have a show in the fall.”
“A show, Jack?”
Rigid, with one hand on her hip, Laura looked like the world’s most exacting schoolmarm—dressed out of the best SoHo boutiques.
“With Michael Loomis in Chelsea.”
“Thank God,” she said. “That seems about right.”
When I turned to my private messages, I found a dozen voicemails, sixty-three e-mails, and a six-inch stack of paper invitations and charity appeals. Using my left arm as a paperweight and working with my one good hand, I spent an hour or more sorting through artist pitches and curator queries before I got around to scanning my e-mails.
Suddenly I was stopped by an unopened entry from “[email protected].” Amanda Oliver—ever wry, even in death. I checked the “sent” date carefully, then clicked the message with a faint dread, half expecting some grim record of foreboding or terror—only to encounter Mandy’s bright, insouciant voice one last time:
Jack Dearest
,
Erich Tennenbaum just called to offer me $7.5 million for my ’63 Rauschenberg. What do you think? I’m tired of the thing and it clashes with the Miró, so I wouldn’t mind selling, but the price seems awfully low, don’t you think? These dealers are all such snakes. Except you, of course, darling. Do you suppose I could do better at Christie’s? Oh probably, but that’s so public and dirty. People writing in newspapers about how much you get and whether it’s higher than estimated or sets some new auction record. As if that were anyone’s business. Isn’t it enough that I give a few pieces away to museums each year? Now I have Philip’s lawyers to contend with. And the house in St. Bart’s needs to be completely reshingled, whatever that means. It’s terribly costly, I hear. Life is just one trial after another, isn’t it? Do tell me what you advise. I suppose I should hold out for $8 million even.
Many kisses,
A
After a few minutes, I called Hogan’s home number in Bayside, hoping to catch him before he started the long commute into Manhattan. My friend does most of his legwork in the late afternoons and evenings, when the criminal element tends to emerge. His wife picked up the phone.
“Hello, Dorothy. Ready to run away with me yet?”
“Nearly, Jack dear. Are you eating enough?”
“I’m OK.”
“You looked so thin the last time I saw you.”
“Hogan worries, too. About other aspects of my well-being.”
“Three years is a long time.”
“It certainly is. I’ll get over it.”
“You must. You really must.”
“I promise. Just for you.”
“You should come visit sometime. I’ll make pierogi.”
“You seductress, you.”
It was an old joke—until you went back too far, to the time when no one laughed.
“Nathalie was a lovely, lovely girl, Jack. But you’ve got to take hold. Life is for the living.”
“So they say, Dot. It’s strange. Everyone tells me life must go on. Nobody tells me why.”
After a moment, Dorothy said quietly, “Please, just don’t dwell. I miss the old devilish Jack, you know. We both do.”
“I’m better than I was.”
“Really? I’m glad. But don’t get too, too good, dear. It doesn’t suit you. Would you like to speak to Ed?”
“He’s not as sexy as you, but he’ll do.”
“That’s much better now. You see what I mean? Hold on.”
The phone gave a dull hiss for a few seconds, and then Hogan came on the line. “What’s up, Flash?”
Same old Hogan. Whenever he wants to prod me a little, he uses that nickname from younger, faster days, when we were both more interested in stroked-and-bored ’57 Chevys than in spousal homicides or secondary-market prices for Henry Moore bronzes.
“I just got a message from Amanda Oliver.”
“Don’t tell me you’re going mystical on us. What did that woman do to men’s heads?”
“It wasn’t just her personality, it was her bank accounts.”
“Since when can you tell them apart?”
“I’m learning. Mandy’s e-mail helps. She sent it on the
“A show, Jack?”
Rigid, with one hand on her hip, Laura looked like the world’s most exacting schoolmarm—dressed out of the best SoHo boutiques.
“With Michael Loomis in Chelsea.”
“Thank God,” she said. “That seems about right.”
When I turned to my private messages, I found a dozen voicemails, sixty-three e-mails, and a six-inch stack of paper invitations and charity appeals. Using my left arm as a paperweight and working with my one good hand, I spent an hour or more sorting through artist pitches and curator queries before I got around to scanning my e-mails.
Suddenly I was stopped by an unopened entry from “[email protected].” Amanda Oliver—ever wry, even in death. I checked the “sent” date carefully, then clicked the message with a faint dread, half expecting some grim record of foreboding or terror—only to encounter Mandy’s bright, insouciant voice one last time:
Jack Dearest
,
Erich Tennenbaum just called to offer me $7.5 million for my ’63 Rauschenberg. What do you think? I’m tired of the thing and it clashes with the Miró, so I wouldn’t mind selling, but the price seems awfully low, don’t you think? These dealers are all such snakes. Except you, of course, darling. Do you suppose I could do better at Christie’s? Oh probably, but that’s so public and dirty. People writing in newspapers about how much you get and whether it’s higher than estimated or sets some new auction record. As if that were anyone’s business. Isn’t it enough that I give a few pieces away to museums each year? Now I have Philip’s lawyers to contend with. And the house in St. Bart’s needs to be completely reshingled, whatever that means. It’s terribly costly, I hear. Life is just one trial after another, isn’t it? Do tell me what you advise. I suppose I should hold out for $8 million even.
Many kisses,
A
After a few minutes, I called Hogan’s home number in Bayside, hoping to catch him before he started the long commute into Manhattan. My friend does most of his legwork in the late afternoons and evenings, when the criminal element tends to emerge. His wife picked up the phone.
“Hello, Dorothy. Ready to run away with me yet?”
“Nearly, Jack dear. Are you eating enough?”
“I’m OK.”
“You looked so thin the last time I saw you.”
“Hogan worries, too. About other aspects of my well-being.”
“Three years is a long time.”
“It certainly is. I’ll get over it.”
“You must. You really must.”
“I promise. Just for you.”
“You should come visit sometime. I’ll make pierogi.”
“You seductress, you.”
It was an old joke—until you went back too far, to the time when no one laughed.
“Nathalie was a lovely, lovely girl, Jack. But you’ve got to take hold. Life is for the living.”
“So they say, Dot. It’s strange. Everyone tells me life must go on. Nobody tells me why.”
After a moment, Dorothy said quietly, “Please, just don’t dwell. I miss the old devilish Jack, you know. We both do.”
“I’m better than I was.”
“Really? I’m glad. But don’t get too, too good, dear. It doesn’t suit you. Would you like to speak to Ed?”
“He’s not as sexy as you, but he’ll do.”
“That’s much better now. You see what I mean? Hold on.”
The phone gave a dull hiss for a few seconds, and then Hogan came on the line. “What’s up, Flash?”
Same old Hogan. Whenever he wants to prod me a little, he uses that nickname from younger, faster days, when we were both more interested in stroked-and-bored ’57 Chevys than in spousal homicides or secondary-market prices for Henry Moore bronzes.
“I just got a message from Amanda Oliver.”
“Don’t tell me you’re going mystical on us. What did that woman do to men’s heads?”
“It wasn’t just her personality, it was her bank accounts.”
“Since when can you tell them apart?”
“I’m learning. Mandy’s e-mail helps. She sent it on the
Similar Books
