A Paradise for Fools

by Nicholas Kilmer

  Orono temporized, “I don’t take coffee before ten-thirty, eleven in the morning. It’s about that now.”

  “Suit yourself,” Fred said. “I’ll pass. Arthur?” Arthur, standing in the window looking out, shook his head.

  “The silent partner,” Orono said.

  Fred said, “Any time you’re ready. To save time, you have your card on you, from the Pieper Orono Galleries? In case we want to call you sometime down the road.”

  “It’s like that, then,” Orono challenged. “Save time, he says. We’ll trade. Give me your card.”

  “I move around so much,” Fred said. “‘Fred’ does it for me. People who need to reach me, I make sure they can. So far I don’t see why you’d need to reach me, Lex. That’s why we’re here. So you can tell me. The story. Why you came to Arthur’s. What you want.”

  “I’ll order coffee,” Orono said. “I was supposed to be in Paris.” He fished a business card from a case he carried in his shirt pocket and laid it on the desk.

  “Paris. We’re impressed,” Fred said. Arthur, turning inward from the window, scratched an armpit.

  Orono picked up the phone, ordered coffee for three, put down the phone again and started, “This is confidential. I have your word?”

  “Come off it,” Fred said. “As soon as a word is spoken, true or false, it belongs to the blessed air. If you have something to say, go ahead.”

  “My clients are confidential. My sources are confidential. My entire business is confidential,” Orono said.

  “Imagine! Like the Emperor’s new suit—but with an art gallery,” Fred said. “What does everyone do, come in the place, look at bare walls? Buy an imaginary painting?”

  Neither Arthur nor Orono perceived the joke. Both shifted restlessly.

  Orono announced portentously, speaking in Arthur’s direction, “My client is willing to accommodate to the irregular, shall we say, situation—the fact—that you have no title.” He paused. “Based on the photograph we have an interested buyer.”

  “We’re talking about a painting?” Fred said. “You haven’t mentioned…”

  “You know what we’re talking about.”

  “You forget where I started,” Fred reminded him. “Begin again from the top, pretending that Arthur doesn’t know what we care about.”

  “Don’t waste my time.” Orono stood and started pacing. Arthur drew back, edging closer to the window to leave him room. “The painting. If you didn’t have it, you wouldn’t be here. You have control of it. Question of provenance. It doesn’t belong to you. We’re willing to overlook that. But we have to see it. Arthur, you said you would have it with you. It’s downstairs? In the car?”

  Arthur turned again and looked out the window. Orono came to the other comfortable chair and sat.

  Fred said, “Let’s get this straight. For our initial report to our consortium. You have an interested client. Going back a couple steps. How interested would that client be? In numbers.”

  “Consortium!!” Orono exclaimed.

  “I’m getting ahead of myself,” Fred soothed. “Go ahead. Your client…”

  “My client needs to examine the painting,” Orono said. “As we do. Under our lights. Get the opinion of his expert. I say his, not meaning to limit the client’s sex to male. His or her expert, I should say. Our client could be an institution.”

  “Oh, fuck that,” Arthur said. “Fuck the he/she/it shit.”

  “How much money are we talking?” Fred said. “Keeping it simple.”

  “Let’s try another way,” Orono tried. “How much do you want? This painting that isn’t yours? You and the consortium?”

  Discreet knock at the door. “I’ll get it,” Fred said, moving fast.

  Chapter Forty-three

  Room service. Young man with the cart, the tray, the bill to sign. Fred, filling the door, signed the room number, fished out a couple of bills for the waiter and brought in the tray, scraping a place for it on the desk next to the remains of Orono’s breakfast. “Go ahead,” Fred told Orono. “As I said, I’m coffeed out. I’ll pass.”

  Orono left the service untouched.

  Arthur said, “Are we done?”

  Fred shook his head. “Lex Orono has more to tell us. Start with the accusation, Lex. Possession of stolen property? That’s what you’re saying? Let’s get this out in the open.”

  Orono poured coffee for himself from the vacuum pitcher the hotel had supplied, into the china mug. “I’m saying we are prepared to short-cut issues of provenance.”

