by Adam Mitzner
That smile again. Out of his peripheral vision, Owen saw his parents wearing stupid grins too.
“Now, I said that there were two phases,” Dr. Cammerman continued, “but I’m going to add a third one: posttransplant. There are some strange side effects to the procedure that you may or may not experience. For instance, you might have a strong taste of garlic or creamed corn in your mouth. Sucking on candy or sipping flavored drinks during and after the infusion can help with the taste. I know, not pleasant. I’m sorry to say, your body will also smell like this.”
“So that might be a little bit of improvement for you, huh?” his father said with a chuckle.
Dr. Cammerman laughed. “Don’t worry. The smell fades after a few days, but this is something that most patients tell me about, and I don’t want you to worry if you experience it. You’re not becoming a vampire or anything like that.”
Owen wanted to tell him that vampires were repelled by garlic; they didn’t smell like it. Instead, he smiled while silently praying that the doctor would stop talking already.
But Dr. Cammerman still wasn’t finished. “So, at this point in the process, posttransplant, we’re waiting to see if the transplanted stem cells engraft and start to multiply and make new blood cells. That usually occurs within a few weeks. Unfortunately, you’re in the hospital this entire time. No exceptions.”
Owen knew this from the internet too. Still he asked, “How long am I going to be in the hospital? I mean after the transplant?”
“Anywhere from three to six weeks. During this period, you’ll be highly susceptible to infection, which is why we require the hospital stay. Your visitors will be limited to your immediate family, and everyone else who comes in contact with you will have to wash their hands before entering and then wear surgical masks, glasses, and gowns. What we’re looking for before we send you home is that you haven’t run a fever in a few days, you’re feeling relatively good, and your blood counts have hit a certain level. It varies from person to person how long that takes. But like I said, it’ll most likely be a month or so.”
Owen timed it out in his head. If the first stage took two weeks, and the second anywhere from three to six weeks, he was looking at about two months from start to finish. And for most of the time, he’d be in the hospital.
As he had predicted, there’d be no opera performance in his future. No final orchestra recital. No chance at first violin. Likely no prom either.
“We’ll get you a tutor,” his mother said. “That way, you’ll still be able to graduate on time.”
Owen smiled again. The timing did permit him to attend graduation. Of course, that would only be true if he didn’t die before then.
Haley sat at the bar at Sant Ambroeus, an upscale Italian restaurant on Madison Avenue. In her previous life, she would stroll past the bar area, take a table inside the restaurant, and order the Dover sole. But now the bar was as far as she dared go. For one thing, she could no longer afford the prices at the tables. For another, she was here not for the food, but the view.
In the morning, her order was a cappuccino. In the afternoon it was a martini, extra dirty. Usually more than one.
It was somewhat disconcerting that this morning the barista nodded when she took her seat. He was about her age, but not handsome enough for Haley to think his gesture was a come-on. More likely, he remembered her as a regular.
Sant Ambroeus was the ground-floor tenant of the building where James worked. By sitting at the bar, Haley had an unobstructed sight line to Madison Avenue, which allowed her to see her ex-husband enter and leave his office.
These stalking measures did not always bear fruit. Far from it. Haley estimated that she saw James less than half the times she visited. Then again, he never spotted her, which was more important.
At 10:15 a.m., Haley finally got the payoff for which she had been so patiently waiting. James was wearing a tie, which he did only when he was meeting a client. Her heart skipped a beat when he stopped directly in front of Sant Ambroeus. She thought that maybe he had seen her, but he was instead checking his look in the window’s reflection, which gave her a few extra seconds to stare.
A man quickly approached, placing his hand on James’s shoulder. It took a moment before Haley realized that it was Reid Warwick. He wasn’t wearing a tie, but his wolfish grin suggested that money was on his mind.
James had always said that Reid was fun to have a drink with, but he’d never do business with him because he didn’t trust him. Then again, he’d also told her that he’d love her until death parted them, forsaking all others, so James was hardly the gold standard of reliability. Still, she couldn’t help but connect Reid’s phone call from the other night—the deal he said was going to net him “a few mill”—with his sudden presence at James’s place of business this morning.
So that’s the call that made you smile, huh?
Quickly, another thought hit her: What if they’re planning something criminal? And what if she could find evidence that led to James being locked up?
That was another fantasy of hers. Most often, she imagined killing James. Sometimes it was an elaborate, Rube Goldberg kind of torture device. Or she played the part of Goldfinger, with James strapped to a table and a laser slowly moving up between his legs while he begged for his life.
“Do you want me to say I love you, Haley? That I love you more than Jessica?” he’d scream out.
“No, James,” she’d respond. “I want you to die.”
But other times the fantasy was far simpler. Just a gun, a short speech about how she was evening the score, and then James’s shocked expression. She even had one that involved sex, like in that Sharon Stone movie when she plunged an ice pick into a man’s back as he climaxed.
But putting James behind bars was the best. In that fantasy, she’d come to visit him in the pen. He’d be expecting Jessica when the guards shouted, “Sommers! Visitor!” But as he approached the glass divider separating inmates from their visitors, he’d see her face behind the glass partition.
