Very Old Money

by Stanley Ellin

  She said, “I represent someone who’s intensely sympathetic to your work, Miss Lowry, and what it stands for. She’s ready to buy some of that work. I’m to make the arrangements.”

  “For someone intensely sympathetic to me. What’s the someone? Institutional or human?”

  “Definitely human. A woman who for good reasons does not want to be identified.”

  The wariness was gone now. The expressive lips quirked in amusement. “A closet collector. And female? Amy Lloyd possibly?”

  “No, my employer. She’s elderly—you might say grandmotherly—but very spirited really. More to the point, she’s very wealthy and very supportive of you. But she does want it known that her buying your work depends on your willingness to let her remain unidentified.”

  “You mean,” said Kim Lowry, “this is on the level? Mysterious granny and all?”

  “Yes, it is. I suppose describing her as grandmotherly would raise doubts, but that was my mistake.”

  “Don’t you believe it—Mind if I call you Amy?”

  “No.”

  “And I’m Kim. And don’t you believe for a moment, Amy, that I take any position against grandmothers. For one thing, most of them are women who in their time have seen it all, done it all, suffered it all. For another thing, I was raised by mine from cradle up to this moment. Talk about spirited, you ought to meet her. I am whatever I am only because of her. My best friend, and I think I’m hers. Does that sound too far out for you?”

  “No,” said Amy. “I like the way it sounds.”

  “I’ll take your word for it. But getting back to your mystery lady, does she have any idea of my prices? I assume she knows they are not Washington Square, open-air exhibition prices.”

  “I’m sure she does. What are the prices?”

  “For that,” said Kim, “we have to call in Jason. He not only operates this place, he’s my agent. And you don’t have to worry about him keeping your lady’s secret, not if money’s involved. This is not to say he’s a moneygrubber, much as I sometimes wish he was. But he’s sunk his life’s blood into this project—along with a few quarts from a couple of the gay cultural associations—and he’s really desperate for cash flow.” She grinned and shrugged in self-deprecation. “That doesn’t make me too smart either, does it? I mean, letting you in on this. But I can tell you it doesn’t give you bargaining rights. The prices are fixed. Jason and I agree on that much at least.”

  Amy thought it over. Her instructions, after all, did not preclude a third party’s entering the scene, not as long as the buyer’s anonymity was maintained. She said, “If you’d explain it to him very clearly—”

  “Trust me,” said Kim.

  She called in Jason, and when he had wedged himself into what remaining space there was, she explained it to him clearly and succinctly. His instant reaction was unconcealed pleasure. This was followed by concern. “The price,” he said. “You ought to know that it’s six thousand for each painting in the show. By the way, which one are we talking about?”

  “I’m not sure yet,” Amy said. “Besides, there may be more than one.”

  “At that price?” Jason seemed increasingly suspicious. “And then you know like there’s this anonymous thing. Like any check has to be made out by somebody who—”

  “Payment would be in cash,” Amy said.

  Kim raised her eyebrows. Jason looked stunned. “Cash?”

  “Yes,” said Amy. Right or wrong, she thought, just saying it with this cool authority gave her the pleasant feeling that the cash in question was hers.

  “At least,” Kim said to her agent with malice, “if this goes through, it looks like you can pay for that lighting before they rip it out.”

  Jason was deaf to the malice. “At the very least,” he said happily.

  Kim turned to Amy. “What’s the next step?”

  “I report back on this. Then I should be meeting with you—and Mr. Cook—very soon.”

  “With the payment?” said Jason.

  “I imagine so. Yes.”

  “And,” Kim said, “you still haven’t settled on which painting? You don’t mind my asking, but will some very rich grandma-type lady be sneaking in here to take a look around before decision time?”

  “Definitely not.”

  “So she must have seen my Cleveland show. Or was it that set I did for The Bacchae? You can’t blame me for being just a touch curious, can you?”

