Unknown - The Genius

“Tell me.”

“You’re fucking me.”

“There’s no need for that kind of language.”

“I mean, seriously, Tony, what do you expect me to say? ‘Thank you, what a great offer’?”

“Actually, I do. It is a great offer.”

“It’s a shitty offer. I don’t want to sell the pieces to you, I want one piece back. That’s a lot more reasonable than me selling you the rest of the art.”

“As far as I can tell, the result is the same.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“What’s the difference?”

“You’ll have it, and I won’t.”

“You’re an art dealer, aren’t you? Isn’t that what you do? Sell art to other people?”

“This isn’t about the sale,” I said. “You’ve already tried to buy the pieces from me, and I’ve already said no.”

“Then I believe we’re at what they call an impasse.”

The clatter of forks and knives grew as the tables filled up, and my head began to pound. I turned from Tony and watched Isaac tuck into his porterhouse. I must have looked distressed, because he caught my eye and asked: thumbs-up or thumbs-down. I gave him a thumbs-up and he went back to eating. Under Tony’s watchful, judgmental eye, I swallowed four ibuprofen, these in addition to the four I had taken before lunch.

“Are you feeling all right?” he asked.

“Yes.” I rubbed my eyes. “Listen, it’s not just for the sake of getting the piece back together that I want to buy it from you. There’s something else going on.”

He waited.

“It’s too complicated for me to explain.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“It is.”

He waited again.

I sighed. “All right, listen.” I explained to him about the murders. As I talked he nodded sagely, taking it all in, and when I got through he said:

“I know.”

“What?”

“I heard all about that already.”

To tell you the truth, I wasn’t that surprised. As I’ve mentioned, Tony knows more about the art world than he lets on. He keeps his ear to the ground, and I had no doubt that he’d done his homework before approaching Hollister. He’d know exactly how much to offer in order to avoid the inconvenience of haggling.

“Then what’d you make me repeat it for?”

“I knew about the rumors. I didn’t know what you needed the drawing

for.” He sat back, pursing his lips. “Let me get this straight. You want to cut a hole in it.”

“A small one, I hope.”

He half-smiled. “What happened to restoring the piece’s integrity.”

“I’ll have it repaired.”

“And you think—what. This is going to slam the coffin on him?”

“I have no clue. It might. It might not.”

“As far as I can see,” he said, “even if you sample the piece, and it turns out to be blood, and that turns out to match, you’re still facing the same problem.”

“Which is?”

“Which is you don’t know where it came from. It could be Victor’s, it could be someone else’s.” The same point Samantha had made. “If he did all that stuff you’re accusing him of, I don’t see why it’s that big a stretch for him to keep an inkpot with blood in it. So getting the drawing won’t help you very much.”

“Well, let me be the judge of that.”

“I don’t think so,” he said. “In case you’ve forgotten, the piece belongs

ť

to us.”

“Can we not make this an issue of territory?”

“Listen to you. You’re the one making the demands here. You’re the one crying droit moral. And you’re telling me not to be territorial? That’s some chutzpah you’re putting out on display there.”

“Why shouldn’t I have the droit moral? I discovered him.”

He smiled. “Is that so. Because the way I remember it, I had to beg you to—”

“Once I saw them—”

“That’s right. Once you saw them. If anybody’s got a claim, it’s your father. The land belongs to him, the contents of the apartment were his. We did you a favor.”

I said, “I’m not going to argue about this with you.”

“What is there to argue?”

“You’re right. Okay, Tony? You’re right. I don’t care about that. I want to make a deal. Let’s make one. I’ll pay you double what you paid Hollister.”

He shook his head. “You’re missing the—”

“Triple.” That was far too much money for me, but I didn’t care.

“Forget it,” Tony said. Perhaps he knew I couldn’t afford to pay him.

“How much do you want, then? Name it.”

“It’s not the money. You have your principles. We have ours. We’re not going to sell you art so you can destroy it.”

“Will you give me a fucking break.”

“If you keep talking like that, I’m not going to pay for dessert.”

“I’m not destroying the art, Tony.”

“Really. What do you call it.”

“They sample canvases all the time,” I said. “For research.”

“Not from the dead center. Not on a piece of contemporary art. It’s not the Shroud of Turin, for crying out loud. And why the hell do you care, anyway?”

“Because this is important, Tony. It’s more important than a drawing.”

“Listen to you,” he said. He took out his wallet and put two hundred dollars down on the table. “You sound like a different person, you know that?”

“Wait a second.”

“That’s for lunch.”

“That’s it?” I asked. “You’re not even going to ask him?”

“I don’t need to,” he said, standing up. “I know his priorities.”

I CALLED SAMANTHA.

“It’s a delicate situation,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

“There must be another panel with blood on it.”

“Can’t you, I don’t know. Subpoena him.”

“I’m not sure that anybody’s going to believe we have compelling reason to seize the drawing from your father. What he said to you is essentially correct: the blood might not be blood, it might not be the right blood, it might not tell us anything. If we start asking for permission to slice up a multimillion-dollar piece of artwork—”

“It’s not worth that much.”

“In your opinion.”

“I’m telling you, he overpaid. He’d never get that much on the open market.”

“Well, I’m reasonably sure your father can find another expert who’ll testify it’s worth more. And I’m sure he has some pretty good lawyers with a lot of free time. All I’m saying, if you can find me another drawing, that’d make both our lives easier.”

“The last time I got a box out of the warehouse I got assaulted.”

“I hope you’re more careful, then.” She paused. “Sorry. That was a little harsh.”

“It’s all right.”

“Look, we’ll go through the drawings together. How does that sound.”

“Fine.”

A silence. When she spoke again, she sounded much milder: “How’s your head?”

“Better every day. It’d be a lot better if I had some idea who did this to me.”

“I hate to break it to you, but you’d be better off forgetting about that.”

I lightly fingered the bandages on my face. “Is it really that bleak?”

“Without a witness or a description? It really is.”

I found this enormously depressing.

“Let’s meet up in a few days,” she said. “We’ll start by reviewing the evidence that you and my dad had.”

I suggested dinner.

“I was thinking more like you come to my office. Did you send back that swab?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll call and find out what’s going on with the rest of the samples.”

“All right.”

“And Ethan?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t ask me to dinner anymore.”

16 17

f he Queens District Attorney’s office comprises several bureaus, scattered throughout various buildings in and around the criminal courthouse in Kew Gardens. The Investigations Division occupies several stories of a shiny sublet across Queens Boulevard, set toward the street at a rakish angle. Young men and women in suits bustled up the sidewalk, carrying salads, congealing pizza, take-away noodles. Traffic roared along the Union Turnpike and the Van Wyck, both of them edged with black frost. Stepping out of the car, Isaac and I were nearly bowled over by a blast of wind.