“Sorry for being so rude,” she said.
“Its okay.”
“You must understand, I was quite terrified by your being here. No one told me a thing about it.”
“Me neither,” I replied and took a seat. I folded my right knee over my left and bent my head up slightly. I wasn’t sure how long I could maintain this position. “No one explained to me that someone else was living here.”
“Well I had been living here, mainly as a favor to Ternevsky. I guess he now sees fit to replace me,” she said.
“I could never replace you,” I complimented with a smile. “Sergei told me that he just wanted me to watch over things because of the burglaries. He was probably worried about you being alone here.”
“Knowing Sergei, he was probably worried that I was stealing his stuff.”
“That’s absurd,” I laughed with a flair.
With no prompting at all she divulged her entire Sergei file: They first met at an uptown gallery opening. He announced up front that she had sexually stimulated him and would very much like to besmirch her. In gratitude for this, he added—she imitated his accent a bit—“Janus dear, I must confess, I have little time for commitment, but I could compensate for this by granting you full use of my place and within reason I might be able to assist you by extending some of my connections in the trade.” She was a hopeful artist.
“We don’t have sex that much, he’s a rotten lover.” I commented on the straps at the four corners of the circular bed. She claimed they were just for show.
She went on to say that at times she felt ashamed. “It’s the closest I’ve ever come to prostitution.”
“If you feel that way, why did you do it?”
“He had me at a disadvantage.” She then started to elaborate. She had arrived in New York after graduating from an all-girl’s school. It was a small college town where the bulk of her colleagues were farmer’s daughters. Her actual education began in New York and after studying the present state of art she put down the brush, folded up the easel, sent the model home, and adopted the conceptual philosophy. But a female artist from out of town trying to break into the SoHo art scene was farcical. It seemed only those who were artists could be artists, no new ones were permitted. Until she met Sergei.
“What did he do for you?”
“He got one of my works accepted to a group exhibit.”
“Oh really, is it here?” I asked surveying all the expensive junk in the large room.
“No,” she laughed, “the curator threw it out.”
“Threw it out! It must have crushed you.”
“No, thank God he did; it was a disposable installation.”
“What?”
“It was a rotting mess.” She then went on to describe the piece: a human torso made from the organs and muscles of dead animals that had been sewn together.
“My God! Where did you get dead animals, what were they?”
“Oh, the kind of stuff you’d find in any old meat department; pork, beef, chicken, fish, all the cheapest cuts.”
“Cooked?”
“No raw, but cooking it could be a future reinterprelation.” She rambled on further about her life, expectations, and personal affairs.
“Tell me about you, now,” she said upon conclusion.
After touching on the sketchy details that I had fabricated for Ternevsky, I mimicked the master trying to suggest a talent and modesty that I completely lacked. I told her, among other things, that I had dropped out of medical school after three years to write poetry.
“Oh really.” She bit the bait. “Have you ever published?”
“As a matter of fact, I just got something accepted in the upcoming issue of the Harrington.” If she had any doubts as to my vast sea of lies, she could refer to this one drop of truth.
“Really. I get a subscription to the Harrington, I mean Sergei does.”
“Good, then we’ll read it together when it arrives.”
“Oh,” she said, suddenly looking at her watch. “My Swatch says five. Gotta run.” She explained while grabbing her coat that she had a class at Parsons. I too had to run; work was waiting. Putting on the rest of my suit, I locked the locks and left. The sun was setting early as I walked through the rush of homebound people. As I walked, I realized that today was the first time that I had a stable address in a while. I also realized that today was the first day that Helmsley would be facing an infinity of decay. Glenn was probably home alone now, perhaps wishing I was more accessible. Angela, who by now had probably lost more money than she had started out with at the OTB, was probably semi-drunk at that American Legion Post bar, looking for a new victim.
These were the songs playing on the Sony Walkman of my mind, tunes suddenly halted when I stepped into the lobby. Miguel was standing there awaiting me, dragging indifferently on an herbal cigarette and looking at me expressionlessly as I entered.
“How’s tricks?” I asked casually.
Pointing expressionlessly toward the office, he wanted to talk in seclusion. Could I have shut off a wrong circuit? Did I accidentally permit school children entry? Perhaps the cantankerous projectionist had complained.
When we finally sat together in that cramped office with the door closed, he began, “Do you feel it?”
“Do I feel what?”
“It’s lying between us like an age-old sequoia, look at it! Can’t you see it?” He pointed to the empty safe. He had discovered that I had participated in a crime that he had exclusive rights to.
“You mean the fact that we’re both stealing money,” I replied.
He snubbed his cigarette and sat so silently that all I could hear was the buzz of the fluorescent lighting overhead.
“Look, I don’t find it shameful. You shouldn’t either,” I said offering him a way out. He sighed and smiled and laughed.
“All right.” He looked up at me and included, “Honor between thieves. You’re not pissed are you?”
“Why should I be pissed?”
“Because I would’ve been pissed if you confronted me with it. I mean, I didn’t know that you knew about me. I was about to fire you, but now I feel like a regular Judas.”
“Well, I’ll always be straight with you,” I said, not intending any puns on my sexual preference. “If you ever find it otherwise, just prove it to me and hey, I’ll quit.”
“Thank you,” he said almost spiritually. Leaning over in his chair, he gave me a gripping handshake. Then, leaning back, he looked unblinkingly at me. I sensed he was struggling to bring all this to a graceful conclusion, so I decided to give him a hand.
“By the amount Ox pays us, all he buys is my presence. Loyalty costs a lot more.”
A smile broke on his face. “I felt bad before, ’cause I was going to fire you just to preserve my own facade of honesty. But now I even feel like more of a hypocrite. See I never have been entirely honest with you, but maybe I can make it up.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Well, let me first ask you, how did you figure that I was stealing?”
“By comparing the amount the theater made on the days you did work with the days you didn’t.”
“I figured that would be the only way that I could be discovered, and I couldn’t do anything about it. Because the old manager who I used to work with was such an asshole. But now you’re here, and I need a partner,” he said.
“What are you proposing?”
“Let me present a speculative prospectus.” The hippie had collapsed away to the businessman. I leaned back and listened. He talked about raising capital. Then he talked about leverage, interest rates, credit rating and finally investments; the future. I had no idea what he was getting at. He sounded like one of those sleazy guys who buys time on syndicated TV to hype something. Finally, though, he started talking about specifics.