William Boyd - Stars and bars

There was, Henderson had to confess, a faint aftertaste now, the like of which he’d never previously encountered. A sort of renal gaminess, but somehow artificial tasting — as saccharin is to sugar — chemically engendered. He sent his tongue into the crevices and corners of his mouth. He pumped his saliva glands. He could not only taste it, it also filled his nasal passages, seeped along his sinus, like gas in a mineshaft.

“It’s not squirrel, really, is it?” he said, in the sort of weak voice that pleads to have confirmed that a leg is being pulled.

“Minkburgers,” Beckman grinned. “Weaselburgers.” He gave a hoot of laughter. “Stoatburgers.”

Henderson dropped his cooling rodentburger in a trash can and gulped down his Coke.

“Come and have a beer,” Beckman invited.

Henderson said he had to make a phone call first but would see him in the bar in a minute or two. Slowly he made his way towards the post office. He now felt distinctly queasy. What with the current marmoreal state of his bowels it would probably be with him for weeks.

He slumped into the phone booth, and requested information to provide him with the number of Mono-park 5000. Then he dialled the hotel. A series of cheerful girl-voices booked him a suite for the following night. Would he like a suite with a whirlpool bath? Why not. This brought to mind images of mixed bathing with Irene and he began to feel slightly better.

He gulped air. The prism wedged between spine and sternum had had its corners worn down like a pebble on a beach, and had shrunk to the size of a large cooking apple. He badly needed a drink to wash away, or at least mask, the taste of the burger which seemed, if anything, to be getting stronger. He headed for the bar.

There were about ten pickups and cars parked outside the bar. Inside there was a lot of raucous laughter of Cardew’s ‘heh-heh-heh’ variety and much upending of beer bottles. He saw Beckman at the skittle machine and nervously made his way through the denimmed throng muttering apologies and bestowing edgy smiles. The machine was simplicity itself. A wooden ball was rolled down a chute — the direction and gradient of which one could alter — in an attempt to knock down the skittles. Those bowled over were re-righted by means of string attached to their crowns. The only mechanical device in the game twitched this taut whenever a skittle was floored.

Beckman crouched intensely over the chute, emitting a holler of glee every time he knocked any skittles over. It seemed a strangely banal pastime for an elementary particle physicist, Henderson thought, but maybe this was simply his way of unwinding after a trying session with the quarks and neutrinos darting quantumly around his lab.

“Let me buy you a drink,” Beckman offered, after a few more games.

They approached the bar. Two beers were produced, plus a glass (unrequested) for Henderson, accompanied by a look of condescending pity from the etiolated bar-keep and curious glances from the relentlessly joshing good ole boys.

“Don’t worry about it,” Beckman said comfortingly. “They think all you English are fags anyway.” He pulled at his own bottle. “So, how’s it going anyway?”

“Just about finished,” Henderson said. “We’ll be off tomorrow.”

“Hell, I thought you were going to be here for weeks.”

Henderson explained in broad outline what his job entailed. He also mentioned his immobile car and Duane’s worthless promises. He wondered if there was anything Beckman could do to speed up Duane’s repair work.

“Look, no problem, I’ll drive you to Atlanta,” Beckman volunteered. Henderson told him of his business meeting at Monopark 5000 (greeted by a whistle of admiration from Beckman’s lips) and his wish to spend a few days touring the more scenic regions of the South.

“No sweat,” Beckman continued. “You take my pickup. Come Saturday, when Duane’s fixed your car I’ll drive it into Atlanta and we can trade. I’ll meet you Saturday, say, four, corner of Peachtree and Edgewood, same as before.”

“Great,” Henderson said. “Saturday at four, then. Turned out to be a lucky day after all. It started badly,” he explained.

“Hell, I knew it would be a good day for me. Been feelin’ good since this morning.”

“Oh, yes? Why’s that?”

“Simple. Had me a five turd crap before breakfast. Can’t beat it for settin’ you up.”

“Really?” He paused, there really was nothing one could say in response. He tried not to imagine this source of contentment. “I’m very grateful, Beckman. This meeting, it’s very important.”

“No problem. What are friends for?” His fluttering lids made the remark seem incongruously coy. Henderson felt another twinge of alarm at this announcement of his new status, but he decided not to challenge it. Instead he asked another question.

“Do you happen to know who those two men are who arrived today with Freeborn?”

“You mean Ben and Peter? Nice guys.”

“Who are they? If you don’t mind my asking.”

“They’re friends of Freeborn. Some kind of business partners? They had a big deal going or something. They were down here about a year ago. They’re the guys he sold the paintings to.”

Henderson screwed up his face. “Are you sure?”

“Well, something like that.” He looked at his watch. “Shit. I gotta get back.”

Henderson sat silently on the drive back to the house pondering the news. What had Freeborn done? Sold the paintings — his legacy, no doubt — to finance some nefarious deal? Mortgaged them in some sort of way? Then his father goes and ruins everything by deciding to sell them himself. H. Dores, Esq. turns up, and sets off a panic. It certainly explained Freeborn’s hostility.

He was still pondering the ramifications of this plot when he stepped into the-hall. Gage, Freeborn and the two men were standing at the foot of the stairs chatting amicably.

“Henderson,” Gage called. “Come and meet our two friends.” Gage seemed almost unnaturally cheerful, Henderson thought. He was introduced to the two men; one, Benjamin Sereno; the other, Peter D. Gint. Sereno was small and dark. He had an enormous moustache that seemed constructed on a different scale from his body, but which, Henderson swiftly realized, was deliberately intended to obscure or draw attention from his lips. He had lips like Toulouse-Lautrec: thick, claret-coloured and wet. They made Henderson (still queasy from his rodentburger) even more nauseous: they reminded him of thin fillets of liver, or, due to the hirsute proximity of the moustache, a wound in the flank of an animal. He swallowed a mouthful of saliva. They shook hands. He noticed an ostentatious carbuncled ring set with a red stone. A lot of American males sported these, Henderson had observed, only Serene’s stone was held in an inch-high plinth and must have weighed a pound.

Gint was burly with receding blond hair. His short collar was prominently monogrammed P.D.G. At some point in his youth his entire face had been ravaged with acne, leaving him with skin pitted like a peach stone. The scourge was still not past: an angry wen pushed his collar askew, a mini-Krakatoa about to blow. Whatever they looked like, Henderson thought with mingled worry and relief, it certainly wasn’t New York gallery owners.

“You’re with Mulholland, Melhuish, right?” Sereno said amicably.

“Yes. Yes I am.”

“Fine firm.” He nodded. “Congratulations.”

“Good firm,” Gint agreed. He had a soft voice that didn’t match his face.

“What’s the name of your gallery?” Henderson asked, disingenuously.

They looked at each other. “Well, Sereno and Gint,” Sereno said. “You mean you haven’t heard of us?”