Monday morning in Manhattan. Clouds again. Plus a few rents of pellucid sky, the weather's way of apologizing for all the gloom.
Dina breakfasted with Robert, going on and on about Becky's this and Becky's that. Robert, reading the Wall Street Journal, grunted occasionally and did his best to tune her out. If she wanted to hear herself talk, then that was just fine by him. It wasn't as if he had to listen. In fact, he'd become highly adept at turning a deaf ear to her chatter while still making the appropriate noises when called for. However, when he heard her mention Auction Towers, he decided it might behoove him to pay attention.
"Back up there, will ya," he grumped. "You're yakkin' a million miles a minute."
"Sweetie!" she accused, with a little-girl pout. "You haven't been listening to a single word I've said!"
"Oh yeah? Then how come I asked you to back up?"
Dina couldn't argue with that. "I was talking about our move," she said.
"Move? What move?"
She rolled her eyes. "That's what I mean, sweetie. You haven't been paying attention. I told you we'd have to vacate the apartment while it's being redone. Right?"
"So?"
"So, it just occurred to me that you've got—what? Thirty? Or is it forty?—unsold condos in Auction Towers. All empty and going to waste."
"They ain't goin' to waste," he said crabbily, alarmed by the direction the conversation was headed.
Thank God his ears had perked up in time to avert Big Trouble. The last thing he needed was to move into the same building as Bambi Parker. As if things weren't dicey enough as they were!
"If they're sitting there empty, then what are all those units doing?" Dina asked.
"They're bein' shown. Prospective buyers tromp through 'em all the time."
"Through all of them?"
"You never know. Why? You suggestin' we show a place we live in?"
"Of course not, silly!" she said, with a touch of asperity. "I was only trying to save you money, Robert."
Shit, he thought. Dina save money? That was a laugh.
"Sweetie, we have to move somewhere."
He had a good mind to tell her, No, we don't have to move anywhere. He had a good mind to tell her, I was just getting used to the current decor as it is. He had a good mind to tell her, I liked the place on Central Park West the best. He had a good mind to tell her, I still miss my good, serviceable GoldMart furniture. And he had a good mind to tell her, Above all, I miss my goddamn recliner!
"I guess you'll just have to find us a place," he said.
"You know that's easier said than done, sweetie."
"Then what's wrong with stayin' in a hotel?" he suggested.
Dina's eyes lit up. "What a good idea!" she squealed. "Oh, Robert! I just knew you'd think of something!"
"You make the arrangements," he told her, and thought: How much can a hotel suite run? Not nearly as much as an overstaffed apartment. Besides, with hotel services, we can fire everybody—cook, major- domo, maids ...
"I'll get on it first thing," Dina promised.
"You do that," he said, congratulating himself on steering her clear of Auction Towers.
"And you'll have final approval of whatever I find," she told him.
"Unh-unh." He shook his head. "I'm much too busy to waste time lookin' at places," he said, deciding to drop by Bambi Parker's later that day. "It's all in your hands."
"You won't be sorry, Robert," Dina said—key words which should have set off all his internal alarms.
But he wasn't listening. Having decided to visit Bambi, he spent the rest of the meal fantasizing about what the morning might bring. Dina would have his ass in a sling if she guessed what he was planning.
Luckily, her mind was on other matters, notably which hotel she preferred—the Pierre, the Sherry Netherland, or the Carlyle—and how many rooms they would need.
Needless to say, her idea of hotel living was different from Robert's. And, best of all, he'd forgotten to put a cap on expenditure, another major mistake.
Not that she saw any reason to broach that particular subject just yet. He'd find out soon enough, anyway.
By which time it would be too late.
Just as well I don't have a window office, thought Kenzie, schlepping into work with a small paper bag containing two paper cups of takeout coffee and two cheese Danishes.
"Rovery!" Arnold Li cried.
"Please," Kenzie begged. "It's too early for that."
"In that case, thank you kindly. Oh. I checked our voice mail. Here're yours." He handed Kenzie pink While You Were Out slips.
Kenzie swiftly scanned them. "Nothing from Zandra?" she asked.
"No. Why?"
Taking off her coat and scarf, she quickly filled him in on Zandra's sudden departure.
"Well, time to hit the grindstone," she said. "I might as well start by getting these calls out of the way."
"Forget the calls," Arnold said. "The only important one's the three- one-three area code."
"Three-one-three ..." Kenzie frowned.
"Detroit and environs. Specifically, Grosse Pointe."
"Ah."
"And, more importantly, it's where one of the bodies is buried."
"Oh-ho!"
"Where the bodies are buried" was art world jargon, and referred to certain treasures whose changes of ownership everyone kept track of.