“Surprised?” she’d say on her end of the phone.
“Wh-what are you doing here?” he’d respond.
“I came to see how prison’s treating you. I figured it was the least I could do, seeing that you’re in here because of me.”
Then she’d stand and, like a badass, turn her back on him, and walk away. She wouldn’t look back while he screamed silently from behind the partition.
During the divorce, she’d told her lawyer to look into tax issues or anything else that might put James in criminal jeopardy. “That’s not in your interest, Haley,” David had told her. “In fact, it’s the last thing you want. James will spend all of your joint assets on lawyers. Or he’ll settle by paying the IRS money that otherwise would be marital property.”
She didn’t care. At the time, she hadn’t needed James’s money; she only wanted him to suffer. In the end, her lawyer and his battery of forensic accountants never found anything shady about James’s business dealings.
Dr. Rubenstein knew about her stalking . . . kind of. After a few months of therapy, Haley mentioned that she sometimes sat at the bar at Sant Ambroeus in the hope of catching a glimpse of James but was quick to add that she also liked their coffee, and besides, she and James often had gone to that restaurant when they were married, so it had sentimental appeal for her too.
“Tell me what it feels like before, during, and after,” Dr. Rubenstein had asked.
“When I know I’m going to do it, it’s something I’m looking forward to, and there isn’t much of that in my life nowadays. But I’m also afraid he’ll see me. When he appears, it’s like this huge wave comes over me. Almost as if I feel invincible or something, because I can see him, but he can’t see me. And then, when he walks away, I feel stupid for being there. I vow that I won’t do it again, but that never holds. Within a day or two, I’m there again.”
“Does that remind you of anything else you do?”
“What?”
“The sequence you just described. Does it fit any other activity you engage in?”
She thought for a moment. “No, not really.”
“It’s actually not such an uncommon pattern. It is the progression that often is described by people suffering from addiction, be it drugs or alcohol or something else. They all share a commonality regarding the anticipation, combined with the fear of getting caught, the thrill of the act in the moment, followed by guilt, then a powerful need for more. Which, of course, is what makes it such a vicious cycle.”
It had now been nearly two years since James had left her, and her hope that time would heal the wound was becoming more tenuous every day. She had experienced some obsessive behavior in the past over failed relationships, sometimes lasting long enough that her friends expressed concern, but it had always eventually passed. By now, she knew the fallout from her divorce was not going in that direction. If anything, things were getting worse. Her need to crash the anniversary party was prime evidence of that.
As was the fact that, as she left Sant Ambroeus that morning, she was already planning her return later that evening. She wanted—no, needed—to know what Reid and James were doing together.
“Tell me about this guy,” Reid said.
Reid sometimes got this feeling. It wasn’t quite a tingling of the hairs on the back of his neck, but it was a sixth sense of sorts that something wasn’t right. He wasn’t sure he was experiencing that feeling now, but he might be. Maybe it had nothing to do with the deal. Maybe it was a sign he had chosen the wrong business partner.
When he had asked James to help, Reid had expected a little pushback. There was something too holier-than-thou about James for his taste. Then again, being a Boy Scout in the art world was akin to being the world’s tallest little person. Even the most scrupulous art dealers cut corners when real money was on the line. Which was why Reid was taken aback when James initially turned the deal down. Then when James called him back to change his mind later that day, Reid wondered whether his original disinclination was all for show, although that seemed a bit over-the-top for even James to demonstrate his scruples.
Reid might have let that go without a second thought if it hadn’t been for the fact that immediately after James said he was in, he suddenly had a buyer. Like some guy was just waiting to buy an unsigned Pollock, and all James had to do was add water.
Reid wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth, but it seemed a little too good to be true that, in less than twenty-four hours, James had not only changed his mind about doing the deal but also found an all-cash buyer. Could James be setting him up somehow?
Reid shook the thought away. James wasn’t that way. Besides, what would his angle be?
No matter how much he tried to assuage his fears, Reid couldn’t completely dispel them, however. It all seemed a bit hinky. Even for a semiclandestine art deal.
“His name is Noah Reiss,” James said. “I sold him a Miró a year or two ago.”
“And what’s his business?”
“Not clear. He’s a No Footprint Guy.”
A No Footprint Guy meant that the client had no internet footprint. Google his name, nothing would come up. No Footprint Guys kept their business interests under the radar.
No website. No social media presence. No press about them at all.
It made sense that a No Footprint Guy would buy a Pollock of dubious provenance in an all-cash deal. But Reid still thought it was hinky.
“Why not sell him all four?”
“That’ll scare him off. You want every buyer to think they’re getting the only one.”
Though Reid talked a good game about art, that’s all it was—talk. He didn’t know much about actually selling it.
The buzzer to James’s office was too loud, startling Reid. As soon as it went off, James walked over to the intercom to tell Mr. No Footprint Guy to come up.
“It’s showtime,” he said to Reid.
