Another lost opportunity, Jack thought. Well, that was the story these days if you were a longtime New Yorker and hadn’t jumped on the real estate carousel at the right time. No matter where he looked lately, the city was mocking him and his financial woes. He picked up his pace and soon he was standing in front of Stephanie’s building. A light in the upstairs hallway went off. Good. Someone was home. He hoped it was Leo, but if it wasn’t, he’d sit there until Leo returned. He had all day. It was a Monday and his store was closed.
“Three months,” Leo had said that afternoon in the Oyster Bar. “Give me three months to present you with some kind of plan.”
And so he had. Three months and seventy-two hours to be exact and Leo wasn’t answering phone calls or e-mails and he’d better have a fucking plan. Jack was in a near panic. He’d barely slept since the meeting with his old friend Arthur, the one who had helped him obtain the homeowner’s line of credit.
Jack was concealing an enormous debt from Walker, a tangled thicket of money and deception. Walker knew that most years Jack’s revenue barely covered his expenses, but he never objected because Jack loved what he did. But Walker was completely unaware of how Jack’s rent had risen (dramatically, precipitously) during the last five years and that Jack was keeping the store above water with a home equity line of credit taken against the small weekend property they owned on the North Fork of Long Island. At the time, it had seemed a logical solution to what he hoped were temporary financial woes, a welcome bit of magic, when his old friend Arthur had proposed the opportunity over drinks one night when Jack complained about his balance sheet. He and Arthur had gone to Vassar together and shared an apartment the first year they lived in Manhattan.
“As easy as opening a credit card!” Arthur worked for an Internet mortgage lender and claimed he helped friends “put their equity to use” all the time. “Won’t cost you a cent!”
Jack knew he wasn’t alone in the mid-2000s, falling prey to this gilded logic, but he realized with a sickening heart that he’d been among the last before the financial system nearly buckled under the weight of its own greed and folly. Worse, he knew better. He’d listened to Walker rail against the loans for years, had heard him discourage their friends and acquaintances and neighbors and his clients from participating in the feverish, implausible extending of credit. “It’s not just foolish,” Walker had said over and over about the swollen mortgage industry, “it’s bordering on illegal. It’s fraud and it’s completely unethical.”
Unethical. The word rang in Jack’s brain—unethical would also describe how he’d taken advantage of the signatory authority he and Walker had given each other years ago for all matters relating to the weekend cottage so they both didn’t have to drive out to Long Island whenever papers needed to be signed for anything regarding the house or property.
The cottage they’d owned for twenty years was nothing lavish or fancy, but it was on a lovely piece of property with a stream running through a wooded area and a short walk to the beach. It was going to be their retirement home, a place to go when Walker could scale back his practice, relax, take more time to do the things he loved: cook, read, garden. After The Nest became Jack’s favorite expression. After The Nest, they’d winterize the cottage, renovate and expand the kitchen, buy a car, maybe add a guest room; the list went on and on. Walker used to gently mock Jack. After The Nest, world peace! he’d say. After The Nest, the lame will walk and the blind will see! Walker was dismissive of The Nest. He’d spent too many hours with clients who showed up at his door outraged because something they thought they’d inherit didn’t materialize. Walker didn’t believe in inheritances, which he thought were nothing more than a gamble, and a shortcut; Walker didn’t believe in shortcuts or gambling.
The entire time (all of ten days) that Arthur was processing the loan, Jack expected somebody to stop him. But no. It had proved frighteningly easy to tap into the property’s equity. Whenever he voiced a hesitation, everyone—from Arthur to the bank manager who handed him a credit line of $250,000—told him how smart he was being, how wise it was to consolidate his debts and take advantage of the low-interest payments. Jack told himself he’d only spend a little, just what he needed. But every year he needed more, and some years he used the funds to upgrade the retail space and attempt to lure in more customers. Better lighting. Fresh paint. A new computer invoicing and inventory system. He told himself they were capital investments. Who wanted to shop at a pricey store that didn’t have fresh flowers on display? An espresso machine up front? His initial fear about using the card waned because he’d be able to pay it off after The Nest. He’d have to confess his scheme then, but Walter always told Jack the money from The Nest was his, a gift from his father to do with as he liked. So when he did confess, the loan would be paid, there’d still be ample money left, and the weekend cottage would be safe. If it wasn’t? Walker would never forgive him.
