrugs her face. “I talk to him, show him my business plan. He is very interested. He wants a cultural place in his building—the bookshop or the gallery. I make the deal with him. He will make the special rent for two years if I pay in cash.” Her look says See? Impressed?

  I’ve gotta laugh. “You don’t need me. You’re doing great.” She turns those bottomless eyes on me. “I read your business plan. It’s very thorough, very well thought out. Good job.”

  Gianna quizzes me about her plan for a good half-hour. She looks impressed every time I can quote it back to her. I’ve seen a lot of galleries and watched a lot of them crash and burn. I hope my advice keeps her out of the ditch.

  Finally I say, “I know you Italians like to eat in the middle of the night, but I’m American and it’s way past my dinnertime. Can we…?”

  Her eyes get wide. “Oh! Yes, of course. Mi dispiace. But first–” she raises an index finger “—I have the gift for you.”

  “Gianna, you didn’t have to—”

  “Shhh.” Gianna hauls her big, white vinyl tote onto the box, then fishes out a tablet in a pink-and-purple Op Art cover. She shows me a dense spreadsheet. “These are the accounts for the gallery.” She gives me the most serious look I’ve ever seen on her. “The real accounts.”

  Holy shit. I scroll through the various tabs. At least it’s in English, but it’s all in code… something an honest gallery doesn’t need. “How’d you get this? Does Lorenzoni know?”

  “No. Yesterday, he goes to the meeting very suddenly. He leaves his computer on his desk. I reach it before it locks.” She switches screens to another spreadsheet. “Here is the inventory of Rossi’s art in the storage. I copy all of Lorenzoni’s files.”

  She hands me a violet thumb drive about an inch long.

  All his files? Is there a record of his auction sales? His foreign bank accounts? His corporate fronts? He’d have them somewhere. Questioning her loyalties now seems ungrateful. Oh, Gianna, I could kiss you…

  “You should do that,” she says.

  Um… “Did I say that out loud?” She nods. “I’d better do it, then.” She nods and smiles.

  It starts gently, even tentatively, but soon enough we’re smashed together, our hands are everywhere, and her perfume’s taking over my brain. Her body and lips are so lush I lose myself in them, in her, in the heat of her eyes and the breath we share.

  We come up for air after what seems like both an hour and a split-second. We’re panting like we’ve each run a marathon. Gianna’s still pressed against me with her fingers threaded through my hair. My hands are wrapped around what feels through her dress like the most beautiful ass I’ve ever held.

  I’m seriously about to rip her dress off when I hear the last desperate gasp of my rational mind: you’re Hoskins. You’re Hoskins. You’re Hoskins.

  A tiny pulse of blood seeps into my big brain. I may not have had sex for way too long, but Hoskins has gotta have a surplus of bedmates. He wouldn’t act like a teenager going past second base for the first time. He wouldn’t get sucked in so easy.

  Shit. I nudge her away just enough so I can breathe and reboot my thinking. I should say something, but the best I can manage is, “That means ‘thanks.’”

  Gianna giggles and trails her hand down my chest until it snags on my belt buckle. “You are very welcome.”

  Both my brains are about to explode. Let me bite your panties off is what I want to say. But I’m supposed to be Hoskins, damn him, so what I actually say is, “Hungry?”

  She leads me a couple blocks to Osteria Conchetta, a little place that serves traditional Milanese food. It’s busy and loud—white plaster, brick, and tan floor tiles bouncing every sound—and Gianna and I squeeze into a two-top in a corner so small our knees touch. Not that I mind. She translates the menu for me, then says “I know what you will eat” and orders the fried veal cutlet and risotto in white wine and cheese for me, and gnocchi and Savoy cabbage rolled in pastry for herself.

  Talking requires a lot of fondling and having our heads very close. She’s not shy about where she puts her hands. The skin on the inside of her thighs is softer than cashmere under my fingertips. I can still taste her lips. I’ve been craving this contact for years. Video loops showing what comes next are playing in my head and I’m sure I can’t walk right now.

  “You are not like the rich man,” Gianna says once we’re a bottle into the meal. “You are too nice, too… how do you say, um, thoughtful. I meet rich men. They are always with the ‘me me me.’ You are not that way. Why?”

  Whenever Gianna asks me about my life—meaning Hoskins’ life—every lie I tell her stabs me in the kidneys. I like her; I don’t want to be fake with her; but I don’t have a choice anymore. The guy she’s looking at and touching isn’t me. I’m starting to hate Hoskins.

  “What I have, I got pretty recently.” Like in the past two weeks. “I guess I still remember what it’s like to be normal.”

  She nods, then kisses me. “I am happy that you do. I do not come here with you if you are like the rich man.”

  We finish our food—I barely taste it—and another bottle of wine. We laugh a lot. We nuzzle a lot. I have to fight to keep my hands away from her buttons. Angelo’s just a distant, fuzzy memory. I’ve fallen in love with Gianna’s eyes… and deeply in lust with the rest of her.

