Following Trisha’s lead could certainly end badly, he repeated to himself. In the end it might cost him Sharon, his job and maybe even some dignity. To allow himself to take her cue would make him not much more than the starstruck groupies who hounded Wexford and Polanski and Billy Blair, ready to trade themselves for just one night to live a fantasy about which others could only dream.
He thought all this, but very briefly.
They pushed away from their chairs as if on a signal and moved slowly toward each other, their eyes locked. She calmly raised her arms when they met and placed her hands gently on the back of his neck. His hands rested on her waist, and then without hesitation, moved effortlessly to her hips.
She drew in a shallow breath and partially closed her eyes as their lips touched. He could sense she was smiling, a low purr of satisfaction vibrating from her throat.
“See, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” she asked, taking a deep breath and licking her upper lip.
“No,” he said, releasing his grip.”And I do hope you’re having a happy birthday.”
“I am.” She returned to her chair.”And it’s not even 9:00 yet. You don’t turn into a pumpkin at midnight, do you?”
He shook his head.
(The Curator’s Notes & Combat Art Inventory appear at end of this novel)
CHAPTER 11
During the meal, she again hinted she had a surprise in store for him that he’d genuinely enjoy. While clearing the dishes, she returned to the subject, turning it into a guessing game.
“All right,” she said as she flicked off the kitchen light and walked to the bar.”You’ve got enough clues. You must be able to guess what it is. I think I’ll have a Bailey’s. Would you care for one?”
“Please,” he responded.”Give me another clue.”
“Tell me what you know already.”
“Let’s see,” he began.”It’s very special. It’s something that knowing me, I’d kill for. There’s only one place in the city I can get it and that’s right here.” He tugged absently at the waist of his jeans, shifting position.”It’s something a lot of people would die for,” he continued, watching as she poured the liqueur, “and you can’t think of anyone who deserves it more than me. So far, so good?”
“Absolutely,” she said enthusiastically, passing him a glass and taking him by the hand.”And if you’ll come with me to one of the love seats, which is the best place in the room to enjoy this little treat, I’m sure it’ll become clear as the proverbial bell.”
She led him to the couch facing the inside wall of the room, walked to the entertainment hutch then leaned against it, facing him.
“You really haven’t guessed?” she asked, giving what could only be described as a seductive smile.
“I still need a few more clues.”
“I’ll give you three.”
“What color is it?”
“Black with red trim,” she replied as she latched her thumb around one of the lengths of her belt.”That’s one.”
“You said I could only get it here. Will that always be the case? Is this the only place I’ll ever be able to get it?”
“Well the first time is always special. But in, oh, I’d say in a few months you’ll probably be able to get it anywhere you want. Not like tonight but a reasonable facsimile. It won’t be exactly the same as it is tonight but could get even better.”
The drinks are starting to get to me, he thought. He couldn’t believe it was real, that she was standing there and telling him in a roundabout way he was about to be taken to paradise. His eyes shifted away from hers.
“Isn’t that the necklace Doug Smite gave you?” he asked, not looking back.
“Yes, it is.” She smiled.”Is that your third and final question?”
“No,” he replied, deciding to up the stakes.”Can I hold it in my hand?” he asked, setting his drink down and positioning to stand up.
“Only if you promise to put it in the DMD player when you’re done with it.” She laughed.
The words seemed to dart over his head and bounce off the windows behind him. Put it in the player? Is that really what she said? Did I only imagine it? Am I drunk? I know I’m kind of buzzed but I’m not drunk. He wished he had a cigarette.
“Uh, could you repeat that?” he asked, squinting and retrieving his Bailey’s.
“I said,” she replied, holding up her hands as if to balance her words, “you can hold it if you promise to put it in the player. Now if that isn’t the best clue in the world, I don’t know what is.”
He was baffled. Was he that dense? Did he really think, and this was before finishing two glasses of wine over dinner, that for one moment she was interested in anything more from him than a pleasant evening’s companionship? More than two colleagues celebrating one’s birthday? Was he so fatigued he was seeing things that weren’t really there? Did he actually believe the primary purpose for going to her apartment was for her to celebrate the passage by taunting him until his eyes popped out?
“I’m lost, Trisha,” he said, sinking into the cushions.”I have no idea what you’re talking about. I give up.”
She reached above the components and gingerly picked up a DMD with a red label and black lettering.”Do you know what this is?” she asked, holding it toward him.
“A recording?”
“Any recording?”
He looked closer, relaxing. There was no reason to be disappointed because he never really expected anything anyway. Maybe for a while he did but that was just the liquor thinking.
“I can’t read the label from here.”
“Enough suspense,” she said, moving to him.”Take a look and then take a guess.” She handed him the disc.
The black block letters indicated five songs titled No Reply, Once And Again, I Forgot To Smile, The Day She Wasn’t Fair and True Blood Brothers. No Reply seemed to ring a bell but the other four only drew blanks.
“What do you think?” she asked restlessly.”Tell me what you think. Do any of the titles sound familiar?”
