“A loan,” Jack said, but he knew he was losing.
“—which enabled you to produce the current spring issue.” Larry Muso tilted his head in the direction of the cartons by the wall. “Now you are unable to afford the cost of shipping those to your few remaining subscribers. If—”
“Did Leonard put you up to this?” Jack broke in angrily. “Because—”
“If you would let me finish, Mr. Finnegan,” Larry Muso went on, “I would be able to tell you that yes, Mr. Thrope has been in touch with us. We have mutual—friends.”
In another oddly poised gesture he opened his hand “Friend,” he corrected himself. His soft black eyes gazed searchingly into Jack’s. “Another collector.”
Jack made a grim little face. “I see.”
“I hope you do. You must understand, Mr. Tatsumi is not just a collector. He is a collector of Americana. But very eclectic. Mr. Thrope has helped him with many items. An Edward Hopper, some Winslow Homer. Notebooks of Sylvia Plath and Ariza Davis. A drawing by Jeffrey Dahmer. He owns Judy Garland’s dress from The Wizard of Oz. Many letters of Thomas Jefferson—Mr. Tatsumi is very fond of Thomas Jefferson.”
“As was Mr. Dahmer,” said Jack.
Larry Muso did not hear him. “As I mentioned, Mr. Tatsumi enjoys reading The Gaudy Book. And he is not insensitive to your plight—”
“Which he heard about from Leonard.”
“Which he heard about from Leonard. And so, I am here to deliver a proposal to you—”
The glossy black palmtop disappeared back into his voluminous jacket, and Larry Muso slid a folder onto the table.
In the center of the portfolio, the silvery holographic image of a skeletal gryphon reared and grasped within its claws a spinning orb.
“I see.” Jack stared at the portfolio, then picked it up. When he opened it, faint bells chimed, and a breathy female voice whispered The Golden Family Welcomes You. He flipped through the pages, incomprehensible sets of numbers, with here and there the small square IT image of an athletic-looking blond man in a conservative dark suit, poised to deliver instructive commentary to arbitrage-impaired readers.
Like me, thought Jack. He cleared his throat again, tapping the prospectus against his hand. “Well, okay. I’ll have our attorneys take a look at it.”
“Mr. Thrope suggested that perhaps you use his attorney, rather than Mr. Gardino.”
“Tell Mr. Thrope I’ll keep my own goddamn counsel.” To Jack’s horror he felt tears pricking at his eyes. He tossed the prospectus onto the table and stood. “Thank you, Mr. Muso—I have some things to do now—”
Larry Muso jumped to his feet. His knees knocked against the table, sending the prospectus sliding onto the floor. At once he stooped to retrieve it; Jack did the same. The two of them nearly collided, Larry straightening with the portfolio in his hand, his pompadour grazing Jack’s cheek as he stepped backward. At the touch of his hair Jack shivered, felt an involuntary frisson at how soft it was. Not hard and lacquered at all, but silky and fragrant with that expensive perfume. For an instant he imagined them somewhere else; not in bed but sitting side by side in some forever lost and ordinary place, a bookstore perhaps, an espresso bar, knees touching as they turned the pages of a magazine. The Gaudy Book, of course: the special anniversary double issue. He could smell new glossy paper and scalded milk and feel a hand resting upon his…
Then the vision was gone. He blinked, seeing again those odd whorls of light at the corners of his eyes, and drew back, trying to cover his confusion. When he looked up he saw Larry Muso staring at him: his cheeks were spotted each with a single bright red dot.
“Excuse me,” Larry Muso said in a low voice. He dropped the portfolio onto the table, where it clattered and whispered to itself.
“I’m sorry.” Jack shook his head. “I didn’t mean to be rude—”
“No, no—” Larry smiled, a false bright flash. “It is your decision, of course. Only we were under the impression that the magazine’s demise was—imminent. Perhaps we misunderstood… ?”
“No, you understood perfectly. God forbid Leonard should ever miss a deathwatch.” Larry stared at him, his expression still frozen in that mask of benign agreement, but his dark eyes held a flicker of unease. “I just—well, even if I did want to sell the magazine, there’s the matter of choosing a successor—another editor.”
The unease melted into another conciliatory smile. “Mr. Tatsumi would like you to continue as editor.”
“But I don’t want to be editor anymore. I’m sick,” Jack said, and no longer cared if bitterness leached into his voice. “I’ve spent my whole fucking life on this magazine. I’m ready to give it up. Can you give that message to Mr. Tatsumi?”
He had thought it might be gratifying to insult his visitor. Instead, Jack immediately felt awful. Larry Muso stared at him with such pity and embarrassment that Jack found himself reassuring him.
“Look, Mr. Muso, maybe I could help you find someone to replace me, someone who—”
“But your family—the magazine has been in your family—”
“Well, yes, but it was always just a sideline to the department stores. And it’s been a hundred years. I mean, we’ve had a good long run—”
“I am certain that Mr. Tatsumi wants the magazine intact.” Larry Muso shook his head; his pompadour waggled furiously. “It is part of the entire aesthetic of the purchase. We will have to discuss this, I think.”
Jack cast a quick look at the prospectus on the table. “Maybe,” he said, trying to imbue the word with menace. “But right now I really have to get back to work. So—”
He beckoned at the door. Instead Larry Muso stared at him with an oddly frank sort of interest, neither sexual nor businesslike; as though Jack were wearing some highly unusual item of clothing. After a moment he said, “What are you doing for it?”
Jack frowned. “Some phone calls—I have a few—”
“No, no—for your disease. What treatment are you undergoing?”
“That’s none of your fucking business.” Jack’s face tightened with anger, “I said—”
“Because you are looking very well.” Larry Muso stepped around Jack, still giving him that appraising stare. “There are some unusual drugs, we have several major pharmaceutical holdings, and I was just—”
“OUT! ”
Jack stormed after him, but at the door Muso stopped and made a mocking half bow.
“That was inexcusably rude. Please forgive me.” For a moment Jack thought Muso was going to burst out laughing. “But I should warn you, Mr. Finnegan—The Golden Family is quite serious about acquiring your magazine. I volunteered to make this inquiry, out of respect for what Leonard Thrope told me of your work, and because I thought it would be more—palatable—than introducing you to our attorneys so early in the negotiation process. But the attorneys will come…”