Gallery, the namesake of a New York gadabout and competitor to BB. The time? Well, the only reason it wasn’t a twilight black-tie affair was that the work displayed was old and previously unsold. A clearance sale for an artiste on the slide.
“Why, Bea, you awful thing—here to steal Xavier from me?” Ozzy chortled. “Take him away, babe, and ol’ Ozzy will come for you with a shotgun,” he dared.
“Oz, would I do that to you? You remember Karen?” BB mused as to how Xavier might have been worth stealing a year ago. She handed her coat to a servant, but held on to her cell phone.
“Of course: Karen. You know, that hair! What a swirl, girl! Love it.” Ozzy pressed goblets of Moët Brut into their hands and herded them up the broad marble staircase.
Karen’s feline smile flickered. She reached out for BB’s hand and got a reassuring squeeze.
“Always so special to have you here!” Ozzy whispered in BB’s ear. “Find a winner, babe, and let’s haggle.”
By the time he got back downstairs another guest had arrived.
“I don’t believe I’ve had the—Oh, I declare! Ozzy likes tweed as much as the next person, but there is a limit!”
“Name is Palihnic.” Nicholas adjusted his double-breasted jacket, which was a somewhat original shade of rust. “And you’re Osman Strunk. I found something you lost once.”
Ozzy reaffixed his monocle so that he could examine the card Nicholas stuck into his palm.
“Really? Ha! I’m sure I would have remembered. Who in Allah’s name is your tailor? Red Buttons?” Ozzy lifted a goblet from a passing waiter’s tray, pressed it into Nicholas’s hand, and wheeled him toward the stairs.
“For Galloway Group, your insurer.” Nicholas sniffed at the champagne. “Photo-realist, name something like Pompano? Jean Pompano?”
“Jeanie?” Ozzy led Nicholas up the stairs. “Oh, yes, that piece stolen from the basement. You recovered that? Where do you buy your shoes?”
“In Philadelphia.”
“Oh, don’t say it. Just don’t. You buy your shoes in the cheesesteak mecca? I’m aghast.”
“The shoes I get from an importer in the Bronx. I found your painting in Philadelphia, hanging on William Poole’s wall. You remember your friend Bill?”
Ozzy snorted. “Bill was such a brat. Nice Italian shoes in the Bronx? To what is the world unraveling.” Ozzy rolled his fingers in the air and ducked away into the crowd.
Nicholas surveyed his surroundings. The walls were hung with pieces from one of Xavier Gliche’s particularly dreary periods: discombobulations of stovepipe, umbrella skeletons, barbed wire, and milk cartons featuring missing children. Corners were reserved for his brief venture into freestanding sculpture: stacks of rusty fuel tanks that not only looked bad but smelled worse. In contrast to the art, the room was newly painted white, with high ceilings and ornate trim. An uptown junkyard.
“Howdy.” Nicholas stepped up to where BB was flattering some guy in torn jeans, sweatshirt, and bowler. Long, dirty gray hair shot out from under his hat.
“You must be Xavier Gliche.” Nicholas forced a handshake on him with one hand, downing his drink in a gulp with the other. “I don’t think you’ve ever had any of your work stolen, have you?”
With the grimace of a man with a caper stuck between his teeth, Xavier turned away to where Karen was hobnobbing with a woman in a gold lamé pantsuit.
“Mr. Palihnic.” BB toasted the air.
“I got your message. So you have something for me, or is there someone else here you’d like me to insult?” Nicholas slid his empty glass onto a passing tray of smoked oysters.
“Well, if that’s a genuine offer…”
“I charge by the head. The first was a freebie.”
“You take checks?”
“Just the rainy kind, and only with an alibi.”
“Bravo.” Beatrice toasted the air again.
“So you called me here to tell me something, and here I am.”
“Yes. I wanted you to know that I made a few
“Why, Bea, you awful thing—here to steal Xavier from me?” Ozzy chortled. “Take him away, babe, and ol’ Ozzy will come for you with a shotgun,” he dared.
“Oz, would I do that to you? You remember Karen?” BB mused as to how Xavier might have been worth stealing a year ago. She handed her coat to a servant, but held on to her cell phone.
“Of course: Karen. You know, that hair! What a swirl, girl! Love it.” Ozzy pressed goblets of Moët Brut into their hands and herded them up the broad marble staircase.
Karen’s feline smile flickered. She reached out for BB’s hand and got a reassuring squeeze.
“Always so special to have you here!” Ozzy whispered in BB’s ear. “Find a winner, babe, and let’s haggle.”
By the time he got back downstairs another guest had arrived.
“I don’t believe I’ve had the—Oh, I declare! Ozzy likes tweed as much as the next person, but there is a limit!”
“Name is Palihnic.” Nicholas adjusted his double-breasted jacket, which was a somewhat original shade of rust. “And you’re Osman Strunk. I found something you lost once.”
Ozzy reaffixed his monocle so that he could examine the card Nicholas stuck into his palm.
“Really? Ha! I’m sure I would have remembered. Who in Allah’s name is your tailor? Red Buttons?” Ozzy lifted a goblet from a passing waiter’s tray, pressed it into Nicholas’s hand, and wheeled him toward the stairs.
“For Galloway Group, your insurer.” Nicholas sniffed at the champagne. “Photo-realist, name something like Pompano? Jean Pompano?”
“Jeanie?” Ozzy led Nicholas up the stairs. “Oh, yes, that piece stolen from the basement. You recovered that? Where do you buy your shoes?”
“In Philadelphia.”
“Oh, don’t say it. Just don’t. You buy your shoes in the cheesesteak mecca? I’m aghast.”
“The shoes I get from an importer in the Bronx. I found your painting in Philadelphia, hanging on William Poole’s wall. You remember your friend Bill?”
Ozzy snorted. “Bill was such a brat. Nice Italian shoes in the Bronx? To what is the world unraveling.” Ozzy rolled his fingers in the air and ducked away into the crowd.
Nicholas surveyed his surroundings. The walls were hung with pieces from one of Xavier Gliche’s particularly dreary periods: discombobulations of stovepipe, umbrella skeletons, barbed wire, and milk cartons featuring missing children. Corners were reserved for his brief venture into freestanding sculpture: stacks of rusty fuel tanks that not only looked bad but smelled worse. In contrast to the art, the room was newly painted white, with high ceilings and ornate trim. An uptown junkyard.
“Howdy.” Nicholas stepped up to where BB was flattering some guy in torn jeans, sweatshirt, and bowler. Long, dirty gray hair shot out from under his hat.
“You must be Xavier Gliche.” Nicholas forced a handshake on him with one hand, downing his drink in a gulp with the other. “I don’t think you’ve ever had any of your work stolen, have you?”
With the grimace of a man with a caper stuck between his teeth, Xavier turned away to where Karen was hobnobbing with a woman in a gold lamé pantsuit.
“Mr. Palihnic.” BB toasted the air.
“I got your message. So you have something for me, or is there someone else here you’d like me to insult?” Nicholas slid his empty glass onto a passing tray of smoked oysters.
“Well, if that’s a genuine offer…”
“I charge by the head. The first was a freebie.”
“You take checks?”
“Just the rainy kind, and only with an alibi.”
“Bravo.” Beatrice toasted the air again.
“So you called me here to tell me something, and here I am.”
“Yes. I wanted you to know that I made a few
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