Kenzie felt a potent surge of excitement. "Don't tell me," she breathed, her eyes sparkling. "Da Vinci's studies for his unfinished Adoration of the Magi!"
"Bingo! That's the good news."
"Oh. So there's bad news, too?"
"Yep. The trustees for the heirs are trying to pit us, Christie's, and Sotheby's against one another."
"So what else is new?"
"Apparently, they're demanding special terms, including a guaranteed flat amount, whether or not the sketches fetch that much."
"Shit," she said quietly.
"I couldn't have expressed it better myself. Christie's will probably balk, but knowing Sotheby's, they'll jump at it. They've done it often enough in the past."
"Not to mention making preauction loans to buyers," Kenzie gloomed.
"Uh-huh. Anyway, I called Sheldon D. Fairey, and he wants to see you ASAP." Arnold swiveled in his chair and picked up his phone. "Just to be on the safe side, I'd better call the airlines and see about getting you on a flight to Detroi—"
He swiveled back around, but Kenzie was already gone.
For once, the dour Miss Botkin did not solemnly usher Kenzie into Sheldon D. Fairey's office—she practically hustled her inside.
"Ah, Ms. Turner."
Sheldon D. Fairey's voice was at its plummiest, and he looked formidable seated behind his mammoth, ivory-inlaid calamander, thuya, and ebony desk.
"Please." He gestured. "Do sit down."
"Thank you, sir."
Kenzie took a seat on one of a pair of Anglo-Indian, carved ebony armchairs and waited.
Shooting back the cuffs of his gorgeous suit of charcoal wool flannel, Sheldon D. Fairey rested his elbows on the tooled green leather writing surface, steepled his pink-palmed hands, and tapped his index fingers against his lips. "I gather you have a good idea why I wished to see you?"
She met his gaze directly. "Yes, sir. The Leonardo sketches."
"Quite right." He nodded and frowned. "Tell me, Ms. Turner. How much would you estimate they are worth?"
Kenzie stared at him. Oh, boy, she thought. Talk about the sixty-four- million-dollar question!
"Well, sir," she said slowly, "I really couldn't begin to guess. If they are indeed the real thing, they're ... well, priceless. There's no way I could put a dollar value on them."
"Of course not." He permitted himself a slight smile. "My answer exactly."
She waited.
"Unfortunately, philistine as it may sound, as auctioneers we are in the business of constantly appraising priceless articles expressly to put a financial price on them. Is that not true?"
"I know that, sir, but as for a Leonardo sketchbook ... Well, first of all, I've never seen any of these drawings in person, only in photographs, and I don't need to tell you that photographs can lie. Also, a lot depends upon the condition they're in. Are they faded? Smeared? Foxed? Torn? And finally, there's the matter of rarity. Leonardos aren't like Picassos. They hardly ever come on the auction block. The last time I can remember was when Basia Johnson—"
"Yes, yes, I know," he said testily, and sighed. "Please, Ms. Turner," he said in a soft voice, "humor me. Try."
Kenzie held up her hands. "That's just it, sir. I don't know! All I can do is speculate, and even then I'd first have to judge their quality, authenticity, and condition. And to do that, I'd have to see them in person."
"I take it Mr. Li told you about the trustees pitting us against Christie's and Sotheby's?"
"Yes, sir."
"Apparently, they're demanding an instant decision—" He held up both hands, palms facing outward, to fend off her protests. "I know, I know. It's highly irregular. However, in view of the fact that they are Leonardos . . . well, we must be flexible."
Kenzie was silent.
"Also, the trustees want us—and the other auction houses—to guarantee a certain minimum price. Needless to say, they'll choose whoever's offer is the highest."
"Correct me if I'm wrong, sir, but ... aren't there twenty-four sketches in all?" Kenzie asked.
"I believe so." He nodded briefly. "Yes."
"Good lord! That means each of them may be worth millions!"
"Which is precisely why I'm counting on you, Ms. Turner. We cannot let this opportunity slide through our fingers. I want you to fly to Detroit at once, and if the sketches are indeed authentic—"
"I'll arrange for hotel reservations," she said. "How long do I have? One week? Two?"
He smiled humorlessly. "Several hours, I'm afraid."
"What!" Kenzie stared at him in disbelief. "You are joking, sir?"
"If only I were."
"But this is madness! Merely authenticating—"
"I know, Ms. Turner, believe me, I know. However, if we want to handle this sale, we are forced to guarantee a price."
Kenzie stared at him. "By 'we,' " she said carefully, "I gather you mean me? That I'll have to decide?"
"Yes, Ms. Turner," he said. "You will have the authority to make the decision."