“Extension?” Arthur had said a few days ago, frowning. He gave a long, low whistle and shook his head a little. Jack’s fingers went numb; his heart pounded so hard he was sure if he looked down he could see it through his shirt. “That, my friend, is an impossibility.” He hit every syllable of impossibility to stress his refusal. “We set up the loan in 2007,” Arthur said, squinting at the paperwork in front of him. “Another place, another time. Pre-recession. I couldn’t get you this kind of loan now, never mind an extension. I see a few late payments and—” He shrugged. “Is this really a problem? Are you in some real trouble here?”
“No trouble. Just exploring options.” Jack wasn’t going to confide in Arthur who had a big mouth. He’d spent the last few nights tossing and turning and silently rehearsing his plea to Leo for immediate help. He climbed Stephanie’s stoop and rang the bell a few times. Timidly at first and then with more duration and persistence. He knocked. Nothing. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and called Leo’s cell. No answer. He wanted to call the house phone but realized he didn’t have Stephanie’s number. He descended the stoop and backed up onto the sidewalk, trying to get another look at the upper floor where he was sure he’d seen a light. He imagined Leo inside, watching him, smug and safe behind the still curtain. At the garden level, Jack spotted someone tall and male moving about inside. Leo! Jack let himself through the gate at the sidewalk. He walked up to the street-level window and rapped, hard and insistent. He peered through, hands cupped around eyes, nose pressed to the glass that slightly fogged from his breath.
The face that appeared on the other side of the window was twisted with indignation and sitting above a policeman’s navy uniform shirt. Outside, Jack raised his hands in surrender, took a step back. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry. I’m looking for my brother.” The face disappeared from the window and within seconds the door beneath the front stoop flew open and the furious man was walking toward him, fists clenched. A medium-size dog rushed at Jack, stopping short of his ankles and crouching down with a low, menacing growl.
“Please.” Jack stepped backward and almost tripped over an elevated brick border that enclosed the small front garden of ragged English ivy and a struggling dogwood. “Don’t shoot.” He was simultaneously frightened and furious. He hated having to lift his hands to this beefy, red-faced cop. “It was an honest mistake, Officer. I’d forgotten Stephanie rented the ground floor.”
“I’m not a cop. I’m a security guard and you better have a good reason for looking in my windows and I better hear it fast.”
“I’m looking for Leo Plumb,” Jack said in a rush. “I’m his brother. Leo’s brother! He’s staying upstairs.”
“I know who Leo is.”
“Again,” Jack said, relieved to see that the cop—security guard—whatever, wasn’t wearing a gun. “Please accept my sincere apologies.” Jack looked down at the dog who was coming closer to his ankles and barking.
“Get back here, Sinatra.” The man snapped his fingers at the dog who returned to his owner’s side, whined, settled onto his haunches, and then r
esumed barking at Jack.
TOMMY O’TOOLE STARED at Jack for a few minutes. He was definitely related to Leo, the same WASPish features, thin lips, slightly beakish nose beneath dark hair. On Leo it all added up to something a little more impressive. Tommy enjoyed rattling the intruder. His clean-shaven face had gone green and there were beads of sweat on his upper lip and along the top of his generous forehead. His tweed coat looked like something Sherlock Holmes would wear. Jesus. Where did he think he was?
“You look through a window on some of the streets around here and people will shoot first and ask questions later,” Tommy said, knowing Jack wouldn’t recognize the exaggeration.
“You’re absolutely right. I will be more careful.” Jack lowered his hands and took a tentative step out of the garden patch. The dog lunged and Jack scrambled back inside the brick enclosure.
“Sinatra!” Tommy bent down and stroked the dog’s back. “Francis Albert. Be quiet.” The dog licked Tommy’s hand and whimpered a bit. “Sorry,” he said to Jack. “He’s very high-strung. I should have named him Jerry Lewis.”