  I suggest dessert, but she says, “No, not here. I know the place.” Gianna hauls me up a couple blocks to Mister Gel, a hole-in-the-wall gelateria. She gets Nutella and pistachio; I get mango. If there’s a heaven, and if it has ice cream (which it better), this is what it’ll taste like.

  The streets are still busy with cars and walkers even past ten on a work night. Gianna leads me the two long blocks to the canal, past cafes and bars spilling crowds of youngish Milanese onto the sidewalks.

  We perch on a footbridge over the narrow canal. The streets on either side are blocked off, and lights, café tables and awnings mark each restaurant, bar and club. Music plays all around us. Most of the apartment windows glow yellow on every side. Little white lights twinkle on a river barge turned into a pizzeria. Reflections shimmer in the water. It’s perfect.

  Gianna nestles against me and rests her head on my shoulder. Side-by-side becomes front-to-front and we kiss for a while, letting our hands go exploring.

  She wants Hoskins, my conscience reminds me.

  “Rick?” She fingers my collar for a moment. She’s gone from flirty to serious. “I a
sk you for only one thing. Please do not lie to me. Many men have done, and I do not want that anymore. Please promise to me that you will be honest, and I will promise that to you.”

  Shit!

  Hoskins is a lie from back to front. But we’re so far down this road now that even if I could tell her who and what I really am (which I can’t), it’ll destroy everything.

  Don’t tell her. That’s my anti-conscience talking. Stick with the story. You’re almost in.

  I want her so much it hurts. She’s gorgeous. I love listening to her talk. If I had to describe my ideal woman, I’d come up with somebody like her. I can tell from her eyes, the way she’s caressing me, that all I have to do is make the promise and we’ll go straight to bed.

  Dude, how many people have you lied to? What’s one more?

  Yeah, but that was about money. This is about her life, her dream. Do I really want to be that guy who cons her into sex, then breaks her heart… again? Because it sounds like this wouldn’t be the first time.

  You blow her off, you don’t finish the job. Kiss those bucks goodbye.

  Aw, hell. I hadn’t even thought of that. What’ll she do if I don’t take her to bed? Will she figure out I’m a fraud? Will she go someplace else for her startup money?

  You’re losing her, dude.

  My anti-conscience is right. She’s starting to frown.

  Say the words. She wants it, so do you. She’s a big girl. She’ll deal.

  Why does doing the right thing always have to be so hard? Is that why I’m so bad at it?

  Say the words, dude.

  Chapter 36

  The last text I got from Carson said Belknap had gone home without the Fantin. She’s not in her room. When it’s after hours and she’s not in her room, she’s at the bar in Mio.

  I slide onto the stool next to hers, flag the bartender and order a vodka. I feel like shit, but I’m not going to try to get hammered, not at €22 a pour.

  “Didn’t think I’d see you ‘til tomorrow,” Carson says to her glass.

  “I didn’t either.”

  “What happened? Couldn’t get it up?”

  “Fuck you.” I rub my eyes with my fingertips.

  “Ohhhh, that’s embarrassing.”

  “That’s not what happened.”

  “She still upstairs?”

  “I sent her home.”

  The temperature goes arctic next to me. “You fuck her and throw her out? Asshole.”

  “I sent her home after dinner.”

  No response. I glance her way and find her giving me a puzzled scowl, like I started speaking Klingon and she’s trying to decode it.

  “I couldn’t do it.” Where’s my drink, damnit? “I couldn’t scam her into bed. God knows I wanted to. But she said the only thing she expected is that I wouldn’t lie, and I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t be another shitty guy hustling her.”

  “What did you tell her?”

  My drink arrives. I knock the middle-grade vodka down my throat in two tries. It doesn’t help. Carson was right; I feel like an asshole. Or an idiot. Or both.

  “I told her…” I can still see the look on Gianna’s face. I can’t tell if she was astonished or pissed off. “I told her there’s nothing I’d rather do than be closer to her, but we need to think straight until the deal’s done and we should keep it just business ‘til then.”

  But… do I say the wrong thing? Do I offend you?

  No, no, no. Gianna, you’re beautiful and smart and ambitious and you have a sense of humor and I’d love to pack you up and take you home to meet Mom. Really. But we’re going to have to do some hard things over the next few days and I… When we’re done with Lorenzoni and you’ve got the money for your gallery, I want to see how you and I are together. I should’ve said something earlier, I know, I’m sorry. But tonight’s been so great, I couldn’t spoil it…

  “Then I had the car take her home.” I perch my elbows on the counter and push my eyes into the heels of my hands. “Go ahead, give me shit. Tell me what a stupid ass I am.”

  Carson doesn’t say anything for a long time. I hear footsteps approach on the other side of the bar, then retreat, then return. A glass clunks against the marble. When I open my eyes, I see another drink in front of me.

  Carson’s got her chin on her folded hands. She’s looking at me very seriously. “Sorry about before. Didn’t think you had it in you.”

  “Neither did I.”

  “Doing the right thing really sucks, eh?” She reaches over and gives my forearm a pat. I’d be less shocked if she whomped me with her baton. “She burned as a source?”

