Stars and Bars: A Novel

by William Boyd

  “Just about finished,” Henderson said. “We’ll be off tomorrow.”

  “Hell, I thought you were going to be here for weeks.”

  Henderson explained in broad outline what his job entailed. He also mentioned his immobile car and Duane’s worthless promises. He wondered if there was anything Beckman could do to speed up Duane’s repair work.

  “Look, no problem, I’ll drive you to Atlanta,” Beckman volunteered. Henderson told him of his business meeting at Monopark 5000 (greeted by a whistle of admiration from Beckman’s lips) and his wish to spend a few days touring the more scenic regions of the South.

  “No sweat,” Beckman continued. “You take my pickup. Come Saturday, when Duane’s fixed your car I’ll drive it into Atlanta and we can trade. I’ll meet you Saturday, say four o’clock, corner of Peachtree and Edgewood, same as before.”

  “Great,” Henderson said. “Saturday at four, then. Turned out to be a lucky day after all. It started badly,” he explained.

  “Hell, I knew it would be a good day for me. Been feelin’ good since this morning.”

  “Oh, yes? Why’s that?”

  “Simple. Had me a five-turd crap before breakfast. Can’t beat it for settin’ you up.”

  “Really?” He paused; there really was nothing one could say in response. He tried not to imagine this source of contentment. “I’m very grateful, Beckman. This meeting, it’s very important.”

  “No problem. What are friends for?” His fluttering lids made the remark seen incongruously coy. Henderson felt another twinge of alarm at this announcement of his new status, but he decided not to challenge it. Instead he asked another question.

  “Do you happen to know who those two men are who arrived today with Freeborn?”

  “You mean Ben and Peter? Nice guys.”

  “Who are they? If you don’t mind my asking.”

  “They’re friends of Freeborn. Some kind of business partners? They had a big deal going or something. They were down here about a year ago. They’re the guys he sold the paintings to.”

  Henderson screwed up his face. “Are you sure?”

  “Well, something like that.” He looked at his watch. “Shit. I gotta get back.”

  Henderson sat silently on the drive back to the house pondering the news. What had Freeborn done? Sold the paintings—his legacy, no doubt—to finance some nefarious deal? Mortgaged them in some sort of way? Then his father goes and ruins everything by deciding to sell them himself. H. Dores, Esq., turns up, and sets off a panic. It certainly explained Freeborn’s hostility.

  He was still pondering the ramifications of this plot when he stepped into the hall. Gage, Freeborn and the two men were standing at the foot of the stairs chatting amicably.

  “Henderson,” Gage called. “Come and meet our two friends.” Gage seemed almost unnaturally cheerful, Henderson thought. He was introduced to the two men: one, Benjamin Sereno; the other, Peter D. Gint. Sereno was small and dark. He had an enormous moustache that seemed constructed on a different scale from his body, but that, Henderson swiftly realized, was deliberately intended to obscure or draw attention from his lips. He had lips like Toulouse-Lautrec: thick, claret colored and wet. They made Henderson (still queasy from his rodentburger) even more nauseous: they reminded him of thin fillets of liver, or, due to the hirsute proximity of the moustache, a wound in the flank of an animal. He swallowed a mouthful of saliva. They shook hands. He noticed an ostentatious carbuncled ring set with a red stone. A lot of American males sported these, Henderson had observed, only Sereno’s stone was held in an inch-high plinth and must have weighed a pound.

  Gint was burly with receding blond hair. His short collar was prominently monogrammed P.D.G. At some point in his youth his entire face had been ravaged with acne, leaving him with skin pitted like a peach stone. The scourge was still not past: an angry wen pushed his collar askew, a mini-Krakatoa about to blow. Whatever they looked like, Henderson thought with mingled worry and relief, it certainly wasn’t New York gallery owners.

  “You’re with Mulholland, Melhuish, right?” Sereno asked amicably.

  “Yes. Yes, I am.”

  “Fine firm.” He nodded. “Congratulations.”

  “Good firm,” Gint agreed. He had a soft voice that didn’t match his face.

  “What’s the name of your gallery?” Henderson asked, disingenuously.