  Fred said, “You talked with Zagoriski before he…died. What’s that about?”

  “That question has become moot.” Orono poured coffee for himself.

  “The photograph you mentioned,” Fred said. “Show it to me. That way I know we’re on the same page, talking about the same thing.”

  Orono shook his head. “The client gave strict instructions.”

  “What client? The buyer?”

  Again, Orono shook his head.

  “I’m going out on a limb,” Fred said. “Mrs. Z. Mary Zagoriski. She came to you, peddling a photograph and a story, am I right? At the gallery in New York?”

  Arthur, drawing closer to the conversation, pulled off his wire granny glasses and started to clean them on the hem of his T-shirt. Taking note of the carafe, he poured coffee into a mug and dipped his lenses, polishing them more successfully. Orono shook his head, drank from his mug, wiped his lips on a napkin, and insisted, “Our clients are confidential. Our sources are confidential. The material we represent is often confidential.”

  “In case I can stir up interest among my people, you’ll be in town for a few days?” Fred asked abruptly. “I know, I know, you are supposed to be in Paris. France, I guess. Not Maine?”

  Discreet knock on the door.

  “I’ll get it,” Fred said, moving fast.

  Kim, in the pink smock from Cut - Rate - CutsS, in mid-entreaty, “I only get twenty minutes…” before she realized it was Fred. She’d put her long blonde hair up into a bun, looking businesslike; was wearing loose black linen pants and sandals. “Fred,” she said.

  “Arthur and I, we’re paying that call on Lexington Orono,” Fred said quickly, letting her in and gesturing in Orono’s direction. “Friend of ours,” he explained to Orono, pushing on so as to fill Kim in and keep her quiet. “We’re following up on the note Lex left for Arthur. Lex is an art dealer. New York. He wasn’t going to tell us that. The note mentioned money, but so far Lex is being vague on the subject of money. What Arthur and I decided is, let Lex talk. What these people do, art dealers, like Realtors, they run around the world looking for information, taking no risks, until they find a chance to make a killing off other people’s stuff. I’m not blaming you, Lex. It’s the American way. Meanwhile, Arthur has nothing to say. You with us so far?”

  “I see there’s coffee,” Kim said. “It’s a real meeting!” She walked to the desk, poured coffee for herself in the mug that was to have been Fred’s, doctored it, and allowed the room’s attention to concentrate on the question what she might do or say next.

  “I was worried about you, Arthur,” she said. She stood beside him, shut up, and smiled brilliantly at everyone. She drank from the mug. Everyone watched her. “Don’t mind me,” she said. “I’ve got fifteen minutes.”

  Fred said, “Your play, Lex.” Kim could have blown this thing sky high. She’d learned good lessons from time misspent during her high-school years, dodging the weapons wielded by the forces of oppression. Don’t waste a good silence by feeding ammunition to the other side.

  “Who is this pretty lady? How do you fit in?” Orono tried addressing her directly but Kim resisted, shaking her head, drinking coffee and joining Arthur’s inscrutable silence, remaining anonymous.

  Fred said, “While Lexingt
on plans his next move, I’ll digress. In the wilderness, a hawk flies in its long slow circle over trees and meadows, screaming every now and then. It’s silent except for the scream. Its shadow flits across the ground. It can’t do much about the shadow. Its prey is going to notice that shadow and freeze with fear. But why does the hawk scream, since it’s so good at stealth? Doesn’t hand out its card or anything. Doesn’t identify itself as coming from the big art gallery in New York. No. But it screams.

  “Because the mouse or sparrow, in hiding, hears the scream and thinks, it sees us, and then scrambles for a better place to hide. When it moves, that’s when the hawk sees it, unsheathes its claws and stoops.

  “That’s why Lexington put that concept Money in his note. It is supposed to work like the hawk screaming. Lexington screams money, next thing he expects, you’ll leave your perfectly good cover and scuffle in the leaves until he gets his claws in you. When he’s done, there’ll be nothing left but scraps of dirty fur or feathers.”

