“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.
That’s not exactly true. I was almost bowled over. Isaac seemed to feel nothing. He was wearing a Hawaiian shirt underneath a denim jacket that could have yielded enough pairs of jeans to outfit a dude ranch. He attracted the attention of the cops sitting in front of the building, who halted their shit-shooting to jab gloved thumbs at the giant coming up the steps.
We made our way into the lobby, where Samantha was waiting. She saw Isaac and blinked in wonderment. “Uh, hi.”
“Hi,” Isaac said. Then he chucked me on the arm, more like a good hard punch by most people’s standards. “Zit okay if I wait in the car? Police make me nervous.”
I told him I’d call when I was ready. Samantha watched him lumber out.
“Wow,” she said.
The elevator required a keycard and a code. On the fifth floor we walked
into the midst of a raucous lunch break, three young men and two young women whose conversational leitmotifs appeared to be fuck, fuck you, and fuck you you fucking fuckface. Samantha introduced me as a friend, which I thought was generous.
“Hey,” they said, variously.
“What’s going on?” Samantha asked one of the girls.
“Mantell’s car got broken into.”
“Right in front of the fucking building,” said one of the men. He had black hair and wore a heavy gold watch.
“They took his GPS.”
“You bet they did. It’s ten o’clock in the fucking morning. There’s fucking cops everywhere. There’s fucking Mr. Wong’s across the street, with a picture fucking window. And nobody saw anything?” He shook his head in disgust. “What the fuck. The cop I talked to goes, ‘Do you know anyone who might have anything against you?’ And I’m like, ‘Well, only about three hundred people I’ve put in prison. How’s that narrow it down for you.’”
Everyone laughed.
“The apocalypse is nigh.”
“The apocalypse, my friend, is old news.”
“Did they take your badge?”
“Why would they take my badge? If I were them, I wouldn’t want to impersonate us. We can’t stop a breakinin broad daylightin the fucking epicenter of borough law enforcement. So, no. They did not take my fucking badge. You know what Shana said, though. I couldn’t fucking believe this. You know what she said?”
“What.”
“I told her what happened, and she was like, ‘Who did it?’ “
There was a pause. Then everyone broke up laughing.
“No …”
“She said that?”
“Sweardagod.”
“Who says that?”
“She does.”
“She’s a fucking moron.”
“Hey Shana.”
“Yeah,” came a voice from a distant cubicle.
“You’re a fucking moron.”
“Fuck you.”
Samantha escorted me across the floor. For the most part, it looked like any other office, with fuzzy gray partitions, desks crammed into corners, a copy machine loose at the hinges, bulletin boards, file cabinets shingled with magnets, family photos pinned up wherever room could be found. Any other office, except for the anti-domestic violence campaign posters; or the state trooper with the shaved head and large gun, chickenpecking on an old-fashioned word processor; or the significant chunk of a compact carhood, two doors, and a tirelying in the hallway (“Evidence,” Samantha explained). She greeted and was greeted by all.