  I shrug. “I texted her while I was coming back here. Basically, ‘Are we okay?’ She hasn’t answered yet.”

  “Give her time. She’s probably amazed she still has her clothes on.”

  I take my second drink a lot slower. The bar’s very slick: lots of marble and obscure glass, polished amber-colored discs hanging from the ceiling to diffuse the gentle light. The twin flat-screens at the end of the room are playing soccer and news.

  “Angelo was there. He invited us to Morrone’s place to look at Dad’s art, maybe buy some.” I lay out Gianna’s explanation of her relationship with Angelo.

  Carson’s eyebrows arch like an angry cat’s back. “Believe her?”

  “It sounds reasonable. As long as Morrone’s got art in storage there, they’ve gotta talk to somebody. And she gave me Belknap’s files, so it doesn’t look like she’s playing on his team.”

  She stares into her glass, working her jaw. After a while, she shrugs. “I’ll trust you on this. You know the players and the game.”

  We nurse our drinks and watch little people run around a big green playing field. The weather on the next stool slowly warms up. Time to come clean. “I have another problem.”

  “Blue balls? Can’t help you.” At least she says it with a cockeyed smile.

  “No, not that.” Well, that’s a problem too. “My PO thinks I’m coming home tomorrow.”

  Carson squints at me like I’m out of focus. “Where’s he think you are?”

  “New York City. Interviewing. I told him I got a little freelance work, but that’s supposed to be done by now. I guess I can invent some more of that, but I don’t know how long I can keep stringing him along before he wonders why I can’t take this work online.”

  “What’s he like?”

  “Len? He’s a really good guy. He cuts me a lot of slack because I never hassle him. I call when I’m supposed to, I come in right away when he asks, I keep out of trouble.”

  “Until now,” Carson says.

  “Yeah. I think he really wants me to succeed. He’s tired of having so many of his probies violate out. He was really supportive about my ‘trip to New York.’ I don’t want to fuck this up.”

  Carson nods and nurses her scotch. “Got an idea. Let’s go upstairs.”

  “Hello, Len? It’s Matt.”

  My phone’s on speaker. I can hear office sounds in the background. “Matt? It’s Thursday. Why’re you calling today? You’re back tomorrow, yeah?”

  I glance across the table at Carson, who’s perched on the suite’s banquette. I’m not sure how much I like this plan of hers, but it’s better than anything I’ve come up with so far.

  “Um… I need to talk to you about that. I need to stick around here another few days.”

  “You got more work? You get a job?” You’d never guess from his Harvey Fierstein voice that Len’s only about five-nine and looks like a bald Sam Waterston. He’s also some kind of super-black belt in Brazilian jiu-jitsu. Another reason not to mess with him.

  “Yeah, a little more freelance, from the same place. But, well… I haven’t been completely straight with you. I haven’t been at the Y for a few days now.”

  More background noise. “I don’t expect this from you.” Shit. That feels the same as hearing Dad say son, I’m disappointed in you. “Where are
you?”

  “In Brooklyn. I, um…” Carson spins a wheel with her index finger: hurry up. I wave her off. “I met somebody. I’m staying with her.” Now’s when we find out if Len’s going to come unglued, or if he’s going to ask to be best man at the wedding.

  “Well, shit hot, son. New York women, huh? Tell me about her.”

  I let out a little sigh: I’m not dead yet. I tell him about how I met Lida (the name Carson fed me) at a Midtown bar after my last interview on day three of my trip. Drinks turned into dinner and one thing led to another. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. We didn’t know if it’d work out, and I was afraid of jinxing it. Sorry.”

  “Well, you sure as hell should’ve told—”

  “Would you like to talk to her?”

  It takes Len a few seconds to think on this. “Yeah. She there?”

  “Hold on.” I mute and look up at Carson, who’s leaning toward the phone. I’m trusting her way more than I’m comfortable with. But she needs me so she can finish her project, right? She doesn’t want to violate me out… right? “Please be careful.”

  “No worries.” She un-mutes and sweeps up the phone at the same time. I can’t hear Len’s side of the conversation, which doesn’t exactly build up my confidence. “Hiya, Mr. Samuelson? Say, are you a ‘mister’ or ‘officer’? Whadda I call ya?” She’s put on enough of a Brooklyn accent to sell it but not enough to sound like a cartoon. It’s perfect.

  For the next ten minutes, I witness one of the best cons I’ve seen in years. She gives him a full name (Lida Adrikovna Rodnina) and a Brooklyn address and 917 phone number without hesitating an instant. She talks about our fictional relationship like it’s a pleasant surprise for her, too. There’s even some tenderness in her voice when she says, “I know what he’s done, but he’s a good guy, ya know? Treats me right.” She shares a couple laughs with Len—I’ve never heard her laugh before. And her character and accent are so right-on, I can see her twirling her hair around her finger if she had longer hair.

  Carson wraps up with a tone like she’s chatting with her favorite uncle instead of my probation officer. She hands me the phone with the speaker turned back on, then wanders off to fix herself a drink from my minibar.