  “No,” Amy said, “but I’m not supposed to tell you more than I have. It’s embarrassing for me, but it can’t be helped.”

  “It’s all right,” Jason assured her. “Nothing to be embarrassed about. Not a thing.”

  Amy had just managed to wrestle the umbella open when the car pulled up before her. She closed the umbrella and climbed in. The car instantly took off. There are elements of low comedy in this, she thought, Bonnie and Clyde and the quick getaway.

  “How’d you make out?” Mike asked.

  “All right. But one thing. You know we thought perhaps Ma’am was handing over that money to Jason Cook? Might even have paid for this showing? Not so.”

  “You asked about that?”

  “Of course not. But what came out was that this is a very meager operation. Not much money to start with and none left. This Jason Cook doesn’t seem to have any business head. Certainly Kim doesn’t think he has.”

  “Kim is it? So you two did get along nicely.”

  “I think so. She’s at least as tall as I am, so I could sympathize right off. We even got into grandmothers, believe it or not.”

  “Grandmothers?”

  “Anyhow hers,” Amy said. “She has one who’s been mother, father, and guiding light from way back. They’re very much devoted to each other. You have to admit that kind of thing does soften the image.”

  “If you say so,” Mike acknowledged. “What about the paintings you’re shopping for?”

  “Oh, God.”

  “You intrigue me,” Mike said. “Porno?”

  “No. Just the opposite to my way of thinking. Huge vulvas, one and all. It’s like getting ready to drive into the Lincoln Tunnel. Or is it vulvae?”

  “Whichever. But huge? Where the hell can they possibly be hung without stirring up a riot in the house?”

  “I have no idea. But maybe the price will put Ma’am off. They’re six thousand each.”

  “Pocket money, baby,” Mike said.

  “Well, I can hope, can’t I? How she even got interested in Kim to start with—”

  “Yes?”

  “You know,” said Amy, “it just struck me where it could have started. For a while I had to read the art news in the Times to her every morning, looking for something about the Jason Cook Gallery. Then that stopped suddenly. It could have stopped because those messages from Mrs. Upshur had whatever news Ma’am wanted about the opening of Kim’s show. Does that make any sense?”

  “In a crude way,” said Mike. “But it still doesn’t explain how she got hooked on this Kim Lowry.”

  “Oh, that. Well, I just remembered the McEye telling me that up to about a year ago she used to read the theater news to Ma’am. Not art news, theater news. That would be about the time The Bacchae opened here and made a scandal. The scandalous part was the set design by Kim. So the Times could have had reviews and interviews and such, which set Ma’am off. A woman artist getting jumped on because of her feminist outlook. Does it still make sense?”

  “It does,” Mike said. “And it still leaves me wondering what happens when those masterpieces are carted into the house.”

  “Oh, God,” said Amy.

  At the Plaza she found Ma’am seated alone at one of the small, round tables in the Palm Court, the remains of a plate of finger sandwiches and a tea service before her.

  “Miss Durie?”

  “Sit down, Lloyd, and have the waiter arrange a service for you. It would be wasteful to leave these sandwiches uneaten.”

  Amy was about to offer a gentle reminder that the car
was waiting when it struck her that of course this would only be the chauffeur’s concern. She followed orders and applied herself to tea and the remainder of the sandwiches.

  Ma’am checked the time, finger against the face of the wrist-watch. “You weren’t too long about it,” she said. “You did meet with Miss Lowry?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “And explained matters to her? Discreetly?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “And she was properly receptive?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Good. And her paintings? Describe them to me. Briefly.”

  Amy drew a long breath. “Very large. Impasto. The same subject in all of them. The female organ displayed very close up.”

  Ma’am’s face remained expressionless. “And their quality? Professional, would you say?”

  “Well, I really don’t know enough, ma’am, to make any—”

  “You’re mumbling, Lloyd. And nonsense at that. I quite realize I’m not addressing a Bernard Berenson.”