“ˆNo Reply’s familiar. Wasn’t that a John Lennon song, a Beatles song?”
She nodded excitedly.
“These are the new Wexford songs, the ones you mentioned to me before the interview?”
“And only one person outside of Jackson Hole has heard them and you are about to be the second. Interested in what our favorite star has been up to, tucked away in his castle...”
“Of course I am!” He laughed, his mood brightening.
“… avoiding his adoring fans?”
She returned to the console, popped the recording into the machine and raised the volume with the remote.
The first tune was indeed a cover of the Beatles’ version and an excellent one at that. The second was more uptempo, a sure crowd-pleaser. The third reverted to the gentler pace of Reply and the fourth was a straight ahead rocker. All of them were thematically similar, touching on betrayal, disillusionment and loss. Probably, he guessed, it had to do with the recently finalized divorce from his wife, Marion.
“So what do you think?” she asked as she paused the concert.
“Great. But he sounds kind of depressed, wouldn’t you say? I heard he’s been to the hospital recently.”
“I understand he’s not been well,” she said, looking out to the black sky.”In fact, Doug and I are going to have a face-to-face about it. Probably Friday.”
“Sounds serious.”
“Maybe. I’m not sure. But we can save that for later. You have to hear the last one. How about getting us a little more Bailey’s?”
He did and they met back at the love seat as she directed the system to play.
True Blood Brothers wasn’t just a song; it was an anthem. More than six minutes in length and reaching not one but two crescendos, it was a barely disguised pitch for another blood drive. Perhaps he hadn’t heard they’d been outlawed under ProTac?
His observations didn’t please her; she bit at her lower lip.
; “We may soon launch one despite that stupid legislation. Legal thinks there might be a loophole allowing smaller ones. The only thing that will make one succeed is if Wexie gets it across to those thousands of walking test tubes…” Her voice began to constrict.”…that the time has come to help the cause again.”
Then she seemed to reconsider.”I’m sorry. That was thoughtless.”
“I understand. I didn’t think you meant it,” he replied, old doubts raising their heads.
“But they just have to take it seriously.”
She stood then paced to the window and back, clasping her hands nervously, biting at her lip again. She sat beside him, dropping her head onto his shoulder for a moment. He thought about putting his arm around her but didn’t. Then she sat up and looked at him intently.
“A second blood drive is so important, you just cannot imagine. Even a small one. We have to get more of the distillate. I’d settle for a hundredth of an ounce. And there are only two people who are going to make it happen or not happen, and that’s me,” she finished as she pointed to the stereo, “and Mr. Redal. Period.”
She seemed genuinely concerned but he wasn’t sure. He was sure that the evening was beginning to lose its charm and didn’t want to add to the already dissolving spell.
“Trisha, I’m sure it’ll work out, believe me. I know it means a lot to you. We’ll do it.”
“I know, I know. I’m just so nervous about it. And this mess in Houston…”
“Have a little more Bailey’s.”
“How about something a little better?”
“Like what?”
“Oh,” she said, snapping her head and brushing back her hair, “seeing as I run Pharmaceuticals, I’m sure I might be able to find something around the house.” She paused.”Samples, maybe?”
He looked at her, methodically rubbing the back of his neck. There was no mistaking the reference but he wasn’t sure how to play it, knowing she was well acquainted with the use of Febrifuge Blue for non-medicinal purposes. She wasn’t born yesterday; she was Class D, the mistress of the elixir.
She knew that even if CYD disappeared from the face of the earth, 26% of the population would buy the drug legally or otherwise. Did she use it herself? If he asked and she didn’t, the insult might not be forgiven. If he asked and she did, he might sound presumptuous. But the chance to ice over with her was too good to pass up.
“Like what?”
“Come on, David. This isn’t a test. Security isn’t hiding under the sofa. This won’t be, what did they call it in 1984?”
“The year?”
“No, the book,” she said, touching his arm as if she wanted to see if he understood a punch line.”Thought crime, that’s it!” She crunched her fingers into claws and affected a snarl.”And I am the Thought Police!”
He laughed. She could actually be playful.
“Like what?” he repeated.
“Do I have to spell it for you?”
“Uh, Feb Blue?”
“Yes. One one zero zero.”
“Eleven hundred? I didn’t think…”
“It was available? It’s not. Not unless you know the right people.” She winked.”And now that I’m officially Sixer and you are…Maybe?”
He didn’t reply, staring back seeking recognition. Was it a taunt? Maybe there really were Thought Police.
“I’d understand if you declined. If I were in your position, and I know what it feels like to receive…” She hesitated, searching for the words.”…an unexpected suggestion from a superior. Believe me, I’ve had my share, both unexpected and otherwise.”
He relaxed a bit. She sounded sincere, one former assistant talking to a present assistant.
“But that’s not what we’re doing here tonight.” She thought for a second.”Yeah, I’ve been given that line a couple times, too.”
“I can imagine.”
