by Kitsy Clare
His desk is a wide slab of corroded metal that takes up the length of four of those wide factory windows, and man, what a view. I see a stunning Manhattan skyline, springing to life for Friday night activities. There’s the Chrysler Building’s art deco spires, the Empire State Building’s orange glow for the coming Halloween holiday, and all of the spectacular skyscrapers in between—architectural jewels strung on a keepsake charm bracelet. “That’s what’s so great about Brooklyn,” I blurt before thinking.
“What?” His tone is genuinely curious. He studies me.
“Well, from Brooklyn, you can really see the skyline. If you’re in Manhattan, you’re too close.”
He grins. Killer grin with a honey-cut jawline and luminous brown eyes that segue out to handsome laugh lines. He’s a sun-dusted tan. Clearly, he’s spent time outdoors, and yet he’s all smartass intellectual artist—I can see by the gotcha glint in his eye that he probably wants to be the most informed at a dinner party, demands to have the last word at all times. Down, girl. I have a boyfriend, even if my artist sweetie, Erik, is across the ocean doing a string of gallery shows. And especially since this Caz guy is not only a dick, he’s got to be at least ten years older than me!
“You’ve figured out one thing that makes a Brooklynite superior to a Manhattanite,” Caz cracks. “Chalk up one point for the new intern.”
Hey, I happen to live in Manhattan. Is he joking or making a sardonic cut to my ego? I’ll ignore it. I won’t be as sensitive as Harper.
“So!” He turns toward the corner where I see stacks of large cardboard cartons. “Here’s what you can work on this evening.” He starts to rip one of the cartons open with his bare hands. And then he seems to rethink this move, since he goes over to his desk and fetches a box cutter. “You handy with this thing?” He waves it around a little too gleefully, and I flash on poor Harper, wondering if he took pleasure in wigging her out with his tools, in the two measly months of her internship.
“Um, yeah. I’ve used one for recycling.”
“Good girl.”
Really? Good girl? Not today, but after Caz gets used to me, I’m putting the kibosh on that term. I’m a grown-ass woman, thank you very much.
“Okay, get to it.” He hands me the box cutter and stands over me as I slit open a box. Inside, are sugar packets—lots and lots.
“You just want the boxes opened, and then what?”
“Take the sugar packets out, count them, and make a pile of them in the opposite corner.”
I’m dumbfounded. So much so that I forget to hide it with a smile. “Somewhere on the box it must say how many sugar packets are—”
His face lurches into a Jason mask from that old Halloween horror flick. “I’m aware. I asked you to count them. Is that too hard a task for you?”
“Um, of course not.” But why would you want me to do something a halfwit could do? And why do this when it already says how many packets are in the boxes? Sadistic, that’s why. I think of quitting. But I’m so not a quitter. Maybe there’s more to this task than meets the eye.
I get to it, silently cursing Casper Mason and his idiotic enterprise, using every nasty cuss I know. After about an hour and a half of this, I’ve piled 4,850 sugar packets in the corner, when Caz saunters back in the room. He’s washed his face in the meantime and put on a crisp white cotton shirt in place of his sweaty tank top. Good, he’s covered up, I’m thinking, I really don’t want to be lusting after a total A-hole, even if he is a handsome fiend.
He stands there, as before, in his wide-legged, arms crossed, narcissistic stance, watching me work for a good long time before he speaks. I could cut the hostile tension I’m emitting with a knife. “Come up for air,” he suggests.
“Excuse me?”
“I said, come up for air. Do you drink coffee?”
Yes, I do, and I’d like to throw a scalding cup at your smug mug. “Um, yeah. Why?”
“I was going to offer you some,” he answers, like I’m a complete idiot to question his generosity. He motions to the paper I’ve been carefully tabulating the packet numbers on. “Leave it.”
“Huh? Don’t you need to know how many sugar packets I’ve counted so far? I mean, you wanted an exact count, right?”
