Another carriage pulled to a stop in front of the gallery. Vincent stepped down and opened the door.
Emory Bates made Maggio get out first, then George and Griff and he followed the black man.
“Find yourselves a place to stay,” he told his nephews. “If I need you, I’ll shout.”
“Yes, Uncle E.,” George said. “Come on, Griff.” His cousin hesitated, so he grabbed the big man’s arm and dragged him away.
“Vincent,” Bates said, “around the corner.”
“Yes, sir.”
Vincent got back into the seat and drove the carriage away.
Bates turned to the black man.
“Are you ready, Maggio?”
“I’m ready.”
Bates stepped forward and entered the gallery, with the big black man close on his heels.
~*~
Clint had just walked across the room to join Nadine again. As he did the door opened and two men entered. One, a very well dressed white man in his 60’s, the other a well dressed, huge black man who looked as out of place as Clint felt.
“That’s Emory Bates,” Nadine said.
“And the black man?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I’ve never seen him before.”
“They’re coming over here.”
“Good,” she said. “I want you to meet Emory.”
“And then he can tell us who the black walking mountain is.”
They turned and waited for the two men to reach them. The black man walked behind Bates, and when they stopped he remained standing behind him.
“Nadine,” Bates said, “quite a successful night for you by the looks of it, my dear.”
“Yes,” Nadine said, “from the looks of it.”
Bates looked Clint, recognized him as the man he had passed on the way out of the gallery the other day.
“And who is this?” he asked “One of your new investors?”
“Not at all,” she said. “Emory, this is my good friend, Clint Adams.”
“Mr. Adams,” Bates said, extending his hand, “A pleasure.”
Clint shook his hand and said, “We know each other.”
“Do we?”
“Well,” Clint said, “in passing. We passed while I was on my way into the gallery, and you were coming out.”
“Of course,” Bates said, releasing Clint’s hand.
“You suggested I might prefer a downtown gallery.”
“Did I?” Bates asked. “Well, apparently I was wrong. There was something about this gallery you must have liked very much.”
“And who’s your friend?” Clint asked, ignoring the remark.
Clint looked at the big black man, who stared back at him intently.
“Oh, this is Maggio.”
“Maggio?” Clint repeated.
“Yes,” Bates said, “Just Maggio.”
“Funny,” Nadine said, “he doesn’t look Italian.”
“That’s what I said when we met,” Bates replied.
Clint could see that the black man’s suit had been expertly, expensively made, but his educated eye could still observe a firearm beneath the man’s jacket, most likely in a shoulder rig.
“It’s just a name,” Bates said.
“And is he an art lover?” Clint asked.
“Not at all,” Bates said.
“Does he talk?” Clint asked.
“No,” Bates said, “that’s not part of his job.”
“Have a look at our new artist, Emory,” Nadine suggested.
“I’m very interested in your new friend, Nadine,” Bates said. “Why don’t you go and take care of your artist, and potential investors, and let us get acquainted.”
“But—” Nadine started.
“It’s okay, Nadine,” Clint said. “We’ll be fine.”
“All right,” she said, reluctantly. “I’ll check back with you later.”
As she walked away Clint asked Bates, “What’s on your mind, Mr. Bates?”
“You pulled a gun on my nephews, Mr. Adams,” Bates said. “Is that the way you usually act?”
“Actually, when threatened, yes, it is,” Clint said. “You see, all these paintings have been done by men and women who are artistic with paints. I happen to be artistic with a gun.”
“Wait a minute,” Bates said, as if he suddenly got it. “Clint Adams?”
“That’s right.”
“The Clint Adams?”
“The only one I know of.”
Bates pointed at him and asked, “Are you carrying a gun now?”
“Of course I am.”
“This is the city,” Bates told him, “Not the wild West.”
“Tell that to your man, here,” Clint said, “He’s wearing a gun, as well.”
Bates looked like he didn’t know how to react.
“I think I’ll take Nadine’s suggestion and look at the new artist’s work,” he said, finally. “Excuse me.”
“Of course,” Clint said. “After all, that’s the reason you’re here, right?”
Bates didn’t answer. He walked away, with Maggio right behind him.
~*~
As Bates and Maggio reached the wall with Ben White’s paintings, Maggio asked, “Who was that?”
“That,” Emory Bates answered, “was Clint Adams.”
“Am I supposed to know who him?” the black man asked.
“You will!” Bates assured him.