“This is funny.” She touched his arm again.”Talk about role reversal. All right, let’s start over. We’re only here tonight to …”
He laughed.
“Okay, I know, I know,” she admitted.”You’re right. There’s no way to say it. I give.”
“I believe you. I was even surprised you asked me over for dinner. I’d think twice before, say, inviting Debbie over for dinner. People take it wrong no matter what your intentions.”
“Did you take it wrong? I’m sorry if you did.”
“Oh, no, no,” he replied, shaking his head.”I knew you just wanted to share your birthday with someone. Nothing else.” Liar, liar.
“Good. It’s as simple as that.”
At least he was getting to hear the new Wexford material. But he was more interested in the rest of the Combat Art story, the suggestion making her face light up.
“So there they were. Over a hundred paintings hanging on the walls, the plywood. Leaning up against things, on the floor, some on easels. Everywhere. A guy doing some framing of one of the larger paper pieces. A girl in an office doing research. I couldn’t believe it. Some of the paintings were huge, a lot larger than the ones I first saw. Much more complicated like they’d dropped out of art heaven.”
He recalled the author of the Curator’s Notes.
“Was the girl in the office the one who wrote the memo?”
She smiled, raising her chin and nodding.
“Yes. The lovely Ms. Garcy.” She paused.”Quite a piece of work. You know the actress who did the credit card check on her blind date in Amazon Women on the Moon?”
He shook his head.
“She also starred in Desperately Seeking Susan? The original, not the remake.”
He hadn’t seen that film either.”Nope.”
“Dead ringer. Could have been her sister. Really stunning.”
“So then what?”
“So Garrison calls to her, says he’s got someone he wants her to meet. She finishes up whatever she’s doing and steps out of her cubbyhole. Felt like the temperature in the room dropped a few degrees.” She chuckled.”Okay, bottom to top. Three inch black leather pumps, expensive ones. Snug pair of black denims that showed off her legs. Beautiful black leather belt highlighted with a silver buckle and a single yellow turquoise stone, also very expensive, that matched her yellow turquoise pendant that hung just so, which in turn picked up the color of her silk blouse which was just sheer enough to reveal she was wearing a black brassier. Makeup? Perfect. Big hair.” She paused, then nodded again.”Nice package.”
Now the asides in the memo made a little more sense. They were about the sexual attraction she might have toward, or even trying to demonstrate to her employer.
“So we chat for no more than a minute, then she excuses herself to return to her duties.” She nodded again.”A little territoriality I can understand but okay, I got the message loud and clear, girl. Garrison apologized for her abruptness, said she wasn’t much on small talk.”
They’d spent a few minutes browsing among the paintings, then Hanson opened one of the safes and removed a stack of large drawings which, after handing her a pair of white cotton gloves, suggested she glance through. Then he guided her to a small alcove containing the five paintings she’d chosen that Monday night which now seemed so distant in time.
Gesturing, he stated he believed they were hers…unless she was interested in a substantially more attractive alternatives.
His offer came in three parts. First, all of the examples she’d chosen were hers to keep, to be delivered at a date as yet undetermined depending on how long it took to properly catalogue and assess the entire collection. Secondly, in addition, she could choose four of what he termed the later paintings along with one of drawings.
“And here’s where things got really interesting.”
Hanson offered that the tax implications for both her and the estate were considerable but that even those were secondary to his firm decision to keep absolute control of everything regarding the collection, from authentication to pricing to assure distribution. At least as to the
major examples and limited to appropriate individuals. He elaborated meaning buyers who would keep the works and not resell them, at least for a proscribed, contracted-for amount of time accomplished by a complicated lease/sale agreement. Eliminating even the possibility of an aftermarket being created before his plans were fulfilled was undoubtedly of paramount concern.
“Then he asks me who my favorite modern artists were. That was an easy one. Messrs. Johns and Picasso. Then he asks how many of their paintings I owned. Another easy one. None. Then he asks if I’d be interested…if I’d be open to some in-kind trades.”
He did a quick calculation. That was an easy one, too.”I’ll guess I’ve seen evidence of your decision?”
She grinned.”I believe you have. Garrison told me to think it over, said I wouldn’t have to make a decision until the cataloging and research was completed and the grand plan was in place. So…it went on forever.” She sighed.”He eventually calls with an update and asks if I’d decided on possible trades. Two weeks later when he shipped all the docs, I signed up.”
“And the Illinois lithograph?”
“It’s a drawing on paper but I can understand you thinking it was a litho because I did, too. I’d noticed it when we were…it was with the paintings on an easel. He said it was only one of the two pieces that JLD had framed himself, Sex being the other, so I told him to add it to my account.”
This third part of his offer involved, also for tax and control reasons, swapping parts of the collection on a one-for-one basis. But only to discreet collectors, meaning those who preferred to keep their private galleries out of the public eye and who valued confidentiality regarding their possessions. In essence, the fewer parties there were with knowledge of the barters, the better off everyone would be.
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