“Bram, you’re a pain in the ass,” Gerry said.
“Arthur Stokes,” Brown said. “Pleased to meet you.”
“If we’re going to talk business...”
“We are not going to talk business,” Gerry interrupted.
“I suggest,” Kahn continued in his mild voice, “that we go into the office.” He paused, glanced at Gerry, looked back at Brown, and said, “Shall we?”
“Why not?” Brown said.
They walked to the rear of the gallery. The office was small and simply decorated — a Danish modern desk, a single naturalistic painting of a nude on the wall opposite the desk, a thick gray rug, white walls, a white Lucite hanging light globe, several leather-and-chrome easy chairs. Gerry Ferguson, pouting, sat nearest Kahn’s desk, folding her legs up under her and cupping her chin in her hand. Brown took the seat opposite Kahn, who sat behind the desk in an old-fashioned swivel chair that seemed distinctly out of place in such svelte surroundings.
“I’m Gerry’s partner,” Kahn explained.
“Only in the gallery,” Gerry snapped.
“I’m also her business adviser.”
“I’ve got some advice for you,” Gerry said heatedly. “Keep your nose...”
“Gerry has a temper,” Kahn said.
“Gerry has a jerk for a partner,” Gerry said.
“Oh, my,” Kahn said, and sighed.
Brown watched him, trying to determine whether he was a fag or not. His manner was effete, but not quite feminine; his voice was gently modulated, but there was no evidence in it of characteristic homosexual cadences; his gestures were small and fluid, but he neither dangled a limp wrist, nor used his hands and shoulders like a dancer’s. Brown couldn’t tell. The biggest queen he’d ever known had been built like a wrestler and moved with all the subtle grace of a longshoreman.
“What about the picture?” Brown asked.
“She has it,” Kahn said.
“I haven’t,” Gerry said.
“Maybe I ought to leave you two alone for a while,” Brown said.
“How much are you willing to pay for it, Mr. Stokes?” Kahn asked.
“That depends.”
“On what?”
Brown said nothing.
Kahn said, “On whether or not it’s a piece you already have, isn’t that the answer?”
Brown still said nothing.
“You do have a piece, don’t you? Or several pieces?”
“Is it for sale or not?” Brown asked.
“No,” Gerry said.
“Yes,” Kahn said. “But you still haven’t made an offer, Mr. Stokes.”
“Let me see it first,” Brown said.
“No,” Kahn said.
“No,” Gerry said, just a beat behind him.
“How many pieces do you have, Mr. Stokes?”
No answer.
“Is the other gentleman your partner? Do you have more than one piece?”
No answer.
“Do you know what the picture is supposed to reveal?”
“Let me ask a few,” Brown said.
“Please,” Kahn said, and offered him the floor with an openhanded, palm-up gesture.
“Miss Ferguson...”
“I thought it was Gerry.”
“Gerry... where did you get the piece you now have?”
“You’re both dreaming,” Gerry said. “I don’t know what either one of you is talking about.”
“My client...”
“Your client, my ass,” Gerry said. “You’re a cop. Who are you trying to kid, Arthur?”
“Are you a policeman, Mr. Stokes?”
“No.”
“The fuzz stench is overpowering,” Gerry said.
“How do you come to be so familiar with that stench?” Brown asked.
“May I answer that one?” Kahn asked.
“Keep your mouth shut, Bram,” Gerry warned.
“Mrs. Ferguson’s sister is a girl named Patty D’Amore,” Kahn said. “Does that mean anything to you?”
“Not a thing,” Brown said.
“Her husband was a cheap gangster named Louis D’Amore. He was killed some six years ago, following a bank holdup.”
“I don’t keep track of such things,” Brown said.
“No, I’ll just bet you don’t,” Gerry said. “He’s a cop, Bram. And you’re a fool.”
“Sicilian blood is much, much thicker than water,” Kahn said, and smiled. “I would imagine that in your childhood, there was plenty of talk concerning the ‘stench of fuzz’ while the lasagna was being served, eh, Geraldine?”
“How would you like to hear a choice Sicilian expression?” Gerry asked.
“I’d love to.”
“Va fon gool,” Gerry said.
“Even I know what that means,” Brown said.
“Sounds Chinese,” Kahn said.
“About the picture...”
“We have it, and we’ll sell it,” Kahn said. “That’s our business. Selling pictures.”
“Have you got any customers who’ll buy a picture sight unseen?” Brown asked.
“Have we got any customers who’ll buy a picture that doesn’t even exist?” Gerry asked.
“Well,” Brown said, “why don’t you give me a ring when you’ve settled this between you, huh?”
“Where can we reach you, Mr. Stokes?”
“I’m staying at the Selby Arms. It’s a fleabag on North Founders, just off Byram Lane.”
“Are you an out-of-towner, Mr. Stokes?”
“Room 502,” Brown said.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“You didn’t answer any of mine, either,” Brown said. He smiled, rose, turned to Gerry and said, “I hope you’ll reconsider, Miss Ferguson.”
This time, she didn’t ask him to call her Gerry.
On the street outside, Brown looked for a phone booth. The first phone he tried had the dial missing. The receiver on the next phone had been severed from its metal-covered cord, undoubtedly with a wire cutter. The third booth he found seemed okay. He put a dime into the phone and got nothing, no dial tone, no static, no nothing. He jiggled the hook. His dime did not come back. He hung up the receiver. His dime did not come back. He hit the phone with his fist. Nothing. He went out of the booth swearing, wondering when the city was going to crack down on the illegal gambling devices the telephone company had installed all over the city and labeled “Public Telephones.” He supposed a Gaylord Ravenal type would have enjoyed this kind of action — you put your money in the slot and either lost it, or else hit the jackpot and a shower of coins came out of the return chute — but Brown merely wanted to make a telephone call, and the Las Vegas aspects of such an endeavor left him absolutely cold. He finally found a working telephone in a restaurant off Tyler. With a glance heavenward, he put his dime into the slot. He got a dial tone immediately.
The number he dialed was Albert Weinberg’s. Weinberg had given him his new address the night before, a rooming house on North Colman, close to Byram Lane, which was why Brown had checked into the Selby Arms, only three blocks away from Weinberg’s place. When Weinberg came onto the line, Brown related his encounter with the owners of the Ferguson Gallery and said he hoped to hear from them later in the day, was in fact heading back to the hotel right this minute.
“That’s the Selby Arms, right?” Weinberg said.
“Yeah, on North Founders. How’d you make out?”
“I’ve been doing a little asking around,” Weinberg said, “and the way I understand it, whenever some guy’s been knocked off, the cops take his clothes and his belongings downtown to what they call the Property Clerk’s Office. The stuff can be claimed by a relative after the medics, and the lab, and the bulls on the case are finished with it. You think I could pass for Ehrbach’s brother?”