  They looked at each other. “Well, Sereno and Gint,” Sereno said. “You mean you haven’t heard of us?”

  “I’m afraid not. I’ve only been in New York a couple of months. Whereabouts is it?”

  “It’s in back of Canal,” Gint said. “Between Eldridge Street and Allen Street.”

  “Is that the Lower East Side?”

  “You got it.”

  “Ah.” Henderson suppressed his shout of laughter. He looked at Gage. The man seemed unperturbed by this information. They might as well have said their “gallery” was in Harlem or the South Bronx. But the smiles were all polite, waiting for the conversation to continue.

  Cora came down the stairs. To Henderson’s surprise Sereno went to meet her.

  “Cora,” he said. “Good to see you again.” He kissed her on the cheek. To Henderson this came as a shock, almost an affront. Those fat wet lips on Cora’s small face.

  “You remember Peter?” Sereno asked.

  Gint raised a hand. “Hi. We met last time.”

  “Are you guys staying with us?” Cora asked, in familiar tones.

  “No. In Atlanta.” Sereno offered Cora a cigarette and lit it for her. “Monopark 5000. Quite a place.”

  Henderson tasted voleburger in his mouth.

  “Isn’t that where you and your colleague are staying tomorrow?” Cora asked. How did she know? Shanda.

  “Hey, that’s wonderful,” Sereno observed. “Let’s all have dinner. Freeborn, Cora, Shanda, you and your colleague.”

  “Alas, I’m fully occupied that night. Very sorry.”

  “Carbon dating,” Cora said.

  “Dating who?” Gint asked, then laughed. Sereno joined in with enthusiasm.

  “That wit,” Sereno said. “I love his wit.”

  “Could I have a word?” Gage asked softly, touching Henderson’s arm. “In my room.” He trotted off up the stairs. Henderson made his goodbyes to the gallery owners and followed obediently.

  Gage stood in his room at the escritoire studying some documents. He waved Henderson to a chair and handed him a piece of paper. It was a list of his paintings with prices beside them.

  “I’ll come right out, Henderson. Sereno and Gint have made me an offer for the paintings.”

  Henderson saw that the figures approximated closely to his own, except in one crucial degree: Sereno and Gint were offering $100,000 each for the four Dutch landscapes, the portrait and the allegory.

  “But this is absurd,” Henderson said in desperation. “Have you seen what they’re offering for the landscapes? They must be mad.”

  “It’s up to them. Their estimation of the value.”

  “But nobody would ever pay this amount. It’s preposterous.”

  “One man’s opinion, Henderson.” He moved away to look at the Dutch paintings. “I must confess”—he kept his back to him—“that I feel you have been a little—what shall we say?—hasty in pricing the landscapes. I ask myself … I wonder if your urge to leave us has influenced your evaluation.”

  Henderson protested loudly. Gage turned.

  “Look, I want to sell through Mulholland, Melhuish,” he said benignly. “For the sake of my friendship with Eddie Mulholland and, if I may say so, with you. But I can’t afford to take a half-million loss.” He came over and patted Henderson’s shoulder. “I’d like for you to stay on a few more days. Consider the Dutch paintings some more.”

  “But I’m going to Atlanta tomorrow. Then, um, other business demands—”

  “I’m really sorry to hear that. But I appreciate your time. Thanks for coming down.”

  Hender
son felt faint. He improvised. “Actually, this meeting in Atlanta is with a … an art historian and expert, precisely to do with, er, some ambiguities in my dating of the Dutch paintings. It may, in fact I’m sure, it’ll cause me to reconsider.”

  “Great. So, have your meeting and return here. Let me know the result.”

  “Yes.” Henderson shut his eyes.

  “I’m in no hurry. My decision can wait a few days.”

  Henderson stood up. “May I ask how you got to Sereno and Gint?”

  “They’re business associates of Freeborn. Freeborn suggested I get a second bid on the paintings. It makes sense. He called them up and they came on down.”

  “I think I should tell you that I think they know as much about art as I do about suppositories.”

  “Can I be honest? I don’t really care, Henderson. I’m not giving the paintings to a museum. They are offering me cash now. I don’t have to wait for an auction.”

