around on the floor, arm
outstretched, fingers struggling to reach the hat. Must have a whole
collection, I’m thinking. Hats from every nation. I kneel down to check the
vital signs.
“What the
hell’s going on, kid?” I say. He whispers something I can’t make out. “Why the
secret agent routine?”
“ Give ,”
he whispers. I reach over and give him the fedora.
He shakes his
head and tries again. “ Give. Back. Madonna. ”
6
With another
hour or so to kill before I want make an appearance at Fernanda’s, I’ve settled
into a high-class bar in the Village that they’re calling a brasserie. The
evening has stayed warm, and out the open windows on the sidewalks, people are flirting
with what may be the first night of spring. Evenings like these, you don’t want
to rush home too quick. It’s one of those feelings I spend a lot of time missing.
There’s just something in the air. Maybe if you linger a bit, you think,
possibilities might present themselves. And one thing you always want to make
time for, in my experience, are the possibilities. For better or worse, it’s
how I lived my life. Possibilities kept so open they’re not even possibilities
anymore, they’re just what comes next.
The
brasserie’s filling up for cocktails, and I’ve got the Madonna folder out on
the table, pondering the mysteries of artistic genius. The folder tells the
history of the Madonna’s owners, which starts with dukes back in the sixteenth
century and goes right on through to the Americans. Shore bought it off an oil
baron thirty years ago, apparently. He would have been in his thirties, so he
must have started out with money. And I mean big money, since the price at the
time was $350,000. Not a bad investment, considering what it’s worth now.
I look at the
photographs again. Name your color, they’re still the kind of eyes you could
get lost in and never wish to be found. Harry Shore must have been losing
himself in them for most of his adult life. Imagine waking up one morning,
rolling over in bed and discovering that the color of your girl’s eyes has
changed. I bet you’d notice it. And maybe you’d pick up the phone and call
Willie Lee. And I like to think that wouldn’t be a mistake.
It’s turning
out to be a case with not a few intricacies, a case with some dimensions. From
where I’m sitting, nursing my shins, it appears it may involve the whole of
Manhattan and at least parts of Albania. With such international implications,
I figure it’s probably time to send in a little update to Saint Chief via
prayer, so I take a fortifying sip of beer and shut my eyes.
“Dear Lord,” I
mumble. “It’s me, Willie. Please forward this message to Saint Chief Mahoney if
you would. I’m on the trail of this wayward Fernanda Shore and seem to find
myself in New York City. I realize that’s a little further afield than we
originally anticipated for this case, but I assure you I am hot on her trail
and will soon bring her back into the fold. So please don’t send down one of
those Northeastern angels to, ah, interfere . We know where that got us
the last time. I just need another day or so to get to the bottom of this, and
in your infinite wisdom I’m sure you’ll understand.”
I could go
through the details of all I’ve learned. I could tell him about how I’m
figuring they got me from the moment I walked into Fernanda’s gallery, which
must mean Havisham’s tied into this somehow. About how she alerted Kafka and
Twiggy, who led me to the Hotel Blue and have been following me ever since – at
least up until about an hour ago, assuming there was only Kafka on my tail.
Then all about the insurance angle we need to consider. I have to assume
Fernanda saw the first photograph, the one with the faded eyes, which also
means that I’m holding the only evidence of those midnight blues other than the
original itself. But ordinary mortals can’t paint a fake Madonna from memory, Lord,
I could say, and even
outstretched, fingers struggling to reach the hat. Must have a whole
collection, I’m thinking. Hats from every nation. I kneel down to check the
vital signs.
“What the
hell’s going on, kid?” I say. He whispers something I can’t make out. “Why the
secret agent routine?”
“ Give ,”
he whispers. I reach over and give him the fedora.
He shakes his
head and tries again. “ Give. Back. Madonna. ”
6
With another
hour or so to kill before I want make an appearance at Fernanda’s, I’ve settled
into a high-class bar in the Village that they’re calling a brasserie. The
evening has stayed warm, and out the open windows on the sidewalks, people are flirting
with what may be the first night of spring. Evenings like these, you don’t want
to rush home too quick. It’s one of those feelings I spend a lot of time missing.
There’s just something in the air. Maybe if you linger a bit, you think,
possibilities might present themselves. And one thing you always want to make
time for, in my experience, are the possibilities. For better or worse, it’s
how I lived my life. Possibilities kept so open they’re not even possibilities
anymore, they’re just what comes next.
The
brasserie’s filling up for cocktails, and I’ve got the Madonna folder out on
the table, pondering the mysteries of artistic genius. The folder tells the
history of the Madonna’s owners, which starts with dukes back in the sixteenth
century and goes right on through to the Americans. Shore bought it off an oil
baron thirty years ago, apparently. He would have been in his thirties, so he
must have started out with money. And I mean big money, since the price at the
time was $350,000. Not a bad investment, considering what it’s worth now.
I look at the
photographs again. Name your color, they’re still the kind of eyes you could
get lost in and never wish to be found. Harry Shore must have been losing
himself in them for most of his adult life. Imagine waking up one morning,
rolling over in bed and discovering that the color of your girl’s eyes has
changed. I bet you’d notice it. And maybe you’d pick up the phone and call
Willie Lee. And I like to think that wouldn’t be a mistake.
It’s turning
out to be a case with not a few intricacies, a case with some dimensions. From
where I’m sitting, nursing my shins, it appears it may involve the whole of
Manhattan and at least parts of Albania. With such international implications,
I figure it’s probably time to send in a little update to Saint Chief via
prayer, so I take a fortifying sip of beer and shut my eyes.
“Dear Lord,” I
mumble. “It’s me, Willie. Please forward this message to Saint Chief Mahoney if
you would. I’m on the trail of this wayward Fernanda Shore and seem to find
myself in New York City. I realize that’s a little further afield than we
originally anticipated for this case, but I assure you I am hot on her trail
and will soon bring her back into the fold. So please don’t send down one of
those Northeastern angels to, ah, interfere . We know where that got us
the last time. I just need another day or so to get to the bottom of this, and
in your infinite wisdom I’m sure you’ll understand.”
I could go
through the details of all I’ve learned. I could tell him about how I’m
figuring they got me from the moment I walked into Fernanda’s gallery, which
must mean Havisham’s tied into this somehow. About how she alerted Kafka and
Twiggy, who led me to the Hotel Blue and have been following me ever since – at
least up until about an hour ago, assuming there was only Kafka on my tail.
Then all about the insurance angle we need to consider. I have to assume
Fernanda saw the first photograph, the one with the faded eyes, which also
means that I’m holding the only evidence of those midnight blues other than the
original itself. But ordinary mortals can’t paint a fake Madonna from memory, Lord,
I could say, and even
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