Allan Stein. Matthew Stadler

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      “I wonder if Allan’s classmates cared that he knew Picasso?” (Dogan’s association with me, even when it was mere parental rumor, had lent him a glamour and worldliness that dazzled the mock sophisticates of Urban Country Day’s upper school. The girls flocked around him—martyred sexual decadent, grown-up seducer of men—and began to pursue this slim little boy who just weeks before had been nothing more than a charming but infantile halfback on the soccer team. Dogan had sex with many of these girls, seduced by the rumors of his homosexuality, and I could only swallow the bitter reports of my jealous heart.)

      “You know, Herbert, if you’re not going to finish that lamb—”

      Herbert slid the tepid plate to Hank, who smiled and asked me, “How is that school of yours?” deflecting attention from the flap of meat he then slipped into his mouth. Hank took a great interest in my school but thankfully had no information except what I gave him. He’d even met Dogan once, when I took the boy to the local sports palace to join Hank and his teenage son in an opulent sky box, replete with swiveling chairs, nifty curtains, sniveling help hauling beer and snacks, plus a huge TV, which was a big hit all around.

      “My school?” It was doubtful Hank knew anything. “Actually, I’ve quit teaching.” Herbert glanced at me, then, pointedly, away. “I’m working with Herbert now, helping him out at the museum.” I could have caused two deaths with this single utterance, as it caught Herbert in mid-swallow of a glass of water, on which he began to choke, and Hank in the depths of chewing a tongue-sized lamb chunk, through which undercooked sinew he tried exclaiming, “Why, that’s just terrific!” A long draught of wine dislodged the meat and kept us from the ugly exertions of the Heimlich maneuver (invented by Dr. Henry J. Heimlich of Cincinnati, whose charming twin daughters I have met and enjoyed).

      “That’s just terrific,” Hank repeated, after the wine. “Working together like a team. There’s nothing better.” Herbert didn’t seem to think so. “Herb kept mum about it the whole day.”

      “Yes,” Herbert said. “I didn’t want to spoil the surprise.”

      “What are you now, an assistant or a consultant of some sort?”

      I was silent.

      “He’s my assistant,” Herbert said, drinking my wine because his was empty. “I let him fiddle with all the machines, the faxes, the mimeographs, and all that.”

      “Herbert’s no good with machines,” I explained.

      “That’s right. It’s really very helpful having an assistant around to take care of them.”

      “Sometimes I make the coffee.” I added. Hank laughed because this was obviously a joke. “Actually, I’ll be doing a lot of the footwork on these Stein drawings.”

      “That’s right.” Herbert smiled at me. “Which is why I was so glad, Hank, that you were interested in seeing both of us for dinner tonight, because that is precisely the project we need your help on.”

      “I’m always interested in helping,” Hank allowed. “Particularly if it’s going to be some kind of fun.”

      “It will be fun, Hank. I want you to buy the drawings and donate them to the museum.”

      Hank looked a little unhappy. “Just buy them?”

      “Uh-huh, and donate them to the museum.”

      “It sounds pretty dull to me.”

      Poor Herbert. He looked completely undone by this small defeat. “Actually”—I rallied for my new boss—“the way, uh, Herbert has it all worked out”—here I smiled broadly at brooding Herbert—“we need you to go to Paris, Hank, for the whole … arrangement to work, am I right, Herbert?” Herbert nodded glumly. I went on. “Well.” I rattled the empty wine bottle, then sipped my water, while thinking. “We’re going first, or Herbert is”—I tipped my fork to him—“to poke around and see if these drawings are even what we think they are, and then, if they are, Herbert will insist on their worthlessness and make his pitiful little offer.”

      “Which of course they’ll reject.” The curator spoke.

      “Right, which of course they’ll reject … which is when you show up, Hank, and buy the pieces right out from under us. You see, this will give the family the pleasure of thinking they’ve taken you to the cleaners, because Herbert will have established that the drawings are nearly worthless except as wallpaper for some children’s hospital, and then you sweep in, the big rich bumbling American who doesn’t know his ass from his elbow—that’s the masquerade anyway, the part you’ll be playing—and the family sells to you at twice what we offered, thinking they’ve hit the jackpot. And voilà! you’ve got the drawings!” Herbert rolled his eyes.

      “Voilà!” Hank echoed, smiling. “That sounds like fun.”

      “Oh.” Herbert sighed. “I’m sure it would be.”

      “I can do that,” Hank announced. “I mean, why not? April in Paris.” Herbert looked strangely disappointed. “Say, isn’t that one of your students?” Hank pointed his bent fork tine toward the crowded windows of the Hair Health and Vanity store, and there was Dogan, Mother beside him clutching a fresh wig bag, with Daddy evidently gone. “Donald, wasn’t it, or Doogie, that kid you brought to the football game?”

      “Hank, have you seen the Grand Marble Bar yet?” I asked. “It’s really the highlight of the whole hotel.”

      “Noah certainly did have a good time with him.” Hank strained to follow the swiftly moving boy but was distracted by his bladder.

      I turned toward Herbert. “Herbert? The Grand Marble Bar? We seem to be out of wine in any case, and I’m sure Hank is sick of this dreary emporium.”

      “I’ll join you two in a sec,” Hank offered, rising. “Gotta go to the pisser.” We waved a feathery good-bye, and Herbert glared at me.

      “Are you mad about something?” I asked. Dogan, fragmented, drifting, afflicted my periphery.

      “Where do you come up with these fantasies?”

      “With what?”

      “You certainly improvised well. I just can’t believe Hank swallowed all that garbage, flights to Paris to hobnob with the rich.”

      “Come on, you’ll have a great time.”

      “Look, Miss Double-oh-seven, the sort of espionage you described has nothing to do with art acquisition. One buys drawings at galleries. You know, like at a store?”

      “You made these sound like the Dead Sea Scrolls.”

      “Did I? Well they might be worth a small fortune, but I’m afraid the chances of their being at all important are remote to none. I was just fishing around to see how far Hank was willing to go with that checkbook of his.”

      “Do you always rely on swindling the rich?”

      “I СКАЧАТЬ