  “I’d be very suspicious—”

  “I think that’s my business, Henderson. Freeborn has told me that they are new to the art world. They’re starting out. But so what? They’ve got money.” He punched Henderson lightly on the shoulder. “Healthy competition, Henderson. A fair fight. Stay on a few days. Think, relax, enjoy yourself. I’m sure we’ll work everything out.”

  * * *

  Henderson walked slowly down the stairs. This was disaster from a quarter he’d never anticipated. Nightmarish possibilities and problems presented themselves to him. What would Beeby do if they lost the sale? What would Irene say about another cancellation? That was the first priority: he had to phone Irene, put her off for a few days. Then warn Beeby of the new developments.

  He walked outside and listened for noises from Freeborn’s trailer. It seemed quiet. Perhaps he had gone off somewhere with Sereno and Gint. He could hear the faint sound of a television. Shanda watching a soap. He knocked. Let it be Shanda, let it be Shanda, he prayed.

  Freeborn opened the door. Behind him Henderson saw Sereno, Gint and Shanda watching TV.

  “What the fuck do you want?”

  “Is there any chance …? I’d be most grateful if I could … Could I make a phone call?”

  “No.”

  The door was slammed shut. Henderson thought he heard him say, “It was that English asshole,” followed by loud laughter, but perhaps it was just the television. He suddenly didn’t feel like telephoning anybody. He would just have to take his chances and endeavor to make the best of it.

  chapter ten

  HENDERSON packed glumly the next morning. His fear and concern over the arrival of Sereno and Gint had grown. What was going on? Could they really buy the Gage collection for four million? Or was it all part of some monumental bluff? …

  Another portion of his brain writhed with apprehension at having to tell Irene of the radical truncation of their little holiday together. He was hoping now that his one night with her would be a sufficiently lyrical experience for her to forgive him. He would have to choose his moment with care…

  Also, in Atlanta with its functioning telephones, he would call Beeby and tell him of this new development and work out some sort of a counterattack. Perhaps they could guarantee the reserve prices; work up the Dutch pictures’ value somewhat; suggest to Gage that—given enough publicity—the sale price might go even higher on the Sisleys or the Braque? That might work.

  As he closed his case he felt thankful that in one area at least—his nether regions—everything was functioning normally at last. The squirrelburger, like some potent catalyst, had shifted the blockage in the small hours of the morning. It had proved to be the most efficient laxative he had ever encountered. He felt altogether fitter, younger—lighter than he had done since arriving in Luxora Beach. And despite his looming crises he experienced too a repeating tremor of excitement at the prospect of seeing Irene. It seemed like years since he had spent some time in the company of a human being with whom there were reciprocal feelings of affection. Here there was only strangeness, cynicism and malevolent dislike.

  He walked down the passage to Bryant’s room. He had told her last night that she too was leaving and had given her a choice of destination. She had opted sullenly for New York with no trace of her earlier protests. Perhaps she was, after all, keen to get away as well.

  He knocked on her door. No answer. Duane’s room was quiet. Henderson knocked again and pushed the door open. The room was empty. Propped on the pillow was an envelope addressed to him. He tore it open.

  Dear Henderson,

  I have decided not to go back home. Duane and I are going to be married. Don’t worry. We love each other. I will tell Mom.

  I thought it would be best if I wasn’t here when you left. See you tomorrow. Have a nice time in Atlanta.

  Bryant

  P.S. Duane says he is going to get you a complete new set of tires.

  Henderson watched his hand shake, the paper cracking in his fingers. He felt a sudden terrible fear at the wrath of Melissa, like some wretched vassal’s of a warlord. He tugged at his lower lip, tested some teeth for looseness. He swallowed. Calm down, he told himself, this is a fantasy, pure fantasy, it can’t happen. She’s a minor; she’s only fourteen. She can’t marry a man old enough to be her father. Who was this invisible Duane? What sort of evil perverted slob was he? And what a fool he had been to allow them so much time in each other’s company. Two teenagers listening to records … He put his hand on his heart. It was beating ferociously. He turned the letter over and wrote, “I will talk to you when I get back. On no account tell your mother anything. H.”

