roof over her head,’ he said. ‘She and my little Melissa.’ ”
“Quite a heart.”
Angela smiled faintly and shrugged. “With Philip, you learn to take what you can get.”
“Just make that clear to Hogan, if he comes around.”
“I don’t hide things in my life, Jack. It’s a big difference between you and me. One of the reasons we get on so well.”
Before I left, we stopped out by the barn so I could say goodbye to Melissa. Wearing jodhpurs and an English riding hat, she held the chestnut gelding in a disciplined trot. As she rose and dropped successively in the stirrups, the buds of her breasts pushed briefly against the white cotton of her shirt. She halted the big animal in front of us.
“Are you leaving already?” she asked.
“For now,” I said. “Be good. Have your mom bring you to town for a visit sometime.”
“I will, but I won’t be good. It’s too boring.”
I glanced at Angela. “Another artist in the family, I see.”
“Not if I can bloody well help it.”
Melissa adjusted the reins. “I like your car,” she said judiciously. “But it’s kind of old.”
I looked back at the silver Porsche 911, gleaming under the trees along the driveway.
“It’s vintage,” I said. “Like its owner.”
“There’s no room for kids.”
“No, that’s right.”
“Who do you play with then?”
“Oh, Uncle Jack plays lots of games,” Angela assured her daughter. “He plays the art game and the real estate game, and sometimes the girlfriend game.”
“Mostly I play with my pal Hogan.”
“What do you guys do?”
“We pretend to be grown up and solve mysteries. Hogan’s better at it than I am.”
“I’ll bet I can pretend better than either of you.”
“Maybe so, honey.” I kissed Angela’s cheek and lifted my good arm in farewell to the girl. “When you’re a little older, Missy, we’ll see.”
9
I arrived at the gallery in the early afternoon, nodding to two staff members as I passed through the outer office. In the private back room, my Diego Giacometti desk waited in monastic quietude. Laura, ever thoughtful, held off until I was at ease with my coffee before bringing in the first routine items.
“You look like crap,” she said. “Sign these checks.”
“Thanks for your concern. What am I buying?”
“Mostly you’re paying me and keeping the lights on. Then you’re giving Harold Baxter his stipend, settling with the printer for the Denton catalogue, and purchasing a 1951 de Kooning pastel.”
“Do I like the de Kooning?”
“You’re going to love it, once it resells to the Whitney next month at a ten percent gain.”
“Is that going to happen?”
Her eyes rolled almost imperceptibly. “Don’t start with me, Jack.”
As you can see, I have an ideal relationship with my gallery director. Like most people in her position, Laura Cunningham, her mind as sharp as her style, once dreamed of walking away with half my clients and opening a shop of her own. Instead, I bought her full loyalty by granting her an outrageous commission rate and letting her make key managerial decisions without running any of the high risks of ownership.
Fortunately, Laura is a natural. Her skill, backed by the intangible asset of beauty, relieves me of the daily headaches of administering the business. As sole proprietor, however, I retain the right to full write-offs for virtually everything I do—from dining with a museum director at Aquagrill to buying a distressed-silk jacket at Yoshi’s. Plus it’s remarkably easy to lose money through an art gallery. The income that underwrites a year of high living can be negated, on paper, by a fourth-quarter purchase of one blue-chip painting—a system that provides me both a sumptuous daily life and a healthy offset, at tax time, for the embarrassing profits from my real estate holdings.
Laura stood waiting.
“Something else?” I asked.
“How’s Angela Oliver?”
“Good, progressing quite nicely. She’s going to
“Quite a heart.”
Angela smiled faintly and shrugged. “With Philip, you learn to take what you can get.”
“Just make that clear to Hogan, if he comes around.”
“I don’t hide things in my life, Jack. It’s a big difference between you and me. One of the reasons we get on so well.”
Before I left, we stopped out by the barn so I could say goodbye to Melissa. Wearing jodhpurs and an English riding hat, she held the chestnut gelding in a disciplined trot. As she rose and dropped successively in the stirrups, the buds of her breasts pushed briefly against the white cotton of her shirt. She halted the big animal in front of us.
“Are you leaving already?” she asked.
“For now,” I said. “Be good. Have your mom bring you to town for a visit sometime.”
“I will, but I won’t be good. It’s too boring.”
I glanced at Angela. “Another artist in the family, I see.”
“Not if I can bloody well help it.”
Melissa adjusted the reins. “I like your car,” she said judiciously. “But it’s kind of old.”
I looked back at the silver Porsche 911, gleaming under the trees along the driveway.
“It’s vintage,” I said. “Like its owner.”
“There’s no room for kids.”
“No, that’s right.”
“Who do you play with then?”
“Oh, Uncle Jack plays lots of games,” Angela assured her daughter. “He plays the art game and the real estate game, and sometimes the girlfriend game.”
“Mostly I play with my pal Hogan.”
“What do you guys do?”
“We pretend to be grown up and solve mysteries. Hogan’s better at it than I am.”
“I’ll bet I can pretend better than either of you.”
“Maybe so, honey.” I kissed Angela’s cheek and lifted my good arm in farewell to the girl. “When you’re a little older, Missy, we’ll see.”
9
I arrived at the gallery in the early afternoon, nodding to two staff members as I passed through the outer office. In the private back room, my Diego Giacometti desk waited in monastic quietude. Laura, ever thoughtful, held off until I was at ease with my coffee before bringing in the first routine items.
“You look like crap,” she said. “Sign these checks.”
“Thanks for your concern. What am I buying?”
“Mostly you’re paying me and keeping the lights on. Then you’re giving Harold Baxter his stipend, settling with the printer for the Denton catalogue, and purchasing a 1951 de Kooning pastel.”
“Do I like the de Kooning?”
“You’re going to love it, once it resells to the Whitney next month at a ten percent gain.”
“Is that going to happen?”
Her eyes rolled almost imperceptibly. “Don’t start with me, Jack.”
As you can see, I have an ideal relationship with my gallery director. Like most people in her position, Laura Cunningham, her mind as sharp as her style, once dreamed of walking away with half my clients and opening a shop of her own. Instead, I bought her full loyalty by granting her an outrageous commission rate and letting her make key managerial decisions without running any of the high risks of ownership.
Fortunately, Laura is a natural. Her skill, backed by the intangible asset of beauty, relieves me of the daily headaches of administering the business. As sole proprietor, however, I retain the right to full write-offs for virtually everything I do—from dining with a museum director at Aquagrill to buying a distressed-silk jacket at Yoshi’s. Plus it’s remarkably easy to lose money through an art gallery. The income that underwrites a year of high living can be negated, on paper, by a fourth-quarter purchase of one blue-chip painting—a system that provides me both a sumptuous daily life and a healthy offset, at tax time, for the embarrassing profits from my real estate holdings.
Laura stood waiting.
“Something else?” I asked.
“How’s Angela Oliver?”
“Good, progressing quite nicely. She’s going to
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