26

Fred called LIVE ** MODELS again and got the machine. Then he called Mangan’s number.

He had nothing to read. To occupy his mind with white noise, he turned on the TV and watched a painter working—an educational painter. He did a whole picture in a half hour, a 1990s version of the landscapes Harriet sat in front of in her Providence gallery, though hers had taken longer to make. A thick round bush of hair grew on this educational painter. Fred wanted to rub the painter’s hair in the art he was making. You’d get a nice little effect that way, on both the canvas and the hair.

The painter with the hair blessed the world and disappeared. Fred did not want to learn how to build a new antique table out of a condemned barn using only seven thousand dollars’ worth of power tools. He turned off the set.

Clay had Proust in his prison.

What was Russ reading? Had he been carrying something with him when they picked him up? Was that where he’d been a couple of nights ago? In Providence? Or had he been hiding from them, too?

Fred called Sheila’s again. His phone didn’t ring until almost five. It was Clayton, wanting to know, “What’s going on?”

“Nothing. I don’t know. I have to keep the phone free. I’ll call you when I have something.”

Five-twenty. Telephone.

“Fred.” It was a man’s voice.

“Yes.”

“Wait a minute. You got more name than that? These guys balls everything up.” There was whispering on the other end.

Fred waited, holding the phone to his ear. He couldn’t make out any words.

The voice tried again: “This the Charles Hotel, Cambridge?”

“Yes,” said Fred.

“You want to talk about some money we are missing?”

“A painting,” Fred said.

“Got in too deep, didn’t you, asshole?”

“I know where the painting is,” Fred said.

“Wait a minute.”

More whispering.

“We don’t want the fuckin’ thing. We want our money. You want to bring it down?”

Fred said, “Let’s talk a minute and see if we’re going to be able to put a deal together.”

“Put together a what?” The voice was offended, outraged. “Put our money together and bring it, that’s what you put together. The fuckin’ pitcher, do what you want.”

“Let me talk to Mangan,” Fred said.

“He’s out,” the voice said.

Fred said, “The money. How much you missing?”

“Twenty-five grand, asshole.”

Smykal had done a silent auction. Offered twenty-five thousand by Russell’s pet shark Mangan, he had told Clayton the price was thirty. Then Clay had paid him thirty-three: a quick profit of eight grand over the first offer. But apparently the money on Mangan’s end had actually been delivered as well.

“Look,” the voice went on. “I’m standing in a fucking gas station talking on the fucking telephone and you want to play fucking guessing games? You going to deliver the fucking money, or not?”

Fred said, “Maybe I can. There are a couple of other things I’ll need to talk over, Mr.—do you want to give me a name?”

“Do you want to eat your own fucking nuts? Fuck you. What else you got to say?”

“Two things,” Fred said. “There’s a guy I want to see, maybe you can help me with, who’s been detained.”

Pause.

“Oh, the kid. I hear you. No problem. We have the money, we don’t need him for anything.”

“And I want the letter.”

There was an exclamation of amazed disgust. “He wants a fucking letter? Personal visit isn’t enough? Phone call won’t do it for him? What am I, the fucking federal government, put my business on paper? You fucking crazy?”

“The kid knows about the letter,” Fred said. “Or ask Mangan.”

Pause. Whispers. Was Mangan in the room, next to the voice Fred could not see?

“Mangan knows about it,” Fred said. “Maybe he has it.”

Another pause.

“Have to call you back.”

“Hold it,” Fred said.

“Have to talk to a guy. Talk to another guy. That’s gonna maybe take time.”

“I have to go out,” Fred said. “I’ll be out for an hour at least.”

“Listen,” the voice said. “Wait a minute. I was you, I’d wait a few hours, maybe someone calls you. If you don’t hear by eleven, I didn’t reach him. Then I’ll call you tomorrow morning, set something up, okay?”

“Everything cool until then?” Fred asked.

“Stay near your phone.”

“Okay,” said Fred.

“We’ll get someone to fix your car. So you can drive down tomorrow.”

Fred said, “It’s your business, but your guys—you think they can change a tire?”

“Fucking comedian. I’ll tell them take it one step at a time,” the voice said. “Talk to you, if I don’t get back tonight, in the morning. First thing.”

“What time is first thing?” Fred asked.

“Like ten, ten-thirty, eleven. In there.”

Fred stood up and stretched. Stay in his room, the guy had said, the voice of Providence. Wait for the phone.

They didn’t want answers. They didn’t want the painting. They wanted their money back. That would have to come from Clay. It was going to cost an additional twenty-five thousand to get that letter. He’d have to see how Clay felt about it.