  This new problem added itself to the others jostling for prominence in his brain, loud hooligans looking for trouble, trying to make life hell. They were penned up at the moment—just—but they could break out at any time, storm the streets.

  In a perplexed trance, with a dumb, cretinous look on his face, he walked down the stairs and outside. His car stood on four piles of bricks, tireless. The bonnet was open. He looked in. Nothing obvious seemed to be missing, but his ignorance of the internal combustion engine was total. Solenoids, carburetors, magnetos could have been sequestered for all he knew.

  He felt an immense futility descend upon him and he bowed his head impotently under the strain.

  “Hi there.” He looked up. It was Shanda. Did she keep watch on him? he wondered, irritated. She was like some omnipresent guardian of the front steps.

  “Hello.”

  “What happened to your car?”

  “Duane.”

  “That boy. I guess he means well, but …” She left her reservations unspoken. Boy? Henderson thought. Why do they refer to a thirty-four-year-old man as a boy? There was the source of his misconceptions.

  “You wanna use the phone? Freeborn’s away.”

  “No, thanks.” He paused. “What’s Duane like?” he asked slowly.

  “Duane? Well …” Shanda came closer. Henderson thought he smelled alchohol on her breath. “Myself, I think he’s a little bit, you know, weird.”

  “Oh, God.” Henderson felt his weakness return, a sort of mild ache in his spine and knees. If a member of the Gage family pronounced someone “weird” then the reality must be truly alarming. But no, he told himself firmly, that problem was shelved until tomorrow; more pressing disasters awaited his attention. He climbed into Beckman’s pickup.

  “You are coming back, aren’t you?” Shanda asked with a note of alarm.

  “Yes,” he said. “Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.”

  “Oh, good. You have a good time now, hear?”

  From this side of the country too, Atlanta was visible from many miles off. Like Gothic cathedrals in medieval times, a reassuring prominence always on the horizon. The skyscrapers of the downtown district were hazy and indistinct against the soft lucency of the midafternoon sky. The more miles he put between himself and Luxora Beach the better he felt. He had even quite enjoyed roaring along the highway in Beckman’s pickup.

 
; When he reached Atlanta he had some problems locating the hotel in the city’s daunting system of one-way streets. He could see it, three or four blocks away, an impressive slab of steel and reflecting glass, but he seemed able only to circle it: no street led directly there—it hovered out of reach, a massive illusion. Eventually he parked the pickup and attempted to make his way there on foot. He saw signs for the MONOPARK COMPLEX, then MONOPARK 5000 HOTEL. He went through an arch beneath a shopping mall, up a dark ramp of a corridor, and pushed through swing doors at the far end.

  He found himself in a tall brilliant lobby. Thick wands of sunlight shone through vast overhead windows onto a marble floor. There appeared to be numerous entrances. The one through which he had emerged was clearly not the most significant. Various doormen and bellhops stood around in stylized cavalry uniforms: boots, hats, gold epaulets, even dinky sabers at their belts. At the rear of the lobby was what appeared to be a dense wood of twenty-foot-high trees. In front of this forest was a long reception desk. This Henderson approached with due reverence and awe. The experience was, he thought, akin to appearing at heaven’s gate with the sin-virtue equation still in balance.

  “Dores,” he said to the tanned cavalryman. “D, o, r, e, s. I have a reservation.”

  “Good afternoon, sir,” he said. “Welcome to Monopark 5000.” He tapped out the name on a computer keyboard. There was a whirring and clicking and the machine fed out a piece of plastic with holes punched in it.

  “What’s this?” Henderson asked. “A credit card?”

  “Your key, sir. Need some help with your case?” The smile never budged.

  “No, thanks. I can manage.”

  “You are in Suite 35J. Follow this path”—he gestured at an opening in the forest wall—“go through the atrium and take one of the scenic elevators to the thirty-fifth floor. Enjoy your stay at Monopark 5000.”

  “Right.” Henderson picked up his bag and looked dubiously at the path, which was signposted TO THE ATRIUM. He felt like an explorer leaving base camp. “Goodbye,” he said to the man and set off.