“That’s very funny,” Jack said, without smiling. He stared at the dog who appeared to be some kind of pug mix with a short brown coat, black pushed-in snout, and slightly bulging blue eyes that were eerily Sinatra-like. Jack stepped out of the ivy one more time and looked down at his suede shoes, which were dampened with what he optimistically hoped was lingering morning dew but assumed was dog urine.
“What did you say your name was?” Tommy said.
“Jack. Plumb.” He extended a hand, and Tommy reluctantly stepped forward to shake it. Tommy didn’t trust this guy; there was something furtive, something not quite open about him. The kind of guy he’d keep his eye on if he were loitering around a lobby or a store.
“We’ve had a Peeping Tom in this neighborhood,” Tommy said. “Some creep who walks up to windows looking for women inside and whips it out in broad daylight. Sick bastard.”
“I assure you”—Jack placed one gloved hand over his heart—“I am not your Peeping Tom.”
“Yeah, I imagine not.”
“Do you know if they’re home?” Jack asked. “Leo or Stephanie? I thought I saw a light go on upstairs a few minutes ago.”
“I guess they’re gone for the day,” Tommy said. He suspected he wasn’t telling the truth. He thought he’d heard Stephanie walking around a few minutes ago.
“Listen,” Jack said, taking his phone from his pocket. “I’d like to call just in case someone is there and can’t hear the bell for whatever reason. Do you have Stephanie’s number? I’ve come all the way from Manhattan.”
“From Manhattan?”
“Yes,” Jack said. “The West Village.”
“That’s quite a trip. I guess you’ve been on the road what? Two, three days?”
Jack forced what he hoped was a self-deprecating laugh. God, he hated everyone. “I just meant I’d hate to get back across the bridge and discover they’d been in the shower or something.”
Tommy eyed Jack. If Stephanie were lying low, she wouldn’t answer the phone either. Also, he should probably offer Sherlock a paper towel or rag; he definitely had dog piss on his shoes.
“I’ll be quick,” Jack said. “I’d be incredibly grateful.”
“I’ve got her number inside.” Tommy gestured to the open door behind him. Jack followed Tommy and the dog into the front foyer, which was dark and nearly empty except for a few woolen jackets hanging on an overloaded hook by the door, a small card table with a landline receiver, and a poster on the wall from a Matisse retrospective at MoMA, which Jack assumed was left over from a previous tenant. The hallway smelled, incongruously, of potpourri. Something cinnamon heavy. Tommy stood in the doorway, watching Jack. The dog, calmer now, sniffed at Jack’s ankles.
“Stay here,” Tommy said. “I’ll get her number. It’s in the back.” He moved down the hallway to the back of the apartment where Jack could see a kitchen. The dog followed him, snorting. Jack looked through the open pocket doors into the living room. The furniture looked like castoffs, what Jack thought of as the divorced-man’s special. Two overstuffed flowery and worn sofas probably bestowed by a concerned female relative or friend. A sagging wicker bookcase, which housed a bunch of true crime paperbacks, out-of-date phone books, and an abandoned glass fish tank one-quarter full of loose change. The coffee table was covered with a pile of New York Posts turned to completed Sudoku puzzles.
A fairly decent pedestal table, something that must have sat in a much nicer room at one time, was covered with an assortment of framed family photos. Jack stepped into the living room to look at the table. Nice but not old. He surveyed the photos, lots of pictures of someone he assumed was the ex-wife and various family tableaux: weddings, babies, kids in Little League uniforms with gap-toothed grins holding bats half their size.
He could see through to the dining room, which was empty except for a plastic collapsible table surrounded by a few folding chairs and, oddly, in a dark corner of the room a sculpture sitting on top of a small wooden dolly on wheels. Jack thought he recognized the familiar shape of Rodin’s The Kiss. Figures, he thought, as tacky as everything else in the place, probably ordered from some late-night shopping network meant to woo the guy’s divorcée dates.
