Vale stood beneath the awning of Fuel, sipping a cup of coffee and huffing cigarettes. Rainwater fell in jubilant strings from the awning and he watched people pass by with their umbrellas, chins tucked into their jackets against the rain. He felt a flare of melancholy so fierce he wanted to wrap his arms around the world. Rain, at least in the beginning of the season, always hurt him like this. Lovingly.
“Cigarette?”
He looked down and wasn’t surprised to see the man in the wheelchair again, his hands still shifting in his lap like errant pets. His teddy bear was gone, but the man himself was the same.
Look for signs, Marvin was always saying, and there was something to be learned from that. Marvin seemed continually poised to tell him something, and Vale kept waiting. He’d be ready to hear it whenever Marvin decided he was willing. And in the meantime, Vale looked for signs. He could usually find them.
Vale handed the man a cigarette and lit it for him as the man’s thrumming hands cupped themselves loosely around Vale’s own.
The man squinted through the smoke. “Thanks, bud. How about ten bucks?”
Vale laughed. “Give me a break.”
The man cackled and pushed off. Still this odd amalgam, the Pearl District: a clutch of kids passed by wearing hairstyles that were embarrassing when Vale was young and yet had now become modern and fashionable. The world ate irony for breakfast. Disheveled kids who walked past—and looked like children to Vale—were in tech, finance, pulled in six-digit incomes. The world was moving on. For good or bad, its relentlessness was the one reliable thing.
Behind him, he heard Fuel’s door being unlocked. He turned and saw a different assistant, an emaciated Asian kid in skintight black jeans and with purple highlights in his hair. He eyed Vale warily. Even with the scabs on his forehead healed to pink scars and his beard trimmed to something less animal-like, there was something ragged about Vale. There would always be something ragged about him.
The kid opened the door a bit. “Help you?”
“Is Jacob in?”
“He’s working in the back. May I tell him who’s visiting?”
Vale said his name and the kid’s eyes bulged.
It didn’t take long for Burfine to come tearing ass from the back room, again dressed as if there were a fashion photographer somewhere gravely disappointed by his recent absence.
“Mike, goddamn, so good to see you. This is great, so glad you’re here. How you doing? You look good! You look great!” Burfine rocked on his heels, ushered Vale inside, clapped him once on the shoulder.
“I’m doing okay,” Vale said. He held his coffee in front of him, a minor shield. Almost two weeks sober now and he’d knuckled through some bad cravings. Tremors still wracked him sometimes. The sheen—that magical awe of simple sobriety—was wearing off somewhat, but still. This, compared to what it was like before? This was worthwhile. Scary as shit, but worth it.
Burfine said, “Listen, Mike, I don’t want to jump the gun, but I think I found a buyer for Unraveling.” He laughed, shaking his head. “I mean, wow. People are very interested. This is exciting, man. I want to thank you again.”
Vale’s jaw dropped. “You’re flipping it? You’re flipping that painting?”
Burfine took a step back, stricken. “I mean—Yeah. I thought it was assumed—”
“I’m messing with you,” Vale said. “Flip it. Make money. Good for you.”
“Jesus, Mike.”
Vale grinned into the mouth of his coffee cup. When he looked up at Burfine, he said, “Let’s do a show.”
Burfine froze like that, still with that stricken grin on his face. “What’s that?”
Vale took another sip of coffee and nodded. “I want to paint again. I want to do a show. Let’s do it.”
“Really,” Burfine said.
Jittery from the adrenaline dump, the fear of broaching him, of asking for help, Vale said, “I need a loan for supplies and a studio rental. You can take it out of sales. Let’s drum up a contract. In writing. I’ll give you exclusive representation in North America.”
Burfine tilted his head, measured him. “You’re serious.”
“I’m totally serious. North American representation. And I want the name of an entertainment lawyer here in town. Brophy and I are working things out.”
“Really. You and Jared Brophy are working things out.”
“We are,” Vale said. “So what do you say?”