The Dreaming Tree

by Matthew Mather

  “That’s great. That’s really great.” Gary didn’t look Roy in the eyes but picked with a manicured fingernail at the edge of the wooden desk.

  From the ninth floor of the Woolworth Building, they had a nice view of the arcing fountains of City Hall Park just across Broadway, the last yellow leaves hanging on to the treetops as winter set in. Beyond the skyscrapers lay the flat gray of the East River.

  They were turning the top two-dozen floors into ultraluxury condos now, but almost thirty years ago, when Roy’s father rented the ninth floor, this place had been deserted. Mothballed. The old dame of a building had been at the sleazy end of the shooter alley that the Bowery was at that time.

  Roy’s father almost rented this floor for free, and the long-term renewable lease was so cheap now, it was almost a crime. Just at the edge of Wall Street, it stood at the gates of Tribeca. Trendy old money was the vibe.

  “How are things going, Gary?” Roy asked, stretching out his name like a kid taunting another on the playground.

  This douchebag was the new general manager of LCT Capital. A slimy pump-and-dumper who had climbed through the ranks. Roy’s father would be horrified. But then, maybe Roy hadn’t known his father as well as he thought, and this was his dad’s partner’s son. Then again, maybe Roy was just jealous.

  Gary Tarlington, “Tarlington” being the “T” in “LCT.”

  “Things are great,” Gary said. “Amazing.” Still the guy didn’t look up.

  Maybe that was because Roy had rolled down his turtleneck to expose his garroted-throat scar. He leaned his head back to expose it even more. “Like, how good? Sounds exciting.”

  “Twelve-point-five on the last quarter for the main fund.”

  LCT Capital, the company Roy’s father had founded, had morphed from helping technology companies start up to becoming a balls-to-the-wall hedge fund over the years since his death. From white knights to mercenaries.

  “And my trust?”

  “It’s indexed to the main fund; you know that.”

  When Roy’s father had died, his shares in the company were sold back to the other partners, with the money placed in Roy’s trust. So he didn’t own any part of LCT except for the financial interest in his trust.

  He did, however, have a permanent seat on the board—a growing point of contention with the other directors—and an annual stipend of a hundred thousand dollars for doing basically nothing. Which was most of what he’d done the past ten years, after trying to get involved the entire decade before.

  How the hell did that much time pass?

  The contract stated he had to have an office, but the partners were just as happy that he was never in it. Indeed, they had made it clear they preferred it. “No-show” jobs were a staple of New York mobsters, and financiers could play the game just as well.

  Roy said, “I’m thinking of getting into some deals. Do you have my password?” He cut a glance at the blank computer screen.

  “You can get that from Roxanne at the front,” Gary said. Still he picked at the wood. “Look, we all feel terrible for what happened to you. I can’t even imagine—”

  “You can’t, let me tell you,” Roy interrupted. “I know I’ve been an asshole in the past, but this whole thing … I really want to start over. Can we do that? Maybe try?”

  “Yeah, of course.” Gary let the words roll out slowly. “But here’s the thing …”

  “The ‘L’ in that name is Lowell,” Roy said. “My name.”

  “Sure, but you know, it might be a distraction having you in here.”

  Roy had breezed in past reception, earning frowns from the front desk staff. Then whispers in the secretary pool.

  “A birdie told me you were in here, young man,” said a voice full of gravel.

  It was Atticus Cargill. His mountainous frame loomed in the arched doorway, almost blocking out the fluorescent hallway lights. His blue suit looked two sizes too small for the belly it must accommodate. He shuffled forward and put out a hand the size of a supermarket chicken.

  Even at seventy-five years and moving slow, he gave the impression he could crack you in half with his bare hands if you riled the bear. His white-bristle mustache elongated into a smile.

  “I’ll leave you to it,” Gary said, getting up off the chair. He gave Roy a less-than-sincere handshake and nodded at Atticus as they passed.

