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feel it or understand it. I looked at it and knew I couldn't do it, and I was proud or stupid enough to think that meant I couldn't be an artist. Yeah, stupid. Stupid enough. Years." He muttered something I couldn't hear. I started to say, "What?" but he was holding the door open, so I passed him and went inside.
Murray's has a counter on the right with cracked red leatherette stools, and on the left a row of cracked red leatherette booths. Last week we sat at the counter, but today we took a booth. The decor.. . think of a bus station coffee shop in Trenton. The walls are lined with blurry, sepia-colored mirrors, and you start when you first catch sight of yourself, because in the sick fluorescent glare you don't look nearly as bad as the person you're talking to does; the grease on the mirrors acts like a gauze filter, and you actually look pretty good. The temperature hovers around eighty degrees, which is why artists in the lofts and studios in this neighborhood come here, Mick says: to get warm. "Coffee?" he asked. I nodded, and he went up to the counter to get it. You wait on yourself at Murray's.
"So," I said when he returned, my pencil poised, notebook open. Ready for business. "You're saying you became a painter because the postmodern atmosphere in the art world finally freed you to feel like one." "No, that sounds ridiculous. Don't write that." I'd thought it sounded pretty good. "Well, what? This is a piece about people who give up straight jobs-that aren't satisfying - them for a dream they think will." I'd explained that before, but I was thinking wç both needed to hear it again. "What I'm looking for is policy wonks who decide to be forest rangers. Dentists who want to write mystery novels. Washington's perfect for this, people love to read about some guy at the Bureau of Standards who threw it all away to become a horse jockey or a mime, a dog trainer, a Deadhead-" "I know, I understand what you're after."
"Okay. Well, let's try it this way. What was wrong with patent law? Why did you leave that profession?" He smiled at me, light eyes twinkling. "I'm impressed." "How come?" "You asked me that with a straight face." I laughed. I felt light and airy inside, buoyant for some reason. Well, he looked so appreciative. As if he was noticing things about me and he liked them. But he wasn't coming on to me, he just liked me. We sat for a minute, not talking, just stirring our coffees and pulling one-ply napkins out of the metal dispenser. - "Well, anyway." My notebook recalled me to my purpose. "Back to postmodernism. Now, you-" "No, Emma, forget that. I'll tell you the truth." But he looked pained.
I said, "Fine," uncertainly. "But it's not a police interrogation or anything. Don't tell me anything that's going to hurt anybody." The hard-hitting investigative journalist at work. Earlier, he'd asked me not to tape our conversation, and usually I push that a little, try to assure the interviewee that it won't hurt a bit, it's for my convenience but also for his protection, blah blab. But when Mick asked, I gave in without a fight.
He rested his forearms on the table and hunched his shoulders, circling the thick, stained coffee cup with his hands. Nice hands, by the way, bony and smart, long-fingered. "It's . . . well, it's not exactly a secret:' He looked up, looked me in the eye.
I stared back without blinking, trying to project professionalism and integrity. But I felt like a doe caught in a flashlight beam. It was so obvious he was sizing me up, trying to decide if he could trust me. I kept quiet-what could I say?-but the phrase that kept coming to my mind was Oh, Mick, if you only knew.
He sat back, twisting sideways so he could slouch against the wall, one foot drawn up on the cracked seat. He loosened his tie. "Draco is a Greek name," he said conversationally. I scribbled down "Greek," although I didn't know what to think yet, wasn't sure what he'd decided. "My father is Philip Draco. Do you know the name?" I