  “Well then, yes, they do seem professional. The trouble is that wherever they’d be on display they’d have a very strong impact on some people.”

  Ma’am smiled. “And we should not distress those people, should we? But I have no objection, Lloyd, to the artist keeping possession of any of her works I may buy. After all, I can’t see the works. Describe her to me.”

  “Very tall,” Amy said with relief. “Rather Hispanic-looking. Quite frank about herself and her situation. Almost emotional about her grandmother, who she feels is the important influence in her life.”

  “Indeed? In what sense?”

  “I’m not sure,” Amy said. “But whatever happened to her parents, her grandmother evidently brought her up. And would seem to have been very supportive about her career.”

  Ma’am nodded. “I imagine one could become very much devoted to a talented grandchild. What are the paintings priced at?”

  “Six thousand dollars each. I did make it clear that if any are bought, payment would be in cash and the buyer must remain unknown.”

  “Precisely. There should be a phone nearby, Lloyd. Call Miss Lowry and inform her that I will buy three of her paintings under those conditions. I want her to reserve three she especially favors. Payment will be made in three parts, the first next week.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Do I also tell her she’s to have the paintings in her care even after they’re sold?”

  “No reason why not, Lloyd. Now attend to the call.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Amy said, but as she was about to get to her feet she was stopped short.

  “One thing, Lloyd. How did we spend this afternoon, you and I?”

  It took a moment to get the point. “We had lunch at the Plaza, ma’am.”

  “And a very pleasant lunch it’s been, Lloyd. Now attend to that call.”

  The weather turned up sunny and cool on blessed Sunday, the day off. They slept late, breakfasted luxuriously in the staff hall, then returned to the apartment, where Amy seated herself at the desk to make out the weekly payment-schedule checks.

  “Before you start,” Mike said. He removed the thick folder of house inventory and Mrs. McEye’s information folder from the drawer. “I want to look through the floor plans in the folder and the art works listed in the inventory. Put ’em together with my copious notes and see what comes out.”

  “No library today?”

  “Nope.”

  “But we won’t be stuck inside all day, will we?” Amy pleaded. “I’m sure the McEye can do without me on our days off, but if she knows I’m right next door to that office—”

  “Fact,” Mike agreed. “We’ll definitely be going out. But I’m also thinking that if Abe’s gotten around to missing us as much as I miss them, he could be on the phone about it this morning. I mean, another Sunday where we don’t all get together? So don’t prepare to mail him his check yet. You might be hand-delivering it.”

  This sound judgment was verified an hour later when the phone rang. Abe said, “Look, Audie tells me I’m supposed to apologize for something, God knows what, so I apologize. Now when’ll you two be over? How about lunch?”

  “We just had a very late breakfast,” said Mike, spirits on the rise.

  “Not bagels, lox, and cream cheese, that I’ll bet on. Besides, I have a golden offer to make that you can’t possibly refuse. The sooner we talk it over, the better.”

  “An offer of what?”

  “You’ll see. All I’ll tell you is that happy days are here again, the skies are clear nor drear again—”

  “Make it a late lunch,” said Mike. “We’ll be there.”

  He reported this to Amy, and she looked doubtful. “He’s manipulating again,” she said.

  “Naturally. But he did apologize.”

  “I can imagine how,” Amy said wisely. “Still, I’m glad he did. You know, I wonder about it sometimes. I mean about having just one pair of close friends in the whole world.”

  “According to the statistics, darling,” Mike said, “that’s way ahead of the average. And it keeps us even with Abe and Audie.”

  He was, however, braced for the offer he couldn’t refuse, so when it came out during the bagels and lox orgy it didn’t provide too much of a shock.

  “There’s this program the city’s instituted,” Abe said. “All-day kindergarten in the public schools. You must have gotten wind of it even up there in Durie country.”

  “So?” said Mike.