Jack could hear Tommy in the back, opening and shutting drawers, rifling through papers. Jack quietly approached the statue. There was something off about the Rodin reproduction, which was polished to a sheen. As he got closer, he could see it was badly damaged. The original cast had probably been nearly two feet high, but it had lost at least six inches off its base. The right side of the man’s upper body was missing, his disembodied hand still partly visible on the woman’s left thigh. The woman sitting partially on his lap was mostly intact, except for her right leg, which seemed to have melted below the knee. Melted? Jack thought. Was it plastic?
He gave the thing a little shove; the sculpture didn’t move, but the wheels of the dolly did. So that’s why it was on wheels, it was heavy. There were deep gouges in the surface of the metal. Jack realized he was looking at a badly damaged bronze cast of Rodin’s The Kiss. This in itself wasn’t all that rare—there were quite a few on the market, some valuable, some not, depending on where and when they’d been forged. One of Jack’s best customers collected Rodin and Jack had sourced some bronze castings for him over the years. The most valuable were the so-called originals produced by the Barbedienne foundry just outside of Paris. Authenticating them was a nightmare. If there was a foundry mark, he knew where it would be, but there was no way he could turn the thing over himself.
“What are you doing in here?” Tommy said. Jack looked up to see Tommy standing in the doorway, a stained and wrinkled Post-it in his hand. He looked pissed.
“I was admiring your piece,” Jack said. “It’s a good casting. Where did you get it?”
“It was a gift.” He handed Jack the paper. “Here’s Stephanie’s number, the phone’s in the front hall.”
“What happened to it?”
“It sustained some damage during an unfortunate incident.” Tommy pointed to the front hall, but Jack could see his hand tremble a bit. “Phone’s in there.”
“What kind of accident?”
“Fire.”
“The scratches didn’t come from a fire, though,” Jack said, walking around the sculpture. “And for bronze to actually melt, the fire would have to be incredibly hot, incredibly strong.”
“Yeah, well I’m an ex-firefighter,” Tommy said. “I’ve seen fire do some pretty unbelievable things.”
“So you recovered this from a fire?”
“That’s not what I said,” Tommy said.
Jack squatted and knelt before the statue “Did you say this was a gift?”
Tommy walked to the front hall, praying Jack would follow him. Now he was the one with telltale sweat on his upper lip and brow. What had he been thinking, letting this guy into his house? “I’m calling Stephanie for you right now,
” Tommy said.
The damage to the statue was tugging at Jack; something about it felt significant. He started to feel a familiar tingling in his fingers and at the back of his neck, a feeling he’d learned to trust when trolling through flea markets and estate sales and antique shows, a little tick tick tick that alerted him he might have found something of value among the piles of crap. In the front hall, Tommy was standing with the receiver to his ear. Jack stepped out of Tommy’s line of sight and quickly took a few surreptitious pictures of the cast with his phone.
“No answer,” Tommy said. “I’ll tell them you stopped by. If there’s nothing else I can do for you—”
“Nothing else,” Jack said, walking into the front hall, eager now to get home and make a few calls. “You’ve been very helpful.”
Tommy opened the door. Jack gave a quick wave to the dog who was standing like a sentry next to Tommy and who followed him as he walked down the short path and unhooked the gate. As the gate clicked behind him, he turned and bent a little at the waist, referencing the only Frank Sinatra tune he could summon. “I’ll be seeing you, Frank,” he said, causing the dog to growl and leap up and bark madly at Jack’s back until he was completely gone from sight.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The first few weeks Tommy had The Kiss, he’d been elated. He couldn’t believe how easy it was to procure (that’s how he thought of it when he was forced to assign a verb to his actions: procure). The sculpture had appeared on his very last day of working the pile at the World Trade Center site, early April 2002. By that time, Tommy had been working the pile for seven straight months, since the early hours of September twelfth. As a retired firefighter (his lower back had betrayed him once and for all years earlier), he was one of the first to be cleared to work rescue and recovery. The cough he’d developed somewhere around week six was only getting worse and his daughter Maggie was apoplectic about him going there every day.
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