“Must be a magic ring,” Regan said.
“Johnny, please!”
“The satyr and the bird,” she whispered.
“Jesus.”
“Are you my satyr, Andrew?”
“Jesus, you’re...”
“Am I your bird, Andrew? No no no, not yet, baby. Not till I want you to. Not till I say you can. Just keep looking at the ring. Just keep watching that black ring, Andrew. My hand tight on your cock and the ring moving...”
“Good enough,” Regan said, and turned off the equipment.
3: March 9–May 9
Mr. Handelmann’s eyes narrowed the moment she showed him the ring. She hadn’t gone to a neighborhood shop because she didn’t want anyone who knew Michael to mention that his wife had come in asking questions about a ring. She’d settled on the Handelmann Brothers’ shop on Sixty-Third and Madison, close to the school, because she’d bought several pieces of jewelry from them in the past; most recently a pair of earrings for Heather’s Christmas present. Andrew had told her the ring was Roman, but she wanted to know more about it. Where in the Roman Empire? When? She felt she had to know all this, just in case Michael stumbled across it and asked about it. She didn’t think this could possibly happen. She’d buried it at the back of her lingerie drawer, under a pile of panties she never wore anymore. But in the event, she would tell him exactly what she’d just told Handelmann. She had bought the ring in an antiques shop in the Village and had paid seven hundred dollars for it. And then fill him in on the details she hoped to get today.
“Seven hundred, really?” Handelmann said, and reached into his sweater-vest pocket for a loupe. He was a man in his seventies, Sarah supposed, one of two brothers who’d been hurriedly shipped by their parents to London immediately after Kristalnacht, when any Jew in his right mind recognized what was about to happen in Austria and Germany. They had spent their adolescent years in a hostel on Willesden Lane and had come to America at the end of the war, after they learned that both their parents had perished at Auschwitz. Of the two brothers, Sarah preferred dealing with Max, but he was on vacation today, and she was stuck with Avrum.
Loupe to his eye, he repeated, “Seven hundred, really?” and then fell silent as he turned the black ring this way and that, studying the band and the signet, and finally looking up at her and saying, “Mrs. Welles, you got quite a bargain.”
“I did?” she said.
She’d been hoping he would tell her she’d paid too much. Seven hundred dollars was much more than she would ordinarily have spent on herself.
“Quite a bargain,” he repeated, looking at the ring through the loupe again.
“How much do you think it’s worth?” she asked.
“A Greek ring of this quality,” he said, “at least...”
“I understood it to be Roman.”
“No, it’s Greek, at least second century B.C. And in mint condition. I’d say it’s worth five to six thousand dollars.”
Sarah was too startled to speak.
“But, Mrs. Welles, I have to tell you something,” Handelmann said, and again the eyes narrowed. “I think this is a stolen ring.”
“What?” she said.
“Stolen,” he repeated, and handed the ring back to her as if it had suddenly turned molten in his hand. “I’m sure it’s listed on the IFAR list I got just before...”
“The what?”
“IFAR,” he repeated.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“The International Foundation for Art Registry. They circulate a list of stolen art...”
“Art? It’s just a...”
“Well, admittedly it’s a minor piece. But some very important items were stolen as well.”
“Stolen... where?” she said.
“From the Boston Museum of Fine Arts, just before Christmas,” Handelmann said.
“Well, I’m sure this isn’t the... the same ring. There must be hundreds of... of similar, rings. I bought it from a very reputable...”
“Oh, yes, there are, many similar rings,” Handelmann said. “But not all of them show up on an IFAR list.”
“What I’m saying...”
“Yes, it could have been another ring,” Handelmann agreed. “Certainly.”
“Because, you see, the shop I bought it from...”
“But these things often slip by,” he said. “Stolen goods. They will sometimes work their way into otherwise reputable shops.”
“Well... wouldn’t they have the... the same list you have?”
“Not necessarily. We trade in antiquities. Which is why we subscribe to IFAR.”
“I see.”
“Yes,” he said. “Would you like my advice, Mrs. Welles?”
“Well... yes. Please.”
“You’ve already purchased what I believe to be a ring stolen from the Boston Museum of Fine Arts, which has reported the theft to IFAR and undoubtedly to the Boston police, with the result that the piece now appears on a list that goes out to subscribers all over the United States. You have several choices, as I see it,” he said. “You can take it back to the shop where you bought it...”
“That’s exactly what I’ll do,” she said.
“... tell them you believe the ring to be stolen...”
“Yes.”
“... and ask them for your money back.”
“Yes.”
“Which they may or may not return. Especially once you inform them that the ring is a stolen one.”
“I see.”
“Yes. Or you can go to the police and tell them you believe you purchased a stolen ring, and turn the ring over to them. The police here in New York. Not the Boston police, of course.”
“That might be a good idea, too,” she said, and sighed heavily.
“They’ll give you a receipt for it, and they’ll undoubtedly contact the Boston Museum, and that’s the last you’ll hear of it. Forget the seven hundred dollars you paid for it, that’s gone the minute you turn the ring in. The police don’t want to know from seven hundred dollars you paid for stolen goods. You’ll be lucky they won’t charge you with receiving.”
Sarah sighed again.
“Or what else you can do,” Handelmann said, and his eyes narrowed again, and she knew intuitively — even before his voice lowered — that he was about to suggest something at best immoral and at worst criminal. “What else you can do is keep the ring, forget I told you it was stolen — which, by the way, I may be wrong, you yourself pointed out there are many similar rings. Keep the ring, no one will ever know it appeared on some cockamamie list. You paid seven hundred dollars for it, did you know it was stolen?”
“Well, no, of course...”
“So forget about it,” he said. “You never came in here, I never saw the ring, wear it in good health.”
“Thank you,” she said, and opened her bag and slipped the ring into her change purse. “Thank you,” she said again, and went to the door and opened it. Outside, she blinked her eyes against a fierce wind that nearly swept her off her feet.
“Last time I was in this airport,” Rudy said, “it was this shitty little thing with maybe two, three airlines coming in, you walked over to this little cinder-block baggage claim area. Now it’s like any other airport in the world, look at the fuckin’ thing.”
The Continental flight from Newark had landed in Sarasota at 1:45 p.m. Andrew and his uncle were carrying only the small bags they’d brought onto the plane with them, and were walking now through a glittery esplanade lined with shops. They had booked a pair of connecting rooms at the Hyatt; they planned to be here only overnight. As they’d been advised in New York, their driver was waiting for them just outside the baggage claim area, carrying a small sign that read FARRELL. He took the bags from them and carried them out to a white Cadillac sitting at the curb.