answer, given the hush you feel surrounding you.
That’s fine, Henry, Mr. Kindt says, and returns to his seat.
Not at all, you say again.
Then the first murderer begins talking about the close connection between the sugar industry and the art world in Europe, and Mr. Kindt is all ears.
The connection is very clear, says the murderer.
I’m sure it is, says Mr. Kindt.
The knockout is talking again too—she has started up a conversation with Tulip and the two other friends. The two friends watch her very closely, their heads making small, quick gestures, and Tulip pours and sips brandy and you, although you are just slightly discomfited by the outcome of your offer to reciprocate Mr. Kindt’s kindness, eat your stew.
It is as if, the murderer says, all the great works were dipped in and coated with sugar …
And the knockout says, and that is how, after the second incident, I repaired my arm …
I have been tempted, at the Munch Museum for instance, though I did not in fact do it, to slip forward, tongue-first, and test the veracity of this proposition …
You can see, if you look closely, that it really was very badly damaged, and that my method was quite effective …
Of course I know I would be disappointed …
In the final analysis, there was no lasting harm …
I find Munch most fascinating, but not for
The Scream.
I admire
The Scream,
in fact once I owned a good print, but I have never found it fascinating …
Look, you can still see it …
Etc.
Later, after dinner, you have a chance to speak privately with the knockout.
Wanna come home with me, take a number, she says.
You withdraw.
Job, who goes by Anthony, a.k.a. the second murderer, whom you have not seen at the bar in quite some time, is standing near the window. Dark hair, long, taut muscles. Very handsome.
Hey, you say.
Evening, he says.
You ask him if he minds talking.
As long as it isn’t about my name or about my former place of employment or about anything personal, he says.
So how you got involved in this is out-of-bounds?
He thinks a minute. He shrugs. Tulip’s a friend, he says. She told me about the opening. She introduced me around. I’ve got debts.
And Tulip’s got a lot of friends, you say.
Anthony looks over at Tulip, who is bent over talking to the knockout. They are quite a pair. Your heart executes a perfect backflip and hits the water without a splash.
He turns back to me, one of his eyebrows raised. Next question, he says.
I’m not interviewing you.
You could have fooled the fuck out of me.
O.K., how did your first murder go?
You want me to talk about that?
Talk, I say.
He goes over to the table, takes a piece of stew-soaked bread off his plate, puts some cheese on it, and comes back.
It was fucked, he says, inserting the lion’s portion of the bread into his mouth, chewing then leaning in close. He smells like lemon balm and lavender. There are one or two beads of sweat on his muscular throat. Some skin connected to his jaw twitches like someone is sticking it with a miniature cattle prod. Past his right shoulder, through the window and the black netting, the lights of Tompkins Square bob and glitter. Fucked up. Bizarre. Unpleasant. Messy. Yuck. Pick a word. I didn’t like it at all. And I’ll tell you something else, it wasn’t even supposed to
be
a murder, it was just supposed to be a warning, a little friendly advice, cease and desist, pursue other avenues, get the fuck out of town. Just ask
them
.
“Them” is the two friends, two young women, fraternal twins, he notes, whose job, he says, during such jobs, is, when/if necessary, to hold people down. They both stand and step forward. The one with straight, shoulder-length jet-black hair grins and flexes her suddenly impressive arm muscles. The one with straight, shoulder-length pomegranate-colored hair grins, reaches back and snaps the loose material of her pants, and locks the suddenly impressive muscles in her thighs.
I’m not sure I
That’s fine, Henry, Mr. Kindt says, and returns to his seat.
Not at all, you say again.
Then the first murderer begins talking about the close connection between the sugar industry and the art world in Europe, and Mr. Kindt is all ears.
The connection is very clear, says the murderer.
I’m sure it is, says Mr. Kindt.
The knockout is talking again too—she has started up a conversation with Tulip and the two other friends. The two friends watch her very closely, their heads making small, quick gestures, and Tulip pours and sips brandy and you, although you are just slightly discomfited by the outcome of your offer to reciprocate Mr. Kindt’s kindness, eat your stew.
It is as if, the murderer says, all the great works were dipped in and coated with sugar …
And the knockout says, and that is how, after the second incident, I repaired my arm …
I have been tempted, at the Munch Museum for instance, though I did not in fact do it, to slip forward, tongue-first, and test the veracity of this proposition …
You can see, if you look closely, that it really was very badly damaged, and that my method was quite effective …
Of course I know I would be disappointed …
In the final analysis, there was no lasting harm …
I find Munch most fascinating, but not for
The Scream.
I admire
The Scream,
in fact once I owned a good print, but I have never found it fascinating …
Look, you can still see it …
Etc.
Later, after dinner, you have a chance to speak privately with the knockout.
Wanna come home with me, take a number, she says.
You withdraw.
Job, who goes by Anthony, a.k.a. the second murderer, whom you have not seen at the bar in quite some time, is standing near the window. Dark hair, long, taut muscles. Very handsome.
Hey, you say.
Evening, he says.
You ask him if he minds talking.
As long as it isn’t about my name or about my former place of employment or about anything personal, he says.
So how you got involved in this is out-of-bounds?
He thinks a minute. He shrugs. Tulip’s a friend, he says. She told me about the opening. She introduced me around. I’ve got debts.
And Tulip’s got a lot of friends, you say.
Anthony looks over at Tulip, who is bent over talking to the knockout. They are quite a pair. Your heart executes a perfect backflip and hits the water without a splash.
He turns back to me, one of his eyebrows raised. Next question, he says.
I’m not interviewing you.
You could have fooled the fuck out of me.
O.K., how did your first murder go?
You want me to talk about that?
Talk, I say.
He goes over to the table, takes a piece of stew-soaked bread off his plate, puts some cheese on it, and comes back.
It was fucked, he says, inserting the lion’s portion of the bread into his mouth, chewing then leaning in close. He smells like lemon balm and lavender. There are one or two beads of sweat on his muscular throat. Some skin connected to his jaw twitches like someone is sticking it with a miniature cattle prod. Past his right shoulder, through the window and the black netting, the lights of Tompkins Square bob and glitter. Fucked up. Bizarre. Unpleasant. Messy. Yuck. Pick a word. I didn’t like it at all. And I’ll tell you something else, it wasn’t even supposed to
be
a murder, it was just supposed to be a warning, a little friendly advice, cease and desist, pursue other avenues, get the fuck out of town. Just ask
them
.
“Them” is the two friends, two young women, fraternal twins, he notes, whose job, he says, during such jobs, is, when/if necessary, to hold people down. They both stand and step forward. The one with straight, shoulder-length jet-black hair grins and flexes her suddenly impressive arm muscles. The one with straight, shoulder-length pomegranate-colored hair grins, reaches back and snaps the loose material of her pants, and locks the suddenly impressive muscles in her thighs.
I’m not sure I
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