To James’s surprise, two people entered his studio. One was his expected buyer, Noah Reiss. Beside him was a woman James might have thought was Noah’s wife except for the fact that she was a ten and Noah Reiss was a three, tops. He was a lump of a man, practically the same size around as he was vertical, and his face was largely hidden by a scraggly beard under a pair of beady eyes. By contrast, Reiss’s companion was James’s height, with the slender figure of a ballerina; she carried off a pixie cut as only an exceptionally beautiful woman could. Still, money made for strange partners, so maybe the woman was Mrs. Reiss.
“Noah, good to see you again,” James said heartily while shaking Noah’s hand. “This is my partner on this deal, Reid Warwick. Reid, meet Noah Reiss.”
While gripping Reid’s hand, Noah said, “This is Allison Longley. Allison’s an expert in midcentury modern American art. I asked her to come along to give me some comfort that everything is kosher. No offense, James. It’s not that I don’t trust you, but you know how it is. Trust, but verify.”
“Of course,” James said with a big smile. “I wouldn’t have it any other way. So, come in. Have a seat on the sofa, and I’ll bring the guest of honor over. Normally I would offer you something to drink, but I’m sure you understand that I don’t want an irreplaceable piece of art to be ruined by a knocked-over cup of coffee.”
The viewing area was four leather armchairs around a four-foot-square table made of glass and steel. James put on a pair of paper gloves and retrieved a sheet of paper from his credenza, placing it in the center of the table.
“As you can see, this is truly an extraordinary piece,” James said. “It shows Jackson Pollock’s thought process in crafting his larger canvases. The owner of this work, who would like to remain anonymous, was a very close friend of Lee Krasner’s, Pollock’s widow. She provided this piece to him more than thirty years ago as a gift.”
Noah couldn’t hide a Cheshire cat grin. No doubt he was already mentally composing the tale he’d tell his friends about how he’d acquired this bit of art history. For collectors, the story was sometimes more important than the art itself.
Allison, however, looked far from sold. She examined the work closely, her eyes within a few inches of the paper. “No signature, right?”
“As I have already explained to Noah, it is an unfinished piece, which is why Jackson Pollock didn’t sign or number it.”
“That’s also why provenance is going to be difficult to establish,” Allison said. “And that reduces the piece’s value considerably.”
James caught Reid’s pained expression out of his peripheral vision. He tried to show the opposite to Allison.
“I’m not a hard-sell kind of guy, Allison. As you know, if the piece had Jackson Pollock’s John Hancock on the reverse, it would be up a few blocks at the Met. This is a preliminary work, which undoubtedly formed the basis for one of the master’s larger canvases. If that’s not what you’re interested in purchasing, then this isn’t for you. But this is an extremely rare opportunity to own something that Jackson Pollock actually put his hands on, without shelling out eight or nine figures for the privilege.”
As much as James liked to fancy himself an art expert, he was first and foremost a salesman. He knew a lot about the art he was selling, but he knew even more about the art of persuasion that went into closing a deal. Right now, he knew that Noah Reiss was sold. It was Allison he had to convince that everything was on the up-and-up.
Or even better, convince Noah not to follow Allison’s advice.
James touched his pants pocket and quickly removed his cell phone. “Excuse me. I need to take this call. I’ll be quick.”
He walked into the other room, shutting the door behind him. James waited for two minutes, which was as long as he thought a phone call with another prospective buyer would take, if he had actually received such a call.
“Apologies,” James said when he returned to the others. “I don’t want to rush you, of course. Unfortunately, that call was from another buyer. I had originally p
lanned to meet with him tomorrow, but he’s had a change of plans, and needs to return to Dubai this afternoon. He wanted to come by now to see the piece. I told him that I needed another fifteen minutes or so and would get back to him. So, if you’re not interested, I really do need to take that meeting.”
Reid was smiling as if trying not to break into laughter. James hoped his own expression better concealed the ruse.
“You can tell your Arab guy happy trails back to the Middle East,” Noah said. “I’ll take it.”
“As I told you over the phone, the purchase price is $750,000,” James said. “That’s firm.”
Noah extended his hand to seal the deal. “I’ll wire the money as soon as I get back to the office.”
After the doctor’s visit, Wayne suggested that they all get lunch together. Jessica declined, claiming that she had already made lunch plans with James.
Wayne doubted that was true, and her lie made him feel worse than if Jessica actually had plans with James. At least that way it didn’t necessarily mean that she didn’t want to spend time in his company.
He and Owen stopped in the first restaurant they saw that didn’t seem to cater exclusively to billionaires. It was a diner, but because it sat in New York City, the chef’s salad still cost twenty-one dollars, even though everything else about the place looked cheap. Cracked vinyl booths, scratched tables, fake Tiffany tulip chandeliers in pink.
They settled into a booth in the back. Owen ordered a grilled cheese and french fries. Wayne selected the overpriced salad.
“How you feeling about everything we heard today?” Wayne asked.
Owen’s response was a shrug.
“Yes, that makes sense, and I agree with your logic, but would you care to elaborate a little?”
At least that got a smile from his son. “It is what it is,” Owen said.