stuff,” he said. “What is it?”
“Schramsberg. Philip feels it’s the best California stuff and the patriotic thing to serve.”
“The man is truly a patriot,” Stone said. “Can I fetch you a glass?”
“No, thanks; I’ve already had my single allowable glass at an opening. Come let me show you Squire’s work.”
“What’s his first name?” Stone asked.
“He doesn’t use one, just Squire.”
“Easier to remember that way, I guess.” Stone walked slowly along a wall, taking in the work. “An American impressionist,” he said. “I like that.”
“So does the market,” Rita said. “We sold half the stuff before tonight, and we’ve already sold half a dozen. There won’t be anything left at the end of the evening.”
“It’s a big show,” Stone said, “and I’m glad to hear of an artist getting a big paycheck. What’s the price range?”
“Thirty to eighty thousand,” Rita replied.
“That makes for a very nice paycheck indeed, even after the gallery’s cut.”
“A good paycheck for us, too, especially in this economy.”
“A lot of people in this city don’t have to cut back when the economy goes sour and the market is down.”
“I guess half of a hundred-million-dollar portfolio is still fifty million,” she said. “A person could scrape by on that.”
“Indeed,” Stone said, looking around. “Is Hildy Parsons here?”
“Behind you, just getting off the elevator,” Rita replied.
Stone turned and looked. Hildy Parsons was an attractive young woman, blond and athletic-looking. The man with her was a different thing entirely.
“Is that Derek Sharpe?” he asked Rita.
“I’m afraid so,” she said.
Sharpe was wearing a white suit a size too small for him, white shoes, no socks, and a black T-shirt. His hair was graying, greasy, and down to his shoulders.
“Good God,” Stone said.
“My sentiments exactly.”
“Grotesque,” he said.
“I’m afraid that, in the art world, not everyone dresses as immaculately as you do,” Rita said.
“Or gets a haircut,” Stone added. “Would you introduce me to them?”
“I will, if you’ll take me to dinner when I’m done here,” she said.
“You’ve got a deal.”
The couple moved into the room, and Stone followed Rita toward them.
“Hello, Hildy,” Rita said, and the two women exchanged air kisses.”
“Hi, Rita. You know Derek, don’t you?”
“Of course,” Hildy said without acknowledging the man. “And this is Stone Barrington.”
Stone shook Hildy’s hand and looked into her eyes. She seemed smarter than her choice of companion would indicate. “How do you do?” he said.
“This is Derek Sharpe, the painter,” Hildy said.
Stone shook his hand and found it soft and damp. “How do you do?”
“I do very well,” Sharpe replied.
“I’ll bet you do,” Stone said tonelessly. He turned back to Hildy. “You’re Philip’s daughter?”
“Sometimes,” she said.
“He speaks fondly of you.”
She looked at him in surprise. “When?”
“As recently as this morning.”
“Well!” she breathed.
Rita jumped into the conversation. “Stone is a prospective client,” she said. “Philip especially wanted him to see Squire’s work.”
“Oh, you must come downtown and see Derek’s paintings,” Hildy said.
“I’d like that.”
She took a card from her purse and handed it to Stone. “Be sure and call first; he doesn’t like to show people around when he’s working.”
“I’ll certainly do that. Will you excuse me, please? I want to see the rest of Squire’s pictures.”
“Of course,” Hildy said.
Stone nodded at Sharpe and peeled off toward another wall of paintings, glad to be increasing his distance from Sharpe. Rita went to greet some new arrivals.
Ten minutes later he heard a hubbub from the other end of the room and turned to see a knot of people gathered around a picture. He wandered over to see what was happening and saw that the picture had been slashed from one corner to another. Apparently, straight razors were coming back into vogue, he thought.
He looked around and saw Hildy Parsons and Derek Sharpe on the other side of the room, studiously looking away from the damaged painting.
15
THEY SAT AT Stone’s favorite corner table at La Goulue, on Madison Avenue, sipping their drinks and looking at the menu. The waiter, a young Frenchwoman with a charming accent, came over, told them about the specials, and stood ready to take their order.
Rita ordered sweetbreads and Dover sole, while Stone went for the haricots verts salad and the strip steak. He picked a bottle of Cotes du Rhone, the house red.
“I know you want to know more about Derek Sharpe,” Rita said.
“I’d like to hear anything you can tell me,” Stone replied. “I confess I don’t understand why women are attracted to him.”
Rita sipped her wine while she thought about that. “I think it’s a combination of the bad-boy thing and the art, and I should place quotes around that.”
“Not good, huh?”
“He’s an abstract painter, the sort who looked at Jackson Pol lock’s stuff and thought he could do that. Do you remember a little documentary film called The Day of the Painter?”
“Refresh my memory.”
“A fisherman lives in a shack on the shore. He sees some Pollocks in a magazine, so he buys some buckets of paint and a big sheet of plywood, puts it on the foreshore next to his shack, and paints it white with a roller. Then he stands on his deck a few feet above the plywood and spills dollops of paint onto the white surface of the plywood. Finally, he goes down to the foreshore with a power saw and cuts the plywood into smaller squares, then he sells them as abstract paintings.”
“That’s a funny idea.”
“That’s the kind of painter Mr. Sharpe is. If someone criticizes the work, then they just don’t have the artistic taste or mental capacity to appreciate it, and he raises the price.”
“He actually gets galleries to show this stuff?”
“No. When everybody turned him down, he hired a publicist to plant stories in the papers about him and then started selling out of his studio. He gets a prospective buyer down there, and he’s quite a good salesman, spewing gobbledygook about passion and genius, and people fall for it.”
Their dinner arrived, and Stone tasted the wine.
“Tell me about the drug rumors,” Stone said. “I suppose that’s what they are-rumors.”
“Well, yes, but not entirely. I know someone who bought half a kilo of marijuana from him, and I’ve heard secondhand stories about his dealing in coke: not little bags, nothing smaller than an ounce, but as much as a
