threatening to paralyze Martin as he stepped out of the town car, despite having done this a dozen times before. He understood why. There was logic behind the trembling in his fingers. He knew in agonizing detail what exactly had changed between the last time he had to meet some shady characters and this time, but that did not change the fact that he already wanted to vomit. He had hoped having Arthur present would make things easier.
Mostly he wished he could send someone else to do this, but he was the only one; he had to see each piece for himself to be truly sure.
Arthur looked more curious than anything when they were dropped in front of a once grand hotel in what was now an unsavory neighborhood. The man at the desk hadn't even looked up as they walked past and ascended creaking stairs with threadbare carpet that had once been red.
Martin knocked on the door of room 301.
"How above board is this?" Arthur asked quietly.
"I am merely reclaiming what is rightfully mine."
"That is not a comforting answer."
The door opened. A large man in a badly tailored suit looked them over. "Who's this?"
"A companion." Martin forced his voice to be firm, clear, and dismissive.
"We were only told about one."
"Oh, just let them in," came a voice from inside the room.
The large man, it was a different large man every time, stood aside and Martin stepped in, taking comfort in Arthur being right behind him.
The room was cheap and tatty. Anything quality, right down to the gilt, had been stripped away years ago. He doubted anyone actually slept in the rooms. It had become a place for transactions such as these. Martin wanted to get out as fast as possible.
"Mr. Jones," Martin said with a nod. He was more than familiar with 'Mr. Jones' real name and record but pretended that he wasn't. At least for as long as Mr. Jones was useful.
The door snicked shut behind them. Martin balled his hands into fists in his pockets. There was no way he could handle this. He should have sent Mr. Abram to pick up the piece and risk losing the money if it was wrong.
"Already unwrapped for your inspection."
Martin glanced at the art standing up on a cheap armchair. He had last seen it in a minimalist white frame. There was no frame now and an obvious yellow of nicotine stained the whites and pastels. He grabbed on to the small spark of anger, hoping he could flame it enough to override the fear that was crawling up his throat and trying to choke the very breath from him.
"Not your usual type, I've got to say."
Martin nodded a bit, but the Agnes Martin had hung in pride of place over the never-used fireplace, distinctly different from the collection of impressionist and inter-war surrealists. He had stared at it as he cried at sixteen, once again ripped from his home and transplanted to another. It had not been a healthy home, but it was an environment he was used to.
He took a small folding magnifying glass from his pocket. He didn't need it. He could tell from the other side of the room it was what he was looking for, but he had to make a show of it. A buyer for a wealthy reclusive art collector. He brought down every ounce of Agency training to keep his hands still. He wanted to scream. He could feel his skin crawl. "It will require cleaning."
"Hey, you just said an Agnes Martin named "Untitled" and gave a vague description. Do you know how many paintings that lady didn't bother to title?"
Martin gave what he hoped was a dry look. "Wrap it for me." He took a roll of cash from the pocket of his coat and tossed it to Mr. Jones.
Martin checked on Arthur. He and the large man were eyeballing each other but things didn't feel like they were heading south, yet.
"In a hurry?"
"Reservations."
The painting was quickly wrapped in brown paper and twine. "A pleasure, as always, Mister Green."
Martin nodded and picked up the painting, trying not to give the impression that he was running or that a panic attack was swirling below the surface. Arthur followed him out, down the steps and to the waiting car. The painting just managed to fit in the trunk.
As the car pulled away from the curb, something broke loose in him and his breath began to speed out of control while his body vibrated at a painful rate.
"Martin?"
He turned to Arthur.
"What do you need from me right now?"
Martin shook his head. The panic had stolen the words from him. Arthur held out his hands, palm up. Martin gripped them tight.
"Okay, do you think you can follow my breathing?"
Martin shook his head again.
"Okay, can you feel my hands?"
Martin nodded and squeezed them a little tighter.
"Good, focus on my hands. They're warm and they're not going anywhere. I'm going to talk, try to latch on to what I'm saying."
Martin nodded.
"We are in a very nice car driving through New York. There is the faintest fall of snow. It makes the city look clean, like something out of a movie. No one has taken down their Christmas decorations yet, so everything still has colored lights and tinsel. It's beautiful. It's cold outside, but not the prairie cold I grew up with. That will freeze your eyeballs. It's just cold enough to make you want hot chocolate, a heavy blanket, and a good book."
Martin could feel his breathing begin to slow as he lost himself in Arthur's words.
"I can see why people live here. I could almost live here myself, but maybe only in winters. I hear the summers are sticky and awful."
Martin had a flash, remembering his first summer in the city, so different from what he had known.
"I know I don't normally comment on what you wear, but I noticed your suit today. Hard not to. Gives you this aura of authority. Somehow your posture looks even better, and you've got the posture of a dancer."
Martin had never really considered his posture before. He was sure he'd been told to sit up straight a few times in his life but more often he'd been told to sit still.
"I'm sure the city is going to be a drunken zoo tomorrow, New Year’s Eve and all, but if you'd be up for one excursion, the IFC is going to be screening Casablanca. I don't know if you've seen it, but it's a classic."
Martin gave his head a little shake. "Haven't seen it." There was a raspy croak in his voice like he'd been crying. He put one hand to his face to feel for tears, but it came back dry.
"Hey, it's okay. Are you settled enough for a proper hug?"
Martin nodded. He hated that Arthur had to ask, hated that he knew to ask. That he'd seen Martin reflexively try to throw his still damaged body across the room, his mind filled with the sensations of things not there.
Arthur scooted over and pulled him close. He put his face to the crook of Arthur's neck, focusing on the pulse he felt beneath the skin and his unique smell of faint spices and oils that never seemed to fade no matter how long he was away from a kitchen or however much soap and aftershave he used.
He stayed there, breathing slowly until the car pulled to a stop and the engine was turned off.