  “Keep it simple,” Lexington Orono said. He leaned back in his chair, crossed his right leg over his left, and glared. Then he rose, walked to the closet, slid its door open and pulled out his attaché case. He walked back to his chair and sat again, keeping the case on his lap. “The first thing my client insists on is exclusivity. What that means is, if everybody and his monkey starts getting into the game, he’s out. Or she.”

  “Meaning you’d as soon not get involved in competition,” Fred said.

  Orono, disregarding the interruption, said, “I had these prepared. Whoever the hell you are, Fred, or how you have horned into this, or the consortium you talk about, you are going to screw this up for Arthur if he’s not careful. Listen to me, Arthur. You may not get another chance. I have other appointments and I can’t hang around here forever. All I need from you, Arthur, is two things. One, I have to see that painting, in this room. Or in the gallery in New York. It’s easier here. Cleaner. Quicker. Two”—he snapped the briefcase open and poked through the contents until he found what he wanted and held it toward Arthur—“your signature on this.”

  Two pages stapled together.

  “I’ll look at that,” Fred said, reaching a long arm out to scoop the papers in. He read it aloud. “‘I, Arthur Schrecking, in consideration of the sum of one dollar, surrender any and all interest I might have in the property described hereinunder, to the Pieper and Orono Gallery, blah blah blah, New York,’ with places to be dated and signed blank blank and the location to be filled in. Then a space to fill in a description of the property. It’s a quit claim deed, in effect.”

  “One dollar!!” Kim screeched.

  “To make the transaction legal,” Orono explained. “I don’t have to tell you, the actual amount that will be involved in the transaction, to be paid in cash—keeping it simple for the tax man—will be real money. I would want to hear your suggestion as to how much. How much do you want? For your interest in a property that you don’t own, Arthur?”

  “What if he says ten thousand?” Kim said.

  “I haven’t seen the painting,” Orono pointed out. “I can’t talk numbers. Not without the painting.”

  “What if Arthur says fifty thousand?”

  “Let’s stop joking,” Orono said.

  “Good idea,” Fred said. “That about does it for us. Arthur, we don’t want to be late.”

  “For what?” Arthur said.

  Kim said, “For the next thing, asshole. You want to tell this guy our business? Mister One Dollar?”

  “Keeping it simple,” Orono objected, “the idea is to pay a single nominee—that’s Arthur—and Arthur, in turn, settles out with anyone else you feel, that is he feels, should be included. That’s up to you, Arthur, you feel Fred has earned something. This lovely lady?”

  Kim said, getting into it, “We’ll get back to you. Right, Fred?” She led the way to the door.

  “I have a deadline,” Orono threatened.

  “So what?” Kim countered. “You have a deadline. We have a painting. So…enjoy your deadline.”

  Chapter Forty-four

  Walking down the hall, Arthur complained, “That guy Orono doesn’t know my right name even, how does he have my address?”

  They reached the elevator. Kim said, “Fucking Kenzo. All I can tell you, never buy anything from a guy like that, or give him anything. Worse, don’t ever take a present from him. Next thing you know, you’re missing your fucking arm. Those guys. I know those guys. Guys like Oreo. I’m telling you, Arthur. It’s lucky I…”

  “We need five minutes,” Fred said. “The three of us. Alone.” The couple in the elevator wanted to hear more of what Kim had to say. “We’ll find a spot outside.”

  In the shade of a maple, overlooking the river where it lapped the edge of a bright field where a Frisbee was being passed, Fred brought them to a halt. Kim and Arthur, facing off, blurted out simultaneously, “Where is it?”

  “That answers that,” Fred said. “Neither one of you has the painting. We on the same page so far?” Arthur and Kim stared at each other.

  “Something I want to tell you,” Fred told Kim, “before we go on. The night I stopped over, met Arthur. He was working on Eva. Beth was there, Eva’s partner. I mean to say, from my observation they are solid partners. In case…”

  “Not a big deal,” Kim said. “I get mad, start mouthing off, get ideas. OK, Arthur. I got over that.”

