23

 

THE WEST VILLAGE, MANHATTAN, THURSDAY NIGHT

Special Agent Ange Wilkie walked through the streets of lower Manhattan, reveling in air—hot, humid air, but still air—and sounds and life: a couple chatting on their stoop; an old man with his aged dog, both limping down the sidewalk; the smell of frying garlic wafting from the Italian restaurant she just passed; a noisy game of basketball played under blinking neon. Anything but the life she had been listening in to, the sterile, avaricious, to her meaningless life of Ronald Glass. She had listened in for over twelve hours today. Her share of eight, and an extra four.

When she went to ask her partner if he wanted her to grab him his customary corn beef on rye, a giant Coke, and a Danish for lunch, she found Pete Rodgers, now known throughout the building as Rac, asleep in his office, headphones still attached, head on his desk, snoring loudly enough to drown out whatever detritus of a life he was listening to. Sleep was in short supply at home, especially at night, which as far as Ange could gather, baby Rodgers had switched with day.

So she’d woken him, told him to go home. Meekly, sleepwalking almost, he had gone and she’d listened in to his share of the intercepts.

Ronald Glass ringing his dealer; Ronald Glass ringing his wife, telling her he’d be flying to Houston, that he’d see her the next day; Ronald Glass hustling a deal; Ronald Glass potty-mouthing his colleagues; Ronald Glass booking a Manhattan hotel suite; Ronald Glass assuring the gallery owner in Manhattan who rang to remind him that the opening night of the hot new exhibition was tonight and to please, please come ’cause he’d simply love the stuff and the artist herself too—so talented—so eminently collectible. The artist, or her work, wondered Ange.

And here it was, the focus of what she had pretended to herself was just a random walk; Gallery Klesh on West Twenty-first. Ten thirty and still the art lovers were tilting their heads and scrutinizing, still with glasses of what must have been warm wine in their hands, while the odd rebel stood on the sidewalk, cigarette in hand, gesticulating with the grand abandon of alcohol. Ange, sporting her blond wig once again, allowed herself a quick glance, walked on by.

Five minutes later, on the other side of the street, she approached again. A Persian cat crossed the sidewalk in front of her, paused as if debating whether to cross the street. Ange bent down, ruffled the luxurious fur.

“Hey, pretty thing. How ya doing?” she crooned. In the shadow between a Range Rover and a Hummer, she glanced up, saw a man emerge from the gallery, arm draped across the shoulders of a young, spectacularly pretty redhead with tumbling hair and a slightly stumbling walk.

“Exquisite rendering, simply exquisite,” gushed Ronald Glass. “So, honey, Shibhaun,” he added deliberately, as if to say he would never forget her name. “I have a suite at The Carlyle. What say you we go and celebrate your sell out?”

The woman’s reply was inaudible, but it was clear to Ange that Ronald Glass was about to collect.

A business trip, he had told his wife. Yeah, it was business, of a kind: a few thousand dollars for a soul. You bastard, she murmured, watching him slide with the redhead into an idling Town Car. Just give me time, she thought, and I’ll collect you too.