Unknown - The Genius

She stood up, red-faced, and left the room.

The more she did things like that, the more I thought of Samantha. I know that it’s cliche to run from those who love you most, and equally cliche to want what you cannot have, but for me these were new emotions. I’d never wanted to run from Marilyn; why would I? She gave me all the latitude a man could ask for. Only the most recent display of affection had caused me to feel stifled. And I’d never desired someone out of reach—mainly because nobody has ever been out of reach for me, not really.

KEVIN HOLLISTER CALLED ME BACK from Vail, where he was enjoying an unseasonably early snowfall.

“Eighteen inches of fresh powder. As close as it gets to perfect. God’s country.” He sounded out of breath. “I’ll send a plane, you’ll be on the slopes by noon.”

As much as I liked to ski, I couldn’t stand up quickly without feeling like I’d been shot in the face. I told him I was under the weather.

“Next year, then. I’m having a birthday party at the house. My ex-wife put in a kitchen that can cook for two hundred. There are twelve ovens and I can’t even make toast. I’m having”—here he named a celebrity chef— “cater the whole thing. You’ll be there.” He was huffing and puffing now, and I heard a faint noise, like Velcro.

“Are you skiing?” I asked.

“We are,” he said.

“I hope you’re on a headset.”

“My jacket has an integrated microphone.”

I wondered who else he had with him. His interior designer, probably, or some other special lady friend two decades his junior. That’s who my father would have had.

I told him our conversation could wait until he got back to New York.

“I’m traveling until after New Year’s. Better now.”

“It’s about the drawing.”

“Drawing.”

“The Cracke?”

“Aha, right.” He sniffled. “You know, you’re the second person this week to ask about that piece.”

“Really.”

“Yes. I had long conversation about it, just a few days ago, in fact.”

“Who with?” I asked. He didn’t hear me.

“Hello? Ethan?”

“Hi.”

“Ethan. Are you there.” “I’m here. Can you—”

“Ethan? Hello? Shit. Hello? Fuck. Piece of shit.” He hung up.

“I need to get a new system,” he said when he called back. “This thing’s always breaking. What was it you were saying?” “I wanted to know about the drawing.” “What about it.”

“I’m wondering if you might be interested in selling it back to me.” “Why.” Instantly his voice went cold. “Someone made you a better offer?” “No. No. Not at all. I just feel a little regretful, is all, breaking up the piece the way I did. That section you have is the center, after all, and I think the integrity of the work should be preserved.” “You had no problem breaking it up before.”

“Fair enough. But having had some time to think it over, I’ve changed my mind.”

“Out of curiosity, how much are you offering me?” I quoted purchase price plus ten percent. “That’s not a bad return for one month.”

“I’ve had plenty of better months than that,” he said. “Fifteen, then.”

“You seem like you’re on a mission,” he said. “And while I’d love to see where this goes, unfortunately for you, I’m a man of my word. The piece is spoken for.” “Pardon me?” “I sold it.” I was dumbstruck. “Hello?” he said. “Are you there?” “I’m here.” “Did you hear me?”

“I heard you… . Who’s the buyer?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

“Kevin.”

“I’m sorry about that, I truly am. You know me, I’d love to tell you. But the buyer was very specific in wanting to remain anonymous.”

He sounded more like an art dealer than I’d thought possible. Marilyn had created a monster.

“What did you get for it,” I asked, expecting the same answer. Instead he replied with an absolutely staggering number.

“The nuttiest part? That was the first offer they made. I might have asked for more but I thought, ‘No sense in being greedy.’ Still, I made out like a fucking bandit.”

You’d think that, to a man like Hollister, selling a piece of art—even for a big profit—would provide little thrill, especially if you looked at the numbers in comparison to his net worth. What he made on the drawing, while mind-boggling to me, would at most take a decent bite out of his electricity bill. Yet he sounded like a gleeful child; I could almost see him rubbing his hands together. Rich men get rich in the first place because they never lose that lust for the kill.

I asked if he’d delivered the piece yet.

“Monday.”

I thought about asking if I could take one last look at it. But what would I do? Grab it and sprint away? How far could I get: running, with a head injury, carrying a sixty-square-foot canvas made of one hundred individual sheets of disintegrating paper? Besides, I had a clear notion of who the buyer was. Very few people had that kind of money to drop on an essentially unknown artist, and fewer still had the motivation.

Still a little shellshocked, I congratulated him on his sale.

“Thank you,” he said. “Invitation stands if you want to join me.”

I wished him happy skiing and dialed Tony Wexler.

20

W hat can I say? He’s in love with it.”

We had agreed to meet up at a steakhouse in the east thirties. The first part of our conversation consisted of Tony oy-veying about my injuries (Why didn’t you call me? What did the police say? I don’t like this, Ethan. Your father would want to know about this kind of thing. What if something worse happened? What would it take for you to give us a call? Would you have to lose a limb? Would you have to be run over? Because by that time, you won’t be able to call anymore) and me putting him off (Fine, Tony. I’ll call next time, Tony. No, I hope there won’t be another next time, either).

Then, glancing at Isaac, sitting three tables down, he had said, “Where on God’s green earth did you get that ?”

I went on the offensive, accusing him of going behind my back.

He scoffed. “The last time I checked, we live in a free-market society. We wanted something, we had the right price, everyone was in agreement, we bought it. I’m not sure you should be complaining. We significantly raised the profile on your artist.”

“That’s not the point.”

“What’s the point, then.”

“That drawing is part of the piece as a whole, and it should be restored.”

“Then why’d you sell it in the first place?”

“It was my mistake.” I turned my clenched teeth into a smile. “Let me

buy it from you. I’ll give you—don’t shake your head, you haven’t heard my offer yet.”

“I seem to recall having this same conversation with you, in reverse.”

“I’ll give you what you paid Hollister, plus an extra hundred grand.”

He looked offended. “Do me a favor. Anyhow it won’t matter: he’s not selling.”

“You haven’t even asked him.”

“I don’t need to. If you’re truly worried about leaving the piece incomplete—is that your concern? It’s a matter of principle?”

cc ť

“… yes.”

“Then I have a very elegant solution.”

I looked at him.

“Sell us the rest.”

ce-n ť

Tony.

“Sell us the rest. Then it’ll be complete.” He took a sip of water. “That’s the principle at stake, isn’t it? You want to reunite the drawings. Fine. Sell us the rest of the piece and you can sleep easier at night.”

“I don’t believe this.”

“What’s not to believe?”

“Why are you doing this?”

“What am I doing?”

“You know what you’re doing.”