She thought: And be the sacrificial lamb if anything goes wrong.
He tapped his steepled fingertips. "Therefore, in case they are authentic and in good condition, we need to establish what we would consider to be a fair price guarantee. One that would hopefully top Christie's—and especially Sotheby's—offers."
How am I supposed to guess price guarantees? I haven't even seen the damn things. What if they're clever forgeries?
"Ten million?" he asked. "Twenty million? More?"
I've never seen that much money. How many stacks of twenty dollar bills would that make? Suitcases full. It must weigh a ton.
"Naturally, I'll need to clear this with Mr. Goldsmith," Sheldon D. Fairey said, reaching for his telephone and stabbing the number of Robert A. Goldsmith's cellular phone. "Let's just hope to God I can get hold of him. For all we know, he could be in Timbuktu."
If only he were. I wouldn't care whether he's in deepest, darkest wherever—or on land, air, or sea—just so long as it's someplace where no one can reach him.
Fat chance.
Robert A. Goldsmith was not only very much within reach. Unbeknownst to either Kenzie or Sheldon D. Fairey, he happened to be right above them.
In Bambi Parker's twenty-seventh-floor Auction Towers sublet. Lying naked on a fur spread while Bambi, aerobics-firm and pink as a Georgia peach, knelt penitently between his splayed thighs, expertly giving head.
Bambi kept her eyes and ears conveniently shut—the former, the better not to see his gelatinous bulk; the latter, to drown out his obscene, running litany:
"Yeah, baby ... uh-huh ... that's right, eat Daddy's dick ... that's a goooood girl ..."
She performed admirably, especially considering that her mind was on cruise control:
One dick is just like the next. I'll pretend it's Lex Bugg's, and that after he's good and hot he'll fuck the bewaddens out of me.
Robert's short but sturdily built penis twitched and strained and grew thicker.
This afternoon's my appointment at Georgette Klinger's. Maybe I'll treat myself to a massage along with my facial.
His wheezy groans were coming faster and she could feel his thighs quivering.
And then I'll stop at Bendel's and splurge on one of those resin and raffia pendants ...
At this point, his cock was ready to explode, and she could feel the beginnings of a shudder coursing through him when—
Bleat ... bleat ... bleat—
His cellular phone began to ring.
Bambi, hoping to bring him to climax sooner rather than later, treated him to an even stronger suction, but his hands pushed her away.
Shit! she thought. Now I'll have to start all over from scratch.
"Ro-bert!" She sat back on her heels and pouted. "Can't you just let it fucking ring?"
Her perfect blonde hair was mussed and her face was all red from the blood rushing to her head while bending down to suck him off.
"Business before pleasure," he rasped. "Now bring me the damn phone."
She sulked. "Ro—"
"Phone."
"Oh, all right!" she said crossly.
Bambi climbed to her feet, got out of bed, and went to fetch it from his coat pocket. When she tossed it at him, he unflipped it, pressed send, and grunted: "Yeah."
"Mr. Goldsmith? Sheldon D. Fairey here."
"Whassamatta?"
"Something urgent has come up, and I need your approval."
"Aw right. Gimme it in a nutshell."
Fairey did, and Robert listened, every now and then giving a noncommittal grunt.
Still pouting, Bambi climbed back up on the bed and settled on her haunches between Robert's splayed legs. She could hear the squawk of the voice on the other end, but couldn't make out any of the words.
"I suppose you need an answer now, huh?" Robert was saying. "Okay. About this Ms.—What's Her Name? Turner—"
Bambi perked up at the mention of Kenzie, and silently started mouthing something.
"—you trust her judgment?"
Robert listened some more, ignoring Bambi's furious sign language.
"Aw right, tell ya what. There's twenty-four of 'em? Okay. If she's a hunnert percent sure they're the real McCoy, I'll authorize up to eighteen mil. Yeah, for the whole shebang! I don't give diddly what they're probably worth. 'Probably' don't cut no ice with me. She has the least doubt, she's to drop 'em. Like a hot potato, yeah. Lemme know what happens."
Robert pressed the end button and tossed the phone aside.
"Ro-bert!" Bambi complained. "I'm supposed to be the head of that department."
He drilled her with his porcine eyes. "Talkin' about head, why don'tcha shut up and gimme some?" he growled.
"But—"
"Just do as you're told."
Zandra was on a pay phone at Kennedy Airport.
"Gosh, Arnold, Kenzie's where? In Detroit? Oh, I see. No, it's nothing important. Thanks, Arnold. See you."
She hung up and sighed.
Damn, she thought. So much for moral support. Well, might as well roll up my sleeves. The sooner I get this nasty piece of business over with, the better.