  Atticus’s grip felt like a warm-meat vise. “I wondered when we’d see you here. Penny told me you were in the city.”

  “Thought I could start doing some work.”

  “Don’t you think it’s maybe a little bit soon?”

  “I think it might be therapeutic. You know, help get my head straight.”

  Atticus’s smile was the sort a grandfather might give a grandson who didn’t understand what he did all day when he went to work. “It’s a good thought, Roy, but we had some losses here last year. Lot of people laid off. I’m not sure this is the right time.”

  “Gary just told me you did twelve-point-five last quarter.”

  “That was just one quarter.”

  “How much is left in my trust fund, Atticus?”

  “In a month, you’re going to find out. The trust dissolves and you inherit it. Why not just wait?”

  “Why can’t you just tell me now?”

  “Rules are rules. I can tell you the value that was registered when the trust was set up—ten-point-four million—but then it was sealed under court order. Half of it went into our main fund, and we did well with it—paid out all your allowances, you and your mother. I saw you took out fifty thousand in cash the other day.”

  Roy forgot that Atticus had power of attorney over his estate while he was incapacitated. “Just needed some cash.”

  “That’s what it’s there for. You accumulated quite a bit while you were convalescing. And I didn’t tell Penny. We can keep that just between us.” The old lawyer smiled conspiratorially.

  “How much is left, Atticus?” Roy asked again. “Just between us?”

  The smile melted away. “Honestly, I don’t even know myself. And even if I could tell you how much we’re managing for you, the other part is investments your dad made. Lock and key, court order. Nobody can look at that until your forty-fourth birthday. In one month. Four weeks. Like I said.”

  “Can you at least guess? Just ballpark?”

  Storm clouds seemed to build behind the furrowed white hedge of eyebrows. “Why are you pushing this?”

  “I just want to know.” Roy leaned back in the chair. “Wouldn’t you?”

  The old man’s expression changed. “Look at you. Hands all busted up, stinking like booze, walking in here like you own the place.”

  “I did, once.”

  “You know the pain and suffering your mother went through? Your wife? Me, too. My god, I promised Richard I would look after you. Now you’re back to drinking again? And who knows what else? After all the time, the money, the connections, the pain …”

  Maybe he’d been feeling stirred up from meeting that slimeball Gary. Whatever the cause, Roy’s combative tone evaporated. “Atticus, I’m sorry. It’s a weird time. I just need to know.”

  The old lawyer took a deep breath. “I don’t begrudge you blowing off some steam. That’s why I didn’t say anything to Penny or your mother about the fifty grand.”

  Roy said, “I’ve been going to a support group.”

  “Good. That’s good.” Atticus exhaled, eyes closed, and shook his head.

  “What did the police want?” Roy asked. “Detective Devlin from Suffolk County.”

  “They were just looking for that hiker,” Atticus said, opening his eyes.

  “That doesn’t make sense.” Roy said, “I went and talked to her. Had a drink with her yesterday.”

  “You did what! God damn it, Roy, you shouldn’t be doing that.”


  “Are you having me followed, Atticus?”

  “Am I … Sweet Mother of God! Dr. Danesti said you’d be paranoid. You should get home, young man. Go see your wife. Get your head on straight.”

  “Maybe I will.”

  The room went silent. Roy sat splayed out on the only chair in the room, Atticus towering over him.

  “Eight million.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Don’t tell anyone I told you—I could get disbarred. That’s how much I estimate is in your trust, or will be when you inherit it next month. Eight million, and that’s cash.”

  21

  The eyeball exploded. Needlepoints shot straight from the center in perfect fivefold symmetry. A blob of black held the center, with spatters of smaller orbs spiraling away in a widening vortex held together by a haywire of metal struts. The edges of the eye shape sprouted outward as if in surprise, while, below and to the right, a sail appeared to pull the whole assembly forward. A rectangular wire mesh reminiscent of a skyscraper protruded from the top of the image.

