course heâs been calling the office. He wants work.â Holtz brushed a scrap of lint from the sleeve of his tuxedo. âBut I think it would be wise not to have anything to do with him for a while. You can find another photographer, Iâm sure.â He put down his glass. âWe should be going.â
The limousine was waiting outside the entrance of the building, ready to take them the four blocks to a private fund-raising dinner. Holtz was not looking forward to it; these charity evenings could bankrupt a man if he wasnât careful. He patted his pockets to make sure heâd forgotten his checkbook.
8
THE streets of Manhattanâs Upper East Side tend to confirm the view of those who see the city as a frontier outpost on the brink of war. Apartment buildings are garrisons, patrolled around the clock by uniformed men called Jerry or Pat or Juan. Private houses are fortified against invasion: Triple-locked doors, thickets of steel bars, alarm systems, drapes so heavy they could be bulletproofâevery security device short of the domestic rocket launcher and the antipersonnel mine is prominently displayed or signaled. And this is the safe part of town. These urban bunkers are the seats of wealth and privilege, situated in highly desirable locations, properties that change hands for seven figures.
As Andre turned off Park Avenue to go down Sixty-third Street, he wondered what it would be like to exist in a permanent state of siege. Did it ever become something you took for granted and eventually didnât even notice? The idea of the prison home appalled him, and yet for some people it was normality. Denoyer, for instance, whether he was in France or the Bahamas, spent his lifebehind barricades. And so, from the look of his house, did Cyrus Pine.
It was a fairly typical four-floor brownstone, perhaps a little wider than most, and noticeably well kept. The short flight of steps was scoured and spotless, the front door and the ironwork protecting the lower windows were sleek with fresh black paint, the brass bell push was dazzling in the noon sunshine. There was no sign to indicate that this was a commercial enterprise, but then it was hardly the kind of business that depended on passing trade or impulse purchases.
Andre pressed the bell and identified himself to the intercom. Sixty seconds later, the door was opened by a stray from Fifth Avenueâa willowy young woman who looked as though she had spent most of the morning and a good deal of her fatherâs money shopping for her outfit for the day. A cashmere sweater, a silk scarf, a skimpy but luxurious flannel skirt, and the kind of shoesâhigh heeled and with paper-thin solesâthat are priced by the ounce. The way she smiled at Andre, she might have been waiting for him all her life. âFollow me,â she said. Which he did with pleasure as she led him across the black and white tiled hallway and into a small study.
âMr. Pine will be right down. Can I get you an espresso? Some tea? A glass of wine?â
Andre asked for white wine, feeling a little uneasy at being treated with such consideration. His call to Pine had been brief; while he had mentioned the young art dealerâs name and the magic word Cézanne, he hadnât gone into any detail about the purpose of his visit. Pine must haveassumed that he was a potential customer. He smoothed his jacket and looked down at his shoes, dull against the chestnut sheen of the studyâs parquet floor, and was standing on one leg, polishing a dusty toecap against the back of his trousers, when the girl returned.
âThere.â She gave him another smile and a crystal glass, misty with condensation. âHeâs just finishing a call. Please sit down and make yourself comfortable.â She closed the door behind her, leaving a trace of scent in the air.
Andre gave up on his shoes and inspected the room. It had the feeling of a quiet corner in a comfortable,
The limousine was waiting outside the entrance of the building, ready to take them the four blocks to a private fund-raising dinner. Holtz was not looking forward to it; these charity evenings could bankrupt a man if he wasnât careful. He patted his pockets to make sure heâd forgotten his checkbook.
8
THE streets of Manhattanâs Upper East Side tend to confirm the view of those who see the city as a frontier outpost on the brink of war. Apartment buildings are garrisons, patrolled around the clock by uniformed men called Jerry or Pat or Juan. Private houses are fortified against invasion: Triple-locked doors, thickets of steel bars, alarm systems, drapes so heavy they could be bulletproofâevery security device short of the domestic rocket launcher and the antipersonnel mine is prominently displayed or signaled. And this is the safe part of town. These urban bunkers are the seats of wealth and privilege, situated in highly desirable locations, properties that change hands for seven figures.
As Andre turned off Park Avenue to go down Sixty-third Street, he wondered what it would be like to exist in a permanent state of siege. Did it ever become something you took for granted and eventually didnât even notice? The idea of the prison home appalled him, and yet for some people it was normality. Denoyer, for instance, whether he was in France or the Bahamas, spent his lifebehind barricades. And so, from the look of his house, did Cyrus Pine.
It was a fairly typical four-floor brownstone, perhaps a little wider than most, and noticeably well kept. The short flight of steps was scoured and spotless, the front door and the ironwork protecting the lower windows were sleek with fresh black paint, the brass bell push was dazzling in the noon sunshine. There was no sign to indicate that this was a commercial enterprise, but then it was hardly the kind of business that depended on passing trade or impulse purchases.
Andre pressed the bell and identified himself to the intercom. Sixty seconds later, the door was opened by a stray from Fifth Avenueâa willowy young woman who looked as though she had spent most of the morning and a good deal of her fatherâs money shopping for her outfit for the day. A cashmere sweater, a silk scarf, a skimpy but luxurious flannel skirt, and the kind of shoesâhigh heeled and with paper-thin solesâthat are priced by the ounce. The way she smiled at Andre, she might have been waiting for him all her life. âFollow me,â she said. Which he did with pleasure as she led him across the black and white tiled hallway and into a small study.
âMr. Pine will be right down. Can I get you an espresso? Some tea? A glass of wine?â
Andre asked for white wine, feeling a little uneasy at being treated with such consideration. His call to Pine had been brief; while he had mentioned the young art dealerâs name and the magic word Cézanne, he hadnât gone into any detail about the purpose of his visit. Pine must haveassumed that he was a potential customer. He smoothed his jacket and looked down at his shoes, dull against the chestnut sheen of the studyâs parquet floor, and was standing on one leg, polishing a dusty toecap against the back of his trousers, when the girl returned.
âThere.â She gave him another smile and a crystal glass, misty with condensation. âHeâs just finishing a call. Please sit down and make yourself comfortable.â She closed the door behind her, leaving a trace of scent in the air.
Andre gave up on his shoes and inspected the room. It had the feeling of a quiet corner in a comfortable,
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