F. Paul Wilson - By the Sword

Gia fixed him with her clear blue eyes. Her smile was dazzling. "Knowing how you love the Chrysler building, I figured this should be added to your must-see list."

Jack walked around its pedestal, leaning over the velvet ropes that kept him from getting too close. Someone—Sylvia?—had hand-painted it, mimicking its natural colors. The leaves and moss were green, the tray and clasped stone different shades of gray, the trunk left the natural shade of the original oak.

Jack stepped back. "From a distance it looks alive."

"Isn't it just fabulous?" said a soft male voice behind him.

Jack turned and saw a slim, middle-aged guy wearing a sailor shirt and white duck pants. His little name tag said GARY and his black hair was perfect.

"Fleet Week's not quite here yet," Jack said.

Gary grinned. "I know. I can't wait. But as I said"—he gestured to the tree—"isn't it fabulous?"

"Yeah. Fabulous." A word misused and overused, but here it fit.

"And it doesn't just look alive, it's so very much alive in the way all true art lives. And best of all, it requires no pruning, no wiring, no watering, and yet it remains perfect. Forever."

"I like the low-maintenance idea. Always wanted a bonsai, but I have a brown thumb."

"Maintenance is not an issue. This is a work of art, and so much more than a bonsai. This is a subtle melding of the man-made and the natural, a brilliant use of the latest in modern technology to preserve an ancient art form."

Seemed like Gary had memorized the brochure.

"How much do you want for it?"

"It's not a matter of how much I want," he said, reaching into a pocket. "If I had my way it would stay on display here forever." He pulled out a card and pen and scribbled. "But alas, that won't pay the rent."

Alas?

He handed Jack the card. He'd written a number on it.

Jack couldn't help laughing. "Twenty thousand dollars?"

Gary cooled. "Each of Sylvia's trees are fashioned in strictly limited editions of one hundred, signed and numbered by the artist herself."

"And people actually pay twenty K apiece?"

"Each edition sells out almost immediately. Our gallery was consigned only one. We put it out this morning. It will be sold by closing."

What a crazy world.

Just then a jewel-dripping thirty-something blonde strolled up, clutching the arm of her Armani'd, sixty-something sugar daddy.

"Oh, look, honey. Isn't that a Sylvia? Alana has a Sylvia and I want one too. Can we get it?"

The words leaped from Jack's mouth before he could stop them.

"I'll take it."

"Jack!" Gia said, giving him a wide-eyed stare.

"It's only money."

"Are you serious?"

He shrugged. "I've got all this moolah socked away—you know that. For what? You won't let me spend it on you and Vicky." Spend it? He'd tried to give it all to her back in December when he thought he'd be leaving on a forever trip. "So I might as well blow it on something like this."

"I can assure you it will only appreciate in value," Gary said. "Some of Sylvia's early trees are selling for triple what you're paying."

"See?" he said to Gia. "It's an investment." He turned to Gary. "You accept gold?"

"The AmEx Gold Card? Of course."

That wasn't what Jack had meant, but…

"Okay. Wrap her up to travel."

"I suggest you let us deliver it. It's very valuable and you don't want to risk someone stealing it."

Jack smiled, aware of the weight of the Glock 19 nestled in the small of his back. But it was Gia who spoke through a wry smile.

"Oh, I don't think we'll have to worry about that."

"Nobody likes to hear of an artist hitting a big payday more than I," Gia said. "But—"

"Speaking of art, what about yours?"

They were walking up Greene Street toward Houston, passing the grave of the Soho Kitchen & Bar. Whenever Jack had been in the neighborhood, he'd made a point of stopping in for a draft pint of Pilsner Urqell. Another goddamn boutique occupied the space now.

"I'm back to work—three dust jacket assignments and some paperbacks on the way."

"Yeah, but that's work done to order. That's not you. What about the stuff you're doing for yourself?"

She shook her head. "Told you: not happy with it."

"Still?"

"Still."

"When are you going to let me see it?"

A shrug. "Maybe never. I may just take them somewhere and burn them."

Jack stopped and gripped her arm. "Don't even joke about that. Anything by you is valuable to me."

"Not these. Trust me, not these."

"They can't be that bad."

"Oh, yes, they can. I don't like them and I don't want to show work I don't like."

"Even to me?"

"Especially to you." She tapped the box under his arm. "Frugalman Jack, spending twenty thousand on a sculpted tree… I don't know what to say."

Obviously she wanted a change of topic, so he let it go. For now.

"I've been frugal because I've always wanted to be able to retire early." He could have added, while I'm still alive , but didn't.

"Granted, it's a stunning piece of work, but twenty thousand?"

"Better than letting some bimbo blonde—"

"Ahem."

"What?"

She pointed to her hair. "What color is this?"

Oh, hell.

"But you're not a bimbo. And yours doesn't come from a bottle."

"It gets help from a bottle."

"You know what I mean. Anyway, I didn't want that… person to get her grubby mitts on it."

Gia stopped and laughed. "You've got to be kidding! You spent twenty thousand just for spite?"

"Not spite. I may not be an artist"—he placed a hand over his heart—"but I have the soul of one." He tapped the box under his arm. "And this—what's the art-speak phrase?—this speaks to me."

Gia demonstrated the unofficial ASL sign for Gag me with a spoon .

He put on his best offended expression. "Well, it does."

Truth was, it had spoken to him by appealing to something deep within. He'd wanted it from the first instant he'd set eyes on it. He'd bought it not so much to save it from the bimbo as to possess it—to put it someplace where he'd see it every day.

"Really? And just what does it say?"

They'd reached Houston, the wide, bustling thoroughfare that linked the East and West Sides down here, the street responsible for SoHo's name—south of Houston. Jack raised his free arm to flag a cab.

"As you can see, it's all wrapped up at the moment, so I can't hear it. But back in the gallery it said, 'Please don't let me go home with that bling-bedizened beotch.' It really did."

Gia laughed and leaned against him. "I love you."

"I love you too."

"And I'd like to make love to you again sometime before I die."

Uh-oh.

A cab lurched to a halt before them.

"You and me both."

"Then why—?"

He handed her the box with the tree. "Take this back for me, will you?"

Concern tightened her features. "You're not coming?"

"Got some bidness down here."

She eased herself into the backseat of the cab and looked up at him.

"Is something wrong?"

"No… it's just that I've become involved in a situation that could be dangerous to you."

"Like what?"

"It's too complicated to get into here and now."

The cabby looked like a Hotel Rwanda bellhop. Jack handed him a twenty and said, "Sutton Square."

The guy nodded. Did that mean he knew where it was? Too many cabbies didn't know zilch about the city anymore. At least he had a GPS.

Gia was still looking up at him. "When, then?"

"When what?"

"When can we get into it?"

He leaned in and kissed her on the lips.

"Soon, Gia. Soon. I promise."

"I'm back on the pill, if that's what you're worried about, and I'm never going off it again."