  “So it’s Eva and that girl Beth, the partner,” Arthur said. “They took it. Why?”

  Kim said, “Doesn’t make sense. Listen, if I don’t get back to Cut - Rate, I’m out a job. Talk, Arthur.”

  “They were in my place, I had to take a walk,” Arthur said.

  “They know about Oreo?” Kim demanded.

  “Not from me,” Arthur said.

  “He showed up later,” Fred said. “Next day.”

  “Heidi’s in today and she already has it in for me,” Kim said. “I’ve gotta get back to my job. Keep working until the big score comes is my motto. Wherever the painting is, it’s still yours, Arthur. Let’s figure this out. Fred can help but I don’t see why he should get any of our money for horning in. Your money, I mean. Can we get together this afternoon? My place or your place, Arthur?”

  “I have to check with Tippy,” Arthur said. “I haven’t talked to her since forever.”

  “Talk to that slut, you can kiss my skin good bye,” Kim said. “She gave it to you. I’m off at eight. Meet me at the door, we’ll take it from there. No, better. We’ll meet here. Check?”

  “Check,” Arthur agreed.

  Fred nodded. “Or Arthur will keep me posted.”

  “Keep Tippy out of it,” Kim insisted, and stormed off.

  “I wonder where they live,” Arthur said. “Eva and Beth. All I can figure, they heard me on the phone with Kenzo, and I maybe said something after, while I was working. Together is all I know.”

  The Frisbee game moved the orange plastic so close that it skidded in the black dirt under their tree. Fred scooped it up and tossed it to the nearest running figure. He told Arthur, “Listen. I have errands. You need sleep. Do me a favor. Between now and when we meet here at five, before you sleep or after, I don’t care, whichever, take the time to make me a drawing of that painting. Bring it with you.”

  “You said a hundred dollars,” Arthur reminded him. “I don’t want money, but I could use a hundred dollars. Right at the moment…”

  Fred peeled out a twenty. “On account,” he said. “Listen, Arthur? Lock yourself in.”

  ***

  Gilly, apparently cured, was at the library’s research desk when Fred reached it before noon. “She stepped out,” Gilly said. White shirtsleeves, red tie with Peanuts characters on it. “If you’re looking for Molly?”

  Fred nodded. Within the library, at least in the tight
confines of its research personnel, word was out. The large man with the new haircut who’d appeared a couple of times in recent days had an interest in Molly.

  “Any idea what direction I should wander?” Fred asked. “In order to bump into her?”

  “She had her lunch in a bag is all I can tell you,” Gilly said. “She’s likely to stop across the street for coffee.” He didn’t even try a feint with the question, Anything I can help you with? Had the other staff here and there, at the checkout desk and shelving books, turned their attention toward Fred also? As if all were involved in the kind of office conspiracy that leads to surprise parties or presents chosen by committee. A woman at the circulation desk said, as Fred passed, “Molly left ten minutes ago.”

  They were all in cahoots. All whispering to themselves and to each other, with pleasure, “Molly’s got a man.” What seemed to be the feeling in this place was that Molly’s fellow workers liked her and wanted something nice to happen for her. Unless that was no more than what Fred felt and wanted for her.

  Both things could be true at the same time.

  It was unnerving having this ill-defined group of well-meaning strangers, Molly’s coworkers, thinking they were in on the opening chapter of a story Fred couldn’t read, in which he was a character. Fred gave a noncommittal wave. So much poison can develop between people, underpaid and overworked, confined in a tight place, the evident good will felt by these folks toward Molly was a good sign.

  Molly had found a bench in the dusty park, under a mottled sycamore. A woman was just getting up to move away from her, dressed in navy uniform, contraptions but no firearms hanging at her waist. The woman held paper trash bunched in one hand, and a square fat clip of forms at her side. She was traffic. Parking Enforcement. She made a feint toward the trash container near the bench, in deep conversation with Molly, who didn’t notice Fred until his shadow crossed her. She gave a start. She was dressed in yellow-green.

  “I’m interrupting,” Fred said.

  “I’m Dee,” the uniform said.