“Little creepy, isn’t it?” said the other. Higher voice. He pointed to Angel Grass. “What about that one? Might look good in your bathroom.”
“How much for that one?” said the first.
Max cleared his throat. “That one’s seventy-five.”
“Hmm. Yeah, I could go with that one.”
“This one?” Max made sure, gesturing toward Angel Grass.
They both nodded. Delicately he handed it to the second man, who took it just as delicately. The couple moved off with Max’s piece and Max folded the money and stuffed it into his back pocket.
Then, just next to him: “Hey there.”
A familiar voice, muffled by the many others passing. Max turned.
The guy from The Schoolhouse, the shop. The Mover and Shaker, clad now not in his money-clothes but in denim shorts and a collarless shirt. James—yes, this time he was sure of the name, but only because he’d now seen this man too often.
“Hey,” said Max, with only fleeting eye contact. “How’s it going?”
“Not too bad. Max, right?”
“Right.”
“This looks like a good place to sell artwork. This where you make your sales?”
“For now. I’ve been in kind of a dry spell lately.”
“I see. Well, I have some good news for you. I don’t know if you remember, but I mentioned once to you a gallery that I was thinking of opening—”
“I remember, yeah.”
“Well, it’s a go. I’ve got the place, and I’m in contact with a few artists and I want to have the grand opening this summer.”
“Really?”
“Indeed. I’ve even been working on a few pieces myself. I’m a bit of a sculptor. Well, was a sculptor. I’m kind of getting back into things. I haven’t started them but I’m just formulating. I’m sure you know how that goes. Getting things squared away.”
“I know, yeah.”
Get out of my goddamn face.
James nodded. “I wanted to let you know, too, that I really like your work. I saw some of it on the Internet, on the page for Direct Canvas.”
“My stuff is on the Internet?”
“Uh-huh. There was one in particular I really liked. Can’t remember the name of it, unfortunately, but when I saw it I felt The Spark. You know that—you feel it with women, you feel it with art. Just hits you. I want to do something like that.”
While curious as to what piece he was referring, Max kept his replies to a minimum. “Glad to be of service.”
Both men stared into the stream of people before them. The marine layer edged closer to shore and the air grew damp, breezes barbed with a chill.
James said, “I heard you were on a trip.”
Max nodded. “Was up north. Visiting family.”
Visiting family hah visiting family what the what the—
“Traveling alone?” James said.
Finally Max faced him, made eye contact. “Why do you care?”
“No real reason. Just curious, that’s all. Sorry to pry.”
Wind snapping now, the cottony tendrils of fog curling lethargically inland.
“I guess I’ll leave you be,” James said. “I’m probably a nuisance unless I buy something, right?”
Max said nothing.
***
James Cannon walked the beach and thought of her.
She, a shimmering mirage in his mind that was growing stronger, riding every other synapse, becoming a stomachache in his brain. What would she say if he just...told her? Upchucked these feelings, let her sort them out? She was probably used to guys doing that. But maybe from him she would find it distantly endearing. Charming. He could be the exception. She was kinky, wild—she’d have to be to work at a place like The Schoolhouse, where just being an employee entailed risks. How much of a stretch was it to think she wouldn’t take it one step further, give in to her curiosity by accepting at least a night with him?
“Penelope?” the girl on the other end had said, as if she were genuinely confused. “She’s not available.”
Twice now she hadn’t been available. Odd. Bad timing too, bad bad timing. In her mourning, Teresa had not been given much to sex and so much of his energy of late had gone into the office. Other things too. His art. Yeah, what art? You wish. Maybe Max could be his mentor. How degrading would that be? Ask him. Ask him. Max knew Penelope, too—somehow there had to be a way in. Yet all such ways seemed dark and narrow, perfect for the lesser creatures: the worms, the weasels.
She’s avoiding me.
He wondered if her roommate had given her his messages. Hopefully she wasn’t creeped out by his calling. She was probably intrigued. It probably turned her on.
Maybe one day he could sculpt her.
Immortalize her.
***
Dwayne hated lawyers. Well-deserved reputation they had. Every joke, corny or harsh, echoing some sad, animal truth. Investors as well. There was a kinship between the two, the suits that thrived on base reflex. Sharp-toothed instinct. This guy Cannon so conformed to the look, too. The clothes, the attaché case. The myopia of his movement. Animated not on any one soul but an assemblage of souls sired from others. A Frankensoul.
“Can you keep an eye on this guy for me?” Karen had said in her apartment, just after they’d returned from the trip up north.
He’d asked what was wrong. She bit her lip, her demeanor tightening. She sat tentatively on the edge of her couch, inches from her roommate’s party mess, eyes lost in haunting possibilities.
“Nothing is wrong yet,” she said. “This client of mine just creeps me out. I haven’t worked, you know, where I work for very long, but I haven’t had anyone as...serious as him.”
“He’s the guy who called fifty times?” Dwayne said.
“You saw the message,” Karen said rhetorically. “Yeah. Seems a little crazy to me.”
“To me too. What would you like me to do? See if he has a record?”
“I guess. I think maybe just the more I know about him the more at ease I’ll be. Maybe.”
She had dictated to him basic physical features and he had sketched his face. Then she’d given him the model and plates of his car.
“Sounds like you’re more than creeped out,” Dwayne said.
“I’ve learned to be
