clients and the importance of their work to Western civilization. Looking at the clippings, Duncan felt like a pretentious dung beetle from Wyoming competing with big city cockroaches. He picked up his paintings and turned to go, but a placid, euphonious female voice arrested him.
“You must be Duncan.”
He turned. Angela Moncini’s onyx hair was cut to her shoulders and her eyes were gray and soft above tan valleys cut deep beneath the ridges of her cheekbones. She wore a black skirt and stockings and a white silk blouse through which Duncan deciphered the intricate pattern of her bra. Duncan understood what Benjamin must have felt when first he gazed upon her.
“Yes, ma’am. I must be.”
“Can I have Marie get you a drink?”
“Yes, please. Beer if you have it.”
“I’ll make a note to get some. Would you settle for champagne?”
“That would be fine.” He really wanted a beer.
“So you’re Duncan Delaney,” Angela repeated.
“Yes ma’am.” He took out his wallet. “I have identification.”
Angela laughed. He put his wallet back, feeling stupid. She took his hand and led him through a door.
“I want to show you something,” she said.
Her office was on the fifteenth floor of a high rise and its window offered a wide vista past concrete and steel stalagmites to the sea. The room itself was like a well-furnished gallery. Two leather chairs sat before an ebony desk with a third chair behind it. An elaborate oriental rug lay atop the mahogany floor. Recessed lights adorned the ceiling. But what seized Duncan’s imagination were the paintings. He could identify a few of the canvases on the walls, and some signatures, but he stalled at a painting of a young blond woman on horseback riding a herd across a wide grassy plain to market. The girl wore blue jeans, a denim shirt, and a white cowboy hat. She was more than beautiful and the view would be idyllic if boring save that the herd she drove was comprised of naked, hairy men on all fours. Duncan scrutinized the signature. Sheila something. He could not make out the last name. He moved on until he came to a painting that routed an icy thrill up his back and down his arms. Benjamin’s family, framed in rosewood and illuminated by recessed lighting, hung like an icon on her wall. Marie materialized with champagne. Duncan gulped a glass down.
“Did I paint that?” he asked.
“It’s brilliant,” Angela said.
He was not prepared to go that far. Still, six hundred dollars no longer seemed ludicrous.
“Holy Jesus,” he said. “What a difference a frame makes.”
Angela laughed. Duncan thought he said something stupid again but there was no malice in her eyes.
“I could sell it for twice what I paid. But I won’t. I keep the first paintings of all my artists. Now let’s see what I can sell.”
Marie brought in his paintings. He tore the butcher paper off and set them against the desk. He stepped back and began to sweat. Angela shifted a foot and put one hand to her chin. Duncan fanned his face with his Stetson, ready to crawl back to Cheyenne. Angela looked up and smiled. Anxiety washed from his body like dye from a new pair of blue jeans.
“Duncan,” she said, “You’re going to be a big hit in this town.”
Duncan was still feeling the champagne when he sauntered past the white, nineteen sixty-five Cadillac convertible parked below his window. Its top was down, and it had immaculate red leather seats and a high polish to its paint. Had he known what it was, and what it would one day do, he would have fetched the baseball bat he had bought that morning and reduced the car as best he could to scrap. Much later, as he watched the killer General Motors product crushed and pulverized at a scrap yard and many times after, he would think back to that day and wonder if he would have done anything different. But he would always conclude the only thing worth changing was the way it all turned out.
He climbed the stairs and ducked
“You must be Duncan.”
He turned. Angela Moncini’s onyx hair was cut to her shoulders and her eyes were gray and soft above tan valleys cut deep beneath the ridges of her cheekbones. She wore a black skirt and stockings and a white silk blouse through which Duncan deciphered the intricate pattern of her bra. Duncan understood what Benjamin must have felt when first he gazed upon her.
“Yes, ma’am. I must be.”
“Can I have Marie get you a drink?”
“Yes, please. Beer if you have it.”
“I’ll make a note to get some. Would you settle for champagne?”
“That would be fine.” He really wanted a beer.
“So you’re Duncan Delaney,” Angela repeated.
“Yes ma’am.” He took out his wallet. “I have identification.”
Angela laughed. He put his wallet back, feeling stupid. She took his hand and led him through a door.
“I want to show you something,” she said.
Her office was on the fifteenth floor of a high rise and its window offered a wide vista past concrete and steel stalagmites to the sea. The room itself was like a well-furnished gallery. Two leather chairs sat before an ebony desk with a third chair behind it. An elaborate oriental rug lay atop the mahogany floor. Recessed lights adorned the ceiling. But what seized Duncan’s imagination were the paintings. He could identify a few of the canvases on the walls, and some signatures, but he stalled at a painting of a young blond woman on horseback riding a herd across a wide grassy plain to market. The girl wore blue jeans, a denim shirt, and a white cowboy hat. She was more than beautiful and the view would be idyllic if boring save that the herd she drove was comprised of naked, hairy men on all fours. Duncan scrutinized the signature. Sheila something. He could not make out the last name. He moved on until he came to a painting that routed an icy thrill up his back and down his arms. Benjamin’s family, framed in rosewood and illuminated by recessed lighting, hung like an icon on her wall. Marie materialized with champagne. Duncan gulped a glass down.
“Did I paint that?” he asked.
“It’s brilliant,” Angela said.
He was not prepared to go that far. Still, six hundred dollars no longer seemed ludicrous.
“Holy Jesus,” he said. “What a difference a frame makes.”
Angela laughed. Duncan thought he said something stupid again but there was no malice in her eyes.
“I could sell it for twice what I paid. But I won’t. I keep the first paintings of all my artists. Now let’s see what I can sell.”
Marie brought in his paintings. He tore the butcher paper off and set them against the desk. He stepped back and began to sweat. Angela shifted a foot and put one hand to her chin. Duncan fanned his face with his Stetson, ready to crawl back to Cheyenne. Angela looked up and smiled. Anxiety washed from his body like dye from a new pair of blue jeans.
“Duncan,” she said, “You’re going to be a big hit in this town.”
Duncan was still feeling the champagne when he sauntered past the white, nineteen sixty-five Cadillac convertible parked below his window. Its top was down, and it had immaculate red leather seats and a high polish to its paint. Had he known what it was, and what it would one day do, he would have fetched the baseball bat he had bought that morning and reduced the car as best he could to scrap. Much later, as he watched the killer General Motors product crushed and pulverized at a scrap yard and many times after, he would think back to that day and wonder if he would have done anything different. But he would always conclude the only thing worth changing was the way it all turned out.
He climbed the stairs and ducked
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