  Del took a step back to appreciate the work in full.

  What did she see? More importantly, what did she feel? An intensity, as if some squashed giant animal were trying to leap out. Its arms seemed to reach up at the skyscraper, but the movement felt circular, as if it were a creature forever stirring in the depths.

  That was the problem with art.

  Someone else might just look at it and see a splash of brown paint over metal.

  Which was exactly what it was.

  This work, ten feet tall—“in welded steel, porcelain, and wire mesh on canvas,” read the inscription—stood against the wall. Six other installations graced the cavernous room. Thirty-foot ceilings, the walls matte-white, with bright wide-spectrum bulbs casting careful light over polished oak floors. Hushed whispers came from knots of patrons who walked soft-shoed from one spot to the next. She had taken the day to come look at the new exhibit at MoMA—the Museum of Modern Art, on Fifty-Third Street, almost right in the middle of Manhattan.

  People paid millions for a Pollock, but the artist might have just been having a laugh and slinging paint randomly on a canvas when he made it. Did that make any difference? Or when Warhol inked soup cans for even more millions?

  To some, it might seem nonsense, but then, art was a language unto itself. An esotericism that demanded study. The rebirth of the Renaissance, to the baroque and its flourish and splendor for God; neoclassical to Romanticism and the triumph of imagination; the fleeting effects of impressionism to the rustic charm of realism; modernism versus postmodernism. Artists of each era and school building on the insights of their predecessors to see further and deeper into the human psyche.

  Beauty was in not just the eye, but also in the mind, of the beholder.

  For Del, the keys to understanding art and people were the same. To really understand, you had to trace back to the roots, know where they came from and how, and understand who created them.

  “Amazing, isn’t it?” said a quiet voice.

  A woman had appeared beside Del. She had short-cut platinum hair, with asymmetrical bangs falling playfully over her left eye. She’d been a striking beauty in her youth, Del could see, and had carried that aura into her later years. Floral notes of an expensive perfume drifted with her.

  Del nodded appreciatively. “It’s from her later period, but evocative of her primal works from the Leo Castelli days.” The piece before them was by Lee Bontecou, whose body of work she was familiar with. “We have one at home.”

  “How wonderful.” The woman extended her hand. “Virginia Lowell-Vandeweghe,” she said. “I’m running the auction today.”

  Del took the woman’s hand and got a limp fish in return. “Delta Devlin.”

  Del’s father used to love telling her how a degree in fine arts would never be useful in police work. She wished he were here to witness this.

  “What a lovely name,” Virginia replied. “Are you a collector?”

  “I have to admit, my mother studied with Lee at Brooklyn College, back in the seventies. That’s how we came to have one of her works.” Del had used her mother’s connection to get an invitation to the event today. It wasn’t open to the public.

  “Lovely.” But the brightness in Virginia’s eyes diminished a shade, probably as she realized that Del didn’t have a million-dollar checkbook. “And would I know your mother’s work?”

  “Amede Bechet. She and Lee shared a common family history.”

  “Ah, yes, I remember. Often showed in Greenwich?”

  “That’s right.”

  Virginia gave her a tight smile and started to move away.

  “I do have something else to confess,” Del said.

  The older woman stopped.

  “I know your son as well.”

  “Royce?”

  “That’s right.”

  Now Virginia sized Del up and down, as if she were inspecting a show horse. “He’s been through so much lately. We’re very proud of him, of his strength.” After a few seconds, she added, “Are you the reason he suddenly took off into the city?”

  Del studied the woman’s face. Faint capillaries at the edges of her eyes lit up and seemed to pulse. So Roy had taken off into the city? Why?

  “I’m not sure it’s just me,” Del replied with an appropriately demure grin.

  “A pretty thing like you? Don’t sell yourself short.” Virginia’s smile took on a more carnivorous aspect. “But I must warn you, his wife is just over there.” She pointed in the corner.