  “So there’s this very big wheel in our ed. department, Dick Santana, who’s been tapped by the city to help get the program rolling. Yesterday at a faculty thing, he mentioned to me that they’ve now got a multitude of kids, a paucity of teachers. So I told him all about you two, and he lit up like a Christmas tree.”

  “All?” Mike said. “Including the blacklisting?”

  “All. And as far as he’s concerned—considering that I’m personally vouching for an available kindergarten teacher and an instructor with ten years experience—we forget about the blacklisting. Fourteen thousand to start, and kids of an age where there’s no dealing in pot and pills. Your big problem’ll be getting them into their snowsuits when the weather turns cold. And the only question is when I can arrange your meeting with Santana. Well?”

  “And what do I know about teaching at that level?” Mike asked.

  “Mike, these are wide-eyed innocents. To kids this age, teacher is God. You’ll enjoy the experience.”

  So here it is, Mike thought, but why the discomfort in him? He looked at Amy and knew from her frown that she was sharing the discomfort.

  She said, “It’s much less than we’re making now, Abe, even without our perks. You know that.”

  “Darling”—Abe was all the kindly old uncle—“fourteen thousand times two still adds up to a reasonable income.”

  Amy’s jaw hardened. Somehow this wasn’t the same old Amy, Mike thought. She had taken his opinion for granted without asking it, and she had the ball and was going to run it straight through the line. She said to Abe, “Not all that reasonable. Not after you deduct rent, food, insurance, and use of car from it. Which we’re not doing now in our present employment.”

  “That music again?” Abe said. When he flushed, Mike saw, that shiny bald pate actually glowed crimson. “Look, darling, I know all about your wonderful five-year plan for piling up the bucks. What you don’t know is how long those five years can be and what they can do to you along the way.”

  “Oh, and exactly what can they do?”

  Audrey stood up and asked brightly, “Anybody mind if I go into the kitchen and count the silver?” And in unison Amy and Abe said, “Yes.”

  Abe promptly amended this to, “I’d like you to stay right here and back me up in this. You agreed with me about it last night, didn’t you?”

  “Did I?” said Audrey. “I don’t remember getting a word in during that harangue, dear. One way or the other.”

  “Either way,” said Abe, “I want you to
stay here and apply your usual good sense to this.”

  “Oh, boy,” said Audrey, but she sat down.

  “Now,” Abe said to Amy, “you did ask what five years of self-elected membership in the servant class could do to you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you understand that what I have to say is out of a deep and abiding affection for my dearest friends?”

  “Of course,” said Amy. “And I’m not the one who’s angry, Abe. You are.”

  “Not angry, darling. Worried. Because you two are already—last time we were together, this time—showing signs of what’s happening to you. Talking servant talk from the servant’s point of view. Mild complaints about the impositions on you, some amusement at the vagaries of the masters, a deep concern about the well-being of Margaret Durie, who, granting that her infirmity is pitiable, cannot only buy anything in the world she may desire for her comforting, but, if you ever step on her little toe, would gladly take off your head just the way you told us she did that poor little canary of hers.”

  “Hell and damnation,” Amy said in outrage. “Abe, that is such a distorted way of seeing it—”

  “Not one bit. You are in the forest with your nose pressed up against a tree. I am outside the forest getting the objective view.” Abe turned to Audrey. “Would you agree with that much at least?”

  “I don’t know,” Audrey said. “What I seem to be hearing from your corner is that old Bronx socialist blood percolating.”

  “No, dear. Because I am in no way suggesting that the Duries be stripped of their wealth and sent to the guillotine.”

  Audrey patted his head. “How kind you are.”

  “Just practical,” Abe said. “I’m of an age to know that the proletariat who’d be handed the wealth would blow it immediately on gaudy foolishness. Matter of fact, the Duries don’t come off too badly as among the richest of the parasitical rich. Kind of an anachronism really. Stuffy, inbred, ingrown people, respectable enough in manners and morals. However—”

  “Ah, yes,” said Audrey, “here comes the however.”