That night he cleaned, so tired his body fought each movement with all it had, locking his muscles till they ached. He made it to the gallery at three. His back ached as he dropped to his knees and scrubbed the wood. And then he noticed a book on a glass table in the center of the room. Heavy and large, he flipped the pages, stopping at a woman lying on her back in water, one hand clutching wildflowers. Patch stared, mesmerized. The willows and nettles, the shades of green, the shape of her skull.
“Ophelia. You read Hamlet at school?” Sammy said.
Sammy wore brogues, no socks, his ankles tan. His trousers were tight, like the waistcoat. And beneath that a kind of necktie Patch had only seen in a book. In the right light, which was actually very dim, Patch decided the man could pass for a pirate. Perhaps a corsair, a privateer from the port of Saint Malo.
“No,” Patch said.
“You even go to school?”
Patch said nothing.
They both turned as a woman walked down the stairs, slightly flushed. She clutched a handbag to herself.
“I’ll be leaving then,” she said, and smiled at Sammy.
“Your carriage awaits,” Sammy said, and outside a taxi idled.
Patch watched her leave slow, like she was waiting on more.
“You won’t clean here again,” Sammy said as the door closed.
“I was just looking at—”
Sammy stared into the drink he held as he spoke on an exhale, like the disappointment almost matched the lack of surprise. “You can’t steal from me, kid. You ever hear of honor among thieves?”
Patch stood there, the mop behind him, the bucket beside his sneaker. He wore a black eye patch, a T-shirt dogged with holes. “You’re the only one I didn’t…I didn’t take nothing from.”
“Locals would likely have it I’m duty bound to protect Monta Clare small business. I don’t much give a fuck about anyone else. I look after myself and my interests and have done since I wasn’t all that much older than you. I learned a hard lesson, yours will be easier.”
“What did I take?”
“A ream of paper. You researched it, found out the quality and the cost. Took something you thought I wouldn’t notice. The skinny girl, the lesbian’s granddaughter. She has it you’re a pirate.”
“I’m not a pirate.”
Sammy softened a little, his shoulders sagging as he finished his drink. “Whatever you are, you’re not my problem anymore.”
“Will you tell the agency?”
“I have to.”
Patch picked up the bucket and emptied it into the small sink beside the toilet. His mind ran to the bills, to the money that would be missed. His mother would take the call, find out she’d been fired from a job she had not been well enough to work. Maybe the last bridge burned. His stomach knotted tight.
“Most men find themselves at a crossroads at least once in their life.”
“Fuck you,” Patch said. He stopped by the door, opened his bag and pulled out the heavy paper he’d taken, the sketches of Grace on each sheet.
He threw them toward Sammy and did not stay to watch the fragments of his memory float down.