  So Roy’s mother and wife were here in Manhattan, but it appeared neither of them knew where Roy was. Interesting. And the first thing that came to his mother’s mind was that he was having an affair?

  Del saw something else interesting and decided now was the moment. “And I’m just wondering,” she said, lowering her voice, “why you were trying to steal your son’s money when he was in a coma.”

  She expected an explosion of color in Virginia’s forehead after such a combative and unexpected accusation, but the woman remained almost preternaturally calm. Just a flicker of heat across her face. “Who did you say you are, again?”

  “Nobody important.”

  “I think it’s time for you to leave.”

  But Del was already walking away, following her next target. “I think so, too.”

  * * *

  Del exited from MoMA onto Fifty-Third Street, wobbling just a little on her four-inch Christian Louboutin heels. She looked up and down the street, trying to spot the mass of flowing gray hair and beard she was tracking. She had run down the last set of stairs—no mean feat in the stilettos.

  “Careful on those,” said a man’s voice behind her. “Love the red soles, but not exactly athletic wear.”

  She turned.

  “Do you have a light?” Samuel Phipps stood leaning against the wall, a cigarette in his mouth.

  “Sorry, I don’t smoke.” Del steadied herself and smoothed down her dress, then ran a hand through her hair.

  Sam took the cigarette from his mouth. “Damn things. Me, either.” He tossed it into a trash can near the entrance. “Least, I shouldn’t be.” He held out his hand. “My name’s Sam.”

  “Delta.” This handshake was firm. “I saw you upstairs.”

  “I saw you, too.” Sam’s eyebrows raised a fraction, just enough to show what he meant but not enough to seem boorish.

  Confident—that was the impression.

  She would have put him in his fifties, but she knew he had just turned sixty. Rich people were easy to research on the internet. She’d read all about his family business in the liquor trade, read about his enormous house in Southampton. Didn’t dye his hair. Proud and gray, long and flowing and natural. Read enough about him to know he thought of himself as a ladies’ man, and he cert
ainly played the part. His pale-blue shirt was open two buttons under his full beard, and he wore a brown tweed sport jacket and faded blue jeans with scuffed loafers.

  Sam asked, “So what’s the connection? You a friend of Virginia’s? I saw you talking.”

  “My mother worked with Lee Bontecou many years ago.”

  “Interesting. Hey, you must be freezing. Can I lend you my coat?”

  The past two days, the temperature had dropped thirty degrees to a more seasonal range for the end of November. She had on only a thin-strapped dress. She had left her coat upstairs in her rush down. If she went back up to get it, she might lose this opportunity.

  Sam added, “Maybe you want to grab a coffee?”

  Del replied, “Sure, why not,” to both.

  * * *

  “So you’re an artist?” Sam asked. “Because you know what they say about artists.”

  They’d found a spot around the corner. He had an espresso, black; she was having a filtered coffee with milk. It was midafternoon, and the café was almost empty. They sat on stools facing the window and watched people walk by. They’d been talking for ten minutes now, with Sam edging a little closer every now and then.

  “I consider myself one,” Del replied. “So what do they say?”

  “That artists mix with the highest and lowest of society, and therefore, that makes them the most dangerous. I think it was Queen Victoria who said it.”

  “So that makes me dangerous?” Del said.

  “I think so. Sounds pretty dangerous to me. And I do mean pretty.”

  She ignored the pickup line. “Do you consider yourself an artist, Sam?”

  He laughed, his blue eyes steadily on Del. “I do. Perhaps a great artist. Perhaps the greatest.” His eyes narrowed, and then he laughed at his own joke.

  “I have heard of you before,” Del admitted. “Doesn’t your family have that big place in Southampton? I’ve seen it in the magazines.”

  “That’s right. You should come out sometime. What do you think?” He took a card from his jacket pocket. “Call me. This is my private number.”