evil. They try to make him—how do you say?—a hostage, a caged
padrone
.”
I stepped away from the interview scene, passing a cart loaded with paint tubes, brushes, rags, a coffee can jammed full of stir sticks, and several paint-thinner tins. Here and there, metal columns sprouted braces that triangulated up to the ceiling beams. As I made my way back to the kitchen, I caught sight of a mattress on a low pallet, facing a small TV with a rabbit-ear antenna. Bricks showed under the corners of the bed platform, and I tried to imagine Philip Oliver stretched out there, fidgeting as he waited for Claudia to come out of the shower with her skin moist and her black hair dripping. I wondered if he hung his hand-tailored English shirts in the same closet with her vintage bellbottoms and Chloé tops. Then I remembered, perversely, that he had told me once, in meticulous detail, about her penchant for La Perla lingerie.
At the table, I opened the second bottle. I could see Claudia and Hogan, vivid as miniatures, perfectly framed by the high steel-frame archway.
“You wish to question me, no doubt. I feel pleased to tell you whatever I know.”
“How often did you get together with Philip?”
“At first, once every two of weeks. Soon, twice the each week. Now almost all days.”
“A smart man, your Philip.”
“You are very kind, Mr. Hogan.”
I followed their conversation distantly, absently, as I slowly sampled Claudia’s cheap wine. Only a few words eluded me.
Had she ever seen Philip become violently angry?
No, he was a dear, sweet man—especially now that his mind was falling to pieces.
Wasn’t that just an act?
Not at all. Philip never pretended with her; he came to her bed in order to be true to himself, for the first time in his life.
Had she ever actually met his wife, Amanda Oliver?
Only once, yes, when for some reason Mandy turned up, trailed by a video cameraman, at the opening of a group show that Claudia was in at Roebling Hall. It was not a place one expected to see the great lady, who seemed shocked to find herself confronting the
something something
of her
something
husband.
How did the meeting go?
She had called Claudia a “minor media slut” (as Claudia repeated, not for the first time evidently) and left quickly with her handsome
something
friend still running the video camera.
As the wine began its subtle work on my brain, I forced myself to listen more closely.
“Have you visited the Oliver loft in SoHo?” Hogan said.
“Why would you ask this when Jack is right here? Would I lie? Even if I had done the worst, I would not be the foolish girl enough to fall into an ignorant trap.”
“So the police might find your fingerprints in the apartment? That wouldn’t be a surprise.”
“I am not so proud of how Philip and I met, or the things we had to do to be together. But love must find its way. It must.”
“And you loved Philip enough to take chances together?”
“Think what you like. Have you not felt some great awful passion, Mr. Hogan?”
“Once or twice.”
“And did feeling it mean you would kill?”
“A fair question. If they ever find Jack here dead, you’ll know the answer.”
Claudia tossed her hair slightly, puzzled but not backing down. “You tease me,” she said.
“That makes us even, Miss Silva.”
She turned slightly toward Hogan. The two, holding each other’s eyes, exchanged minute smiles.
11
Alone at Claudia’s makeshift table, I was watching it happen again, the old inexplicable business between Hogan and women.
What is it with this guy? To me, he’s just an average-looking man, of middling height, with so-so charm. But for a great many women of various classes and ages, Edward Hogan is an unexpected lothario, capable of exerting a gravitational pull. Maybe it’s the equation of baldness with sexual vigor; maybe his ladies are slightly awed to meet a man of such calm, polite demeanor, who, as he leans close to peer into their eyes,
padrone
.”
I stepped away from the interview scene, passing a cart loaded with paint tubes, brushes, rags, a coffee can jammed full of stir sticks, and several paint-thinner tins. Here and there, metal columns sprouted braces that triangulated up to the ceiling beams. As I made my way back to the kitchen, I caught sight of a mattress on a low pallet, facing a small TV with a rabbit-ear antenna. Bricks showed under the corners of the bed platform, and I tried to imagine Philip Oliver stretched out there, fidgeting as he waited for Claudia to come out of the shower with her skin moist and her black hair dripping. I wondered if he hung his hand-tailored English shirts in the same closet with her vintage bellbottoms and Chloé tops. Then I remembered, perversely, that he had told me once, in meticulous detail, about her penchant for La Perla lingerie.
At the table, I opened the second bottle. I could see Claudia and Hogan, vivid as miniatures, perfectly framed by the high steel-frame archway.
“You wish to question me, no doubt. I feel pleased to tell you whatever I know.”
“How often did you get together with Philip?”
“At first, once every two of weeks. Soon, twice the each week. Now almost all days.”
“A smart man, your Philip.”
“You are very kind, Mr. Hogan.”
I followed their conversation distantly, absently, as I slowly sampled Claudia’s cheap wine. Only a few words eluded me.
Had she ever seen Philip become violently angry?
No, he was a dear, sweet man—especially now that his mind was falling to pieces.
Wasn’t that just an act?
Not at all. Philip never pretended with her; he came to her bed in order to be true to himself, for the first time in his life.
Had she ever actually met his wife, Amanda Oliver?
Only once, yes, when for some reason Mandy turned up, trailed by a video cameraman, at the opening of a group show that Claudia was in at Roebling Hall. It was not a place one expected to see the great lady, who seemed shocked to find herself confronting the
something something
of her
something
husband.
How did the meeting go?
She had called Claudia a “minor media slut” (as Claudia repeated, not for the first time evidently) and left quickly with her handsome
something
friend still running the video camera.
As the wine began its subtle work on my brain, I forced myself to listen more closely.
“Have you visited the Oliver loft in SoHo?” Hogan said.
“Why would you ask this when Jack is right here? Would I lie? Even if I had done the worst, I would not be the foolish girl enough to fall into an ignorant trap.”
“So the police might find your fingerprints in the apartment? That wouldn’t be a surprise.”
“I am not so proud of how Philip and I met, or the things we had to do to be together. But love must find its way. It must.”
“And you loved Philip enough to take chances together?”
“Think what you like. Have you not felt some great awful passion, Mr. Hogan?”
“Once or twice.”
“And did feeling it mean you would kill?”
“A fair question. If they ever find Jack here dead, you’ll know the answer.”
Claudia tossed her hair slightly, puzzled but not backing down. “You tease me,” she said.
“That makes us even, Miss Silva.”
She turned slightly toward Hogan. The two, holding each other’s eyes, exchanged minute smiles.
11
Alone at Claudia’s makeshift table, I was watching it happen again, the old inexplicable business between Hogan and women.
What is it with this guy? To me, he’s just an average-looking man, of middling height, with so-so charm. But for a great many women of various classes and ages, Edward Hogan is an unexpected lothario, capable of exerting a gravitational pull. Maybe it’s the equation of baldness with sexual vigor; maybe his ladies are slightly awed to meet a man of such calm, polite demeanor, who, as he leans close to peer into their eyes,
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