Wicked laughter ignites his gaze. It erupts and, as much as I hate him right now, his amusement is infectious. Rich, honey-glazed like his skin and hair. I crack a smile though I have no idea what the big joke is.
It feels great to lighten up a bit. We chortle together like two thieves rejoicing over a good haul. Then, I stop and think to ask, “What’s so funny, Mr. Mason?”
“Call me Caz.”
“Okay, but can you please tell me what’s so funny?” Why do I have this creeping suspicion the joke’s on me? “What’s the point of counting those sugar packets? What will they be used for?”
“I have no idea.”
I almost choke. “But then why have me count them?”
“It was a test.”
My heart is beating way too fast. “A test? A freaking test? How dare you!” Oops. I slap my hand over my mouth, but too late. He’s heard my real reaction. Will he fire me now?
“How dare I? Watch the temper!” he warns, yet his eyes gleam with glee. “I have to test all of my potential employees. Have to see if they’ll do any task without question, and do a solid job, no matter how they feel about it.”
Shithead! This time I’m careful my thoughts don’t bubble over into heated retorts. “Did I pass?”
“You did. Come, you must be thirsty.”
Thirsty and ready to strangle you.
I follow Caz through the main studio and into a dining room setup, all the while tempted to grab a big chunk of his naked butt cheek through one of his artfully ripped jean holes and pinch it so hard he’ll howl in pain. But, of course, I don’t. I’m a good little intern, and I need the money and credit on my résumé. Not many internships are paid and paid so handsomely. Who cares if the guy’s a jerk? Highly paid internship—repeat like a Zen mantra, I tell myself while he guides me to the table and actually pulls out a chair for me. Oh my God! This guy has multiple personality disorder—monster to gentleman in one fell swoop. What next?
He pours a cup for me from a fancy Euro-looking coffeemaker. “How do you take it?”
“Black, thanks.”
“That’s good. Sugar’s no good for anyone.” He sets two cups down and straddles the chair across from me. Plunking his elbows on the table, he rests his head in his palms and gives me a long, almost wistful look.
I sip the coffee. Wow, it’s delicious and obviously a gourmet brew. I really am thirsty, and very curious. Not sure how many probing questions I dare ask, though. He may go through another mega-personality change, and I like the one he’s in right now.
Am I really sitting next to Casper Mason? Pinch me. His installations are in MoMA, The Whitney, the freaking Met! He’s so famous he’s not even real. It hits me again, for the twentieth time or so. “So, uh, what fascinates you about sugar?” I start.
“I have thousands of packets at my disposal, having moved into this infernal sugar palace.” He chuckles. “I have enough sugar supplies to last me through thirty gallery installations.” His face grows serious. “Things that have intense dualities are endlessly fascinating.”
“How so?”
“Sugar—delicious yet deadly, sweet yet bitter to the arteries. The industry is a multibillion dollar one, yet it’s caused many deaths.” He nods at the cauldron in the large studio, visible through an interior window. “Unlucky workers who slipped and fell in were boiled in those.” He shrugs. “Even in Voltaire’s time, the cane workers in South America often lost their limbs. And the cane that was shipped here from Cuba—their people never saw the money from their own product.” He leans back and sticks his arms behind his head, clearly satisfied by his wealth of historical knowledge.
“Wow. But what are you trying to say in your particular pieces? Take the one I saw in MoMA this summer—the
sugar floating in the pink vat.”
“What do you think I’m trying to say?”
I asked you. “Pink sugar is pretty, um, even though, if you think about it, it’s creepy like the vat you put it in? Like some science experiment gone wrong?”
“If you say so.” He sips his coffee, to which I note he’s stirred in three packets of supposedly toxic sugar. “Let’s turn the tables. I’ll ask you some questions.”
“Fair enough.”
“What kind of art do you do?”
“Computer art that looks like crystals or blown-up cells.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean why?”
“You need to know why. You need to be able to tell me in,” he snaps his fingers, “the space of a second. Have it down.”
“Because abstractions are beautiful.”
“Not good enough. Too vague, generic.”
Who asked you for your assessment? I feel myself flushing. This better not turn into a vicious critique session or I may cry. I’m not good at this. “What do you want me to say?”
He leans forward on his elbows. “What do you want to say?”
Why does he answer my questions with another question? Infuriating. He’s not exactly Socrates.
“About my art? Um…it’s about balance and symmetry and how I want the world to be happy….” When I described this to my boyfriend, Erik, it made so much sense, but now? It sounds ridiculous.
“The world isn’t happy,” Caz growls. “And why would you aspire to something as simplistic as that? Happiness. It’s overrated. Think deeper.”
My eyes blur with tears. Damn him. Harper was right. I should never have come here. No matter how much I need the money. Famous people assume they are always right, that they can say anything and do anything.
Why should I stay open to Caz’s hostile game? Does he enjoy torturing cats, too? I slam down my own internal store gate.
He continues his inquisition. “Did you go to art school?”
I glance down at my coffee so he won’t see the tear threatening to roll down my cheek. “I just got my MFA from Museum School.” Dipping my head even farther, I surreptitiously wipe away the tear.
“Art school is a joke,” he huffs. “Either you have it, or not, and no idiotic teacher can make or break you. Do you have it?”
“I think so,” I say, under my breath.
“Commit. You need to know so.” At this, he stands up and takes his cup to the sink. Makes a loud clatter while he adds it to whatever dishes are already in there. “Tomorrow, same time,” he announces abruptly.
“Um, okay.” Just like that, we’re done. My head is spinning—from anger, confusion, and a strange kind of longing—for guidance. Maybe Casper Mason is trying to impart some actual nuggets of truth—using a twisted, tough love method. I mean, artists should know for sure whether they have it or not.
Otherwise, this city will eat them alive.
“Wear some work clothes tomorrow. You’ll get dirty.” I stand up and see Casper staring pointedly at my fancy heels.
He walks over to a wall intercom and presses a button. “Tommy? Yeah, see the lady out, please. And order me some sushi. You know what I like.”
He’s called me a lady. I’ll take it.
Tommy minces in on his purple platforms, and his warm smile is like balm on my raw cuts. Happiness may not be deep, but it is real. I’m happy to follow that pink plaid skort the hell out of this narcissist’s paradise, and happy to hoof it up Williamsburg’s Broadway to the subway, even if my toes are pinching like crazy from my new too-tight heels.
Not sure I’ll be back tomorrow. Harper might scalp me first. I shudder when I think of what I can possibly say to her to make this okay. Better think fast because my cell is pinging, and it’s her.
I flip it open. “Oh, hi, Harper.”
“Hey, want to have dinner? Dave’s out with the guys tonight, so I thought you and I…I mean, I could use a friend to talk to. It’s been a rough day.”
How can I turn her down? I can’t. “Sure.”
“Where are you?”
I hesitate. “Um, Williamsburg.”
“Oh.” Dead silence in a remote face-off. I let this heinous info sink in, let her take whatever time she needs to process. “I was afraid of that.”
“Listen, Harper—”
“Hold that thought. I’ll pick you up. I have the car.”
Guilt washes over me like icky lukewarm soup. “You sure? You’re probably mad at me.”
“Of course I’m mad at you, but later on all that.”
I tell her the corner I’m on, in front of Peter Lugar Steakhouse, and then we click off. I’ll slip in there and have a drink at the bar. It’s up front, and I’ll be able to see her car from my barstool. While I wait for her, trying to think of some plausible explanation for why I totally ignored her request, I alternately draw obsessive geometric designs on my cocktail napkin and then wipe up random spills with them.
3 CHAPTER THREE
In true Harper fashion, when she pulls up to the curb, the squeal of her tires easily trumps the lively bar clamor. I gulp down the rest of my wine, slip some bills neatly under my goblet, and hurry out the door.
Harper’s uncanny. Even when she’s upset, she looks luxurious. I’m organized and put together, but she’s full-tilt elegant. Artists often dress in eccentric boutique finds or paint-spattered jeans. Not Harper. Her dark hair falls in graceful waves around her shoulders, her turquoise leather jacket is cinched neatly with a matching belt, and her amethyst-heart necklace is a stunning accessory to the jacket. If I hadn’t known her since we met as struggling students way back in freshman 3D drawing class, I would never guess she’s an artist—and a darn good one. Her paintings are fertile, expressionistic mindscapes.
My investigative side detects her puffy, reddened eyelids under her flawless layer of eyeliner and shadow.
It brings out my protective side. “So, Caz made you cry? That sucks, Harper. You don’t deserve that.”
“He’s such an arrogant creep,” she hisses. “I’d like to fire him. Yeah, I’d really enjoy that.” She snuffles into her wrist. I wonder if she’d believe that Caz upset me today, too. I wonder if she’s too mad to care.
She stares at me while I slide into the passenger seat of the BMW and shut the door. “So?”
“So, what?” I echo dumbly.
“Do you want to tell me why you decided to ignore my warning about Monster Man?”
Oh, boy, here we go. I’m going to miss our weekly dinner and gossip sessions and our rambling phone conversations. She probably won’t talk to me after she knows. “You’re assuming that I’m over here because I went to the interview.”
“Well, did you?”
I avoid her laser-sharp glare. “Yes.”
“Wh-yy?” She draws this out into a plaintive wail.
“It’s not as if you didn’t know he was a maniac, Harper. You’d told me he’d already fired a few other interns before you.” I don’t wait for her to answer before plunging on. “And you worked for him, knowing that. You recommended I try to get an internship, knowing that.”
“True, but I learned more about him today.”
Suddenly interested, I turn and study her. “What?”
“I think he’s hiding something—something disturbing—in one of the rooms.”
“Any idea?”
“Not much. I saw a few things before he caught me: old sculptures in bubble wrap, mirrors, boxes with labels on them. A mannequin with, like, a ripped dress.”
“Ew. Does he sew? What’s he doing with a mannequin?”
“God only knows.”
“Which room was it, anyway?”
“Off his main studio, down the hall that leads to his, um…bedroom.”
I’m tempted to ask how she would know where his bedroom is, but I need information more than I need Harper’s wrath. “What does the door look like? Any distinguishing architectural marks?”
“Gee, Sienn
a, I don’t know. I blocked it all out. When he saw I’d gone in there, he went crazy. I’ve never seen someone go so berserk.” Harper’s face pales at the memory. “He’s abnormal. He looked so upset, he could’ve strangled me for real. That’s why I think there’s more.”
I shudder, recalling how Caz’s face froze into that Jason mask when I confronted him about those sugar packets. I need to be wary of his hair-trigger temper. “Do you think he’s hiding a body in there?” I say this as an absurd joke, but her grimace has me spooked.
“Who knows? All I know is that when he fired me, I was insulted, but also relieved, knowing I could get out of there immediately.”
I give her a long, motherly look. “He didn’t manhandle you, did he?”
“No, no. None of that.”
I grip the door handle while Harper careens around Broadway and onto the Williamsburg Bridge, almost sideswiping a truck. She may dislike risky situations, but she sure likes putting Dave’s fancy car in some. “Was his assistant there?”
“Yes, Tommy came scurrying in and helped me clean up the sugar Caz tossed around. His assistant had this almost casual manner, as if this wasn’t so out of the norm.”
“Holy wow.” The beauty of the Manhattan skyline from the bridge has me momentarily mesmerized. It’s not every night I get to whiz over this bridge in a plush BMW. Harper senses my distraction.
“Sienna, you’re not listening to me.”
“Sure, I am,” I profess, continuing to gape out of the passenger window.
“You’re not taking this seriously though. Stop staring at the view and pay attention.”
I turn toward her and make a grim face. “We both know the guy’s out there. Isn’t that, like, public